Bo's Café

by John Lynch

  Praise for BO’S CAFÉ

  “BO’S CAFÉ is more than the riveting story of a talented young businessman and a striking woman trying to keep their marriage and his thriving career together. What one reads actually shifts the foundation of the way we view the world, the way we reconcile our relationships, and how we define success. Groundbreaking. Soul-filling. Life changing. This is a story that will not let go of you.”

  —Wes Roberts, CCO, Leadership Design Group

  “Everyone needs to pull up to the counter at BO’s CAFÉ. It’s the safest place on earth to work through some of the most dangerous issues of your life.”

  —Tim Kimmel, author, Grace-Based Parenting

  “In a world obsessed with projecting the ‘perfect’ image, it’s not surprising that women are facing a crisis of identity these days. What is startling, however, is that we are not alone. BO’S CAFÉ offers a window into the private hell of a man’s fear of inadequacy and makes a compelling case for the power of grace through relationship to set things right for us all.”

  —Constance Rhodes, author, Life Inside the “Thin” Cage and The Art of Being

  “Real, witty, profound. This book should be required reading for all mentors! BO’S CAFÉ moves you to trust the love you have been freely given, to pursue the freedom it provides, and to start experiencing a life that most men and women miss—the way of authenticity, integrity, and joy.”

  —Carson Pue, author, Mentoring Leaders

  “I cried when Lindsey first hugged Andy, and when Steven confessed to Lindsey, and when Steven realized that Andy was his trusted friend, and when I wondered whom I was controlling through my anger. Kleenex, please.”

  —Bill Hull, coauthor, Choose the Life

  “Until we realize that we fall short of perfection and accept the unconditional love of God and the imperfect love of others available to us, we will continue to struggle through life. BO’S CAFÉ is a wonderful story that will help you in your journey to true fulfillment.”

  —Ken Blanchard, coauthor, The One Minute Manager® and Lead Like Jesus

  “BO’S CAFÉ challenges my own authenticity in leadership and encourages me to continue to find room and grant space for greater grace in my own daily living and interaction with others caught in the realities, disappointments, surprises, and challenges of life and faith.”

  —Commissioner Lawrence R. Moretz, territorial commander, USA East, Salvation Army

  “BO’S CAFÉ is not a free ride. It is a ride to freedom. In BO’S CAFÉ you will find a grace more powerful than willpower or tenacity. You’ll find a safe place in God that can handle our deepest wounds and most persistent sins.”

  —Todd Hunter, coauthor, Christianity Beyond Belief

  “What if you could reveal your worst fears and flaws and discover there are those who still believe in you? This is the power of BO’S CAFÉ—an authentic community where the unlikely are transformed. Pick up this terrific book and take a seat at the table of grace.”

  —Drs. Les and Leslie Parrott, founders of RealRelationships.com and authors of Love Talk

  Copyright

  www.boscafe.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by John Lynch, Bill Thrall, and Bruce McNicol

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Windblown Media

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  Published in association with Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-1-935170-08-2

  Contents

  Copyright

  Praise for BO’S CAFÉ

  Fenton’s —ill

  “You Really Don’t Get It, Do You?”

  “She’s a Lot of Detroit Magic, She Is.”

  The Marriott, Room 643

  The Bluff Facing South

  “My Respect for Burglars Is Rising by the Moment.”

  “Angry People Eat, Don’t They?”

  At a Table a Few Blocks from the Marriott

  “Why Do You Enjoy Making Everything I Say Sound Stupid?”

  “God, What Are You Doing to Me Here?”

  “We Should Talk.”

  Out of Excuses

  “This Whole Stinking Thing’s a Joke!”

  Good-bye to the Mint-Strawberry Water

  Just Alan

  “I’m a Mess, Andy.”

  “Go Figure. Andy Was Right.”

  “Where Do We Go from Here?”

  “How Have I Missed This Kind of Life?”

  “So the Suit Found a Date, Huh? What the Deal Is with Dat?”

  “Why Do You Get So Angry?”

  “There Ain’t No Together People, Just Those with Whiter Teeth.”

  “I Was Playing You Like a Gibson Hummingbird.”

  And Back Again

  “I Have Waited for This Moment All Week.”

  Acknowledgments

  Personal Message from the Authors

  About the Authors

  Coming soon from Windblown Media

  Also from Windblown Media

  Dedicated to all the “Andys” who have been creating Bo’s Cafés for “Stevens” everywhere.

  Fenton’s —ill

  (Wednesday Evening, March 11)

  “They just never let up, do they?”

  He’s sitting right next to me—a guy about my dad’s age—with a tall glass of ice in front of him. He’s watching the tiny television bolted to the wall in the corner of the bar, balancing his chair with a flip-flopped foot propped up against the counter.

  A dozen empty chairs, and this guy’s sitting next to me. I get up and move a couple of stools over. I glance at him just long enough to size him up. He’s scruffy-looking, wearing an old Dodgers ball cap, ragged Levi’s, and a loud Hawaiian shirt. He looks like he’s been following Jimmy Buffett on tour. Old guys like this are all over Southern California. It’s as if they’re scattered around strategically by the Department of Tourism.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to figure, isn’t it?” he says, his eyes fixed on the TV.

  Is this guy talking to me? I think he’s talking to me. “I’m not really watching the game.”

  Still staring, he says through a mouthful of ice, “I’m not talking about the game.”

  I just need to stay quiet. He’ll figure out I want to be left alone.

  “You’re not a regular here.”

  I glance over at him. “No.”

  “No,” he repeats.

  “Look, no offense, but I’d really like to be alone.”

  He waves his hand. “No, hey—don’t let me bother you there, champ. You just keep at what you’re doing. Pretend I’m not here.”

  There’s a pause, and then he starts in again. “Yep, I’ve got my ice. Tall glass of ice, that’s what I’ve got. Nothing better than nature’s own H-2-O. Am I right?”

  Can’t this guy take a hint? I stare down at the bar, willing him to be quiet.

  “Cold, clean, no aftertaste. Just God’s own beverage. Agua. Yep, that’s my drink—el agua. It means ‘the water’ in Spanish. Those folks make a big deal out of the definite article, don’t they?” He shakes his glass and looks through it. “A lot of peo
ple might think el agua just means ‘water.’ Those same people would be wrong. It’s the water, isn’t it?”

  He looks over at me again. “Oops. Sorry. I’m bothering you, aren’t I? Look, you just pretend I’m not here.”

  Not even twenty seconds pass.

  “Truth be told, it’s not the water, really. It’s the ice. They say it’s bad for your teeth, but I love it. Crunching it. You know, the ice.”

  I shouldn’t be here. I should be home, watching the news with my wife and daughter after dinner. Instead, I’m sitting here, listening to some lonely old hippie chew ice.

  “Here” is a restaurant in east Culver City that has changed hands more often than a cafeteria tray. Its present name is Fenton’s Grill. On the sign out front, the neon Gr is blinking in and out, so the display sporadically reads Fenton’s ill. From the looks of the place, it’s easy to see why he would be.

  When I was a kid, Fenton’s wasn’t even Fenton’s. It was Petrazello’s—a friendly neighborhood restaurant, clean, homey, and reasonably priced. Even after dark I felt safe walking there. It was always the centerpiece of life in the ten or so square blocks of my childhood world. Little League teams would wolf down pizza there. Dates sat stiffly in rented outfits at white-linen-covered tables. I was one of them, sitting across from gorgeous Brenda Magnusson. A perspiring freshman in an ill-fitting suit about to go to homecoming, where the entire world would discover that I couldn’t dance. Other nights the place transformed into a loud, smoky den where husbands gathered around a television set in the bar, praising or berating the Dodgers. The women sat nearby, praising and berating their husbands.

  Old man Petrazello was always there, day or night, greeting the neighborhood at the cash register or on busy nights reworking tables to jam as many into that room as the fire marshal would allow. Nobody ever seemed to mind how crowded it was. Nobody seemed in a hurry at Petrazello’s. You were in a room with familiar faces. Friends of your parents walking by your table, tousling your hair, calling you by a nickname, and telling you they saw the double you hit last game.

  Old man Petrazello carried candy in a pocket of his apron for the kids. Good candy. Not the cheap mints they put up front for a donation to the Civitans. Old man Petrazello was always smiling too. It’s as if he didn’t run the place for a profit but because he truly enjoyed being a relative to everyone in our neighborhood.

  But that was then, and this is now.

  The once attractive freestanding building with a few parking spaces and some nice landscaping was eventually asphalted over, and some other cheap buildings were added to form a strip mall. Fenton’s is now more bar than restaurant. The TV is still in the same spot—maybe even the same one, judging by the bent antenna. The lighting is a strange combination of harshly glaring and dim. I have no idea how that effect is achieved, but it can’t mask the fact that the floor is the same drab green linoleum I remember. Every few feet along the bar—now Formica instead of wood—are mismatched plastic dishes of Spanish peanuts. One bowl has little tiki faces. Another says, “Visit Arizona!”

  The “grill” is several wobbly tables with plastic vases of plastic flowers. So I opted for the bar.

  Fenton’s is about eight miles from where I work—not far by Southern California standards, but I hadn’t come down here in years until recently. I guess it’s embarrassing to see what my childhood world has become. My old neighborhood is on the decline—one in a long list of once proud middle-class communities falling victim to quick-cash stores and porn shops. Taking the surface streets from my office in Santa Monica, the scenery quickly morphs from manicured curbsides and executive condos to a conveyor belt of sputtering neon.

  But now, for the first time in a long time, I’m actually inside this joint. The first two times I ended up in the parking lot and didn’t even get out of the car. I just sat there, angry, resentful, and noisy. Arguments at home, conflicts at work all rattling around in my head. And this horrible feeling that I can’t drive far enough to get away from it. Something is wrong. Something’s not working, when everything should be working. I don’t know how to describe what I’m feeling. It’s like coming to a place in your life where all the slot lines come up cherry but nothing comes out of the machine. You sit there, hoping that staring will make something happen.

  I’m here again, I thought, and I’m hungry. Fenton’s “illness” aside, I might as well see what this place has sunk to.

  Everything on the menu looks a little scary. This is not a place where you gamble on meat loaf.

  The bartender is impatient even though he has few other customers.

  “I’ll have a manhattan.”

  Why did I say that? I’m not even sure what a manhattan is. I think my dad used to drink them. Something about Fenton’s wood-paneled decor suggests that a manhattan might be an appropriate drink for a person who doesn’t want to stand out.

  A half dozen or so patrons are engaged in muffled conversations. The place looks smoky, though I know the smoking ban in California makes that impossible. It’s as if all the smoke of years past is still hovering in the air. Or maybe it’s grease from the grill. The surface of the bar feels a little filmy.

  My manhattan appears, and I’m quickly acquainted with why I’ve never ordered one. It tastes like butane with a splash of syrup. I ask for a glass of water and mindlessly stare at the sports recap on the television.

  That’s when the scruffy-looking guy sat down… I think.

  Okay, what can I say without sounding like a jerk so he’ll get the message? Why do guys like this go into bars and try to start conversations with complete strangers?

  “She got to you last night, didn’t she?”

  “What?” My head whips in his direction.

  “Last night.”

  Now I’m getting ticked. “Who got to me? What are you talking about?”

  “Your wife,” he says. “You knew she was right, of course. Same stuff. But no way were you gonna own it. What would you do, anyway? Say you’re sorry and repeat the same thing next week? I can see why you drink.”

  “I’m not drinking!” I nearly shout. “I mean, I’m not a drinker.” I put some cash on the bar and get up.

  “Sure… lots of guys come in a bar and order stiff drinks by name because they’re not drinkers. Listen, sport, you’re not obligated to explain anything to me. Most people don’t want to deal with what’s eating at them. Just pretend I’m not here.”

  This guy has just called me “champ” and “sport.” What’s next, “chief”?

  “Your wife,” he says flatly. “The argument. The whole reason you drove down here instead of going home after work. I mean, this is a long way from Manhattan Beach.”

  I turn and look at him. “What was that?”

  “Gotcha there, didn’t I?” he says with a grin. “Pretty hard to just get up and leave when a total stranger starts reeling off details about your life. Am I right?”

  He walks over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, like he’s about to tell an old friend a joke. In one move I push his hand off me and step back.

  “Get away from me. You don’t know me!”

  For a moment the room is frozen, my words hanging in the air.

  He raises his hands, palms toward me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, partner. Calm down. I’m just talking.”

  Just as I get to the door he calls to me. “You gonna just up and leave? You come to this place for maybe the third time in as many months and finally stumble inside. You’re telling me some guy starts throwing out some pretty accurate details about your life, someone who takes an interest in you and the problems that got you here… and you walk?”

  “What?” I turn back from the door. “What are you saying to me?”

  “Look, you’re making me strain my voice here, chief,” he says. “You want to talk, then come sit back down with your nonalcoholic manhattan.”

  I walk back to the counter. What am I doing talking to this nut? I don’t want to talk to anyone. I sit down in
front of the flammable drink.

  “—even if he could tell you why you’re so sad?”

  “Listen. Who are you, Mister?”

  “I just thought you might be thinking something along those lines. See if this fits: It’s like you’re stumbling around in a dark room, bumping into furniture. How am I doing? Making sense?”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “I’ll take your silence as a yes.”

  His voice gets quieter and lower. “After many experiences, you’ve learned to memorize paths around the pain. You think you’ve finally figured out how to navigate in the dark. You almost get used to doing life in the dark. Then the next day, week, month, maybe while you’re sleeping, the furniture gets moved, and you slam your shin into an end table.

  “And each time, with each new bruise, you lose more and more hope, more confidence, more sense of purpose. You start reacting to pain more than anything else. You make decisions based on what hurts least. You avoid stuff you know you should face. You avoid interaction with people you suspect might be moving your furniture. Eventually that list grows to include a whole lotta people.

  “And the worst part is that it feels like almost everyone else can see you stumbling around. It’s like they can all see the furniture. They might never tell you this, but you’re pretty sure they know.”

  He looks at me, waiting, but I’ve lost my response. He turns back to the television. “So how am I doing, Steven?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  He ignores my question. “They want to tell you, you know.”

  “Who does?”

  He taps the bar with his fingertips. “Your friends. Your family. Those you work with. Truth is, some of them have actually tried. They want to help. But you don’t believe they can help. Sound familiar, Steven?”

  I sit up straight on my stool and nearly knock over my glass of water. “Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t know you. Now stop the game, pal, and tell me how you know me.”

  No response.