Bo's Café

by John Lynch

  “But… how… ?” Hank mutters, unable to finish his sentence.

  “It’s a long story,” I answer, repeating Hank’s line from our last time together. He looks up at me for a long time. Then, slowly, his face forms a deep, warm smile. He nods his head. I smile back at him, and nod mine. I turn to see Cynthia and Carlos grinning like proud parents. Sometimes things actually work out better than you can rehearse them. This is one of those times.

  “Hank, if you would, tell Andy the paperwork’s in the dash. The car’s all his.”

  He looks at me and then over to Carlos. He shakes his head, looks back at me, and smiles. “I’d be glad to, Steven.”

  I turn to walk away. After a few steps I turn and come back.

  I look directly into Hank’s eyes. “Thank you, Hank. It was your care for Andy that got his car back. It was your care for me that made me go get it.”

  He pushes his chair back, stands up, and reaches for my hand. He shakes it firmly and slowly. “No, you’re wrong, Steven. This was all you, my friend. This was all you.”

  I wave to everyone and then turn to walk away. I don’t want to spoil this moment by saying something stupid. As I reach the stairs I look back. Hank is still standing there, holding the key in his hand.

  “How Have I Missed This Kind of Life?”

  (Noon, Thursday, May 14)

  The headlights and grille of Andy’s Electra seem to follow me through the parking lot, smiling gratefully, as I walk to my car. Freshly waxed and meticulously shined up, the owner agreed to bring Andy’s car to Bo’s before noon in the same condition he bought it. At the price he charged me, it’s the very least he could do. The guy didn’t really want to sell the car. He said he’d been looking for one like that for as long as he could remember. That’s never a particularly good situation for the buyer.

  I still can’t believe I was able to track it down. I called a friend with software to locate recent property sales and used-car transactions. But the retitling must have not fully gone through yet. He couldn’t find a thing for a 1970 Electra in all Southern California. Then it dawned on me that I could check out Web sites of Electra owners. It’s crazy. There must be two dozen sites! For a car that hasn’t been produced since I was a boy. After combing through discussions about tail fin heights in various years and the comparative merits of particular muffler housings, I finally stumble upon it. A guy’s bragging about locating and purchasing the car of his dreams.

  “This baby is incredible! A pristine 1970 Buick Electra. She’s a cherry-apple red convertible. A convertible! What are the chances of stumbling onto one of those? You never see ’em anymore. Killer! And to top it off, a previous owner installed front-seat tuck-’n’roll upholstery from a car of Cary Grant’s. Cary freaking Grant!”

  I knew I had found Andy’s car… . I also knew it was probably gonna cost me more than my Mercedes to get it back. And I didn’t care. I was so excited to find it.

  As I drive back up the coast, I am filled with this incredible sense of satisfaction. I don’t think I can remember ever doing anything like this—in maybe my entire life.

  Where have I been? How have I missed this kind of life?

  Andy taught me this. He’s been waiting for me to learn it so I could pass it on. I’m sure he never thought it would come back around to him like this. Go figure.

  It is a phenomenal drive back to work. I can’t stop smiling.

  It’s time to take Andy up on his offer to get back together. I decide so say nothing about the car. I’m dying to. But I don’t want to mess things up. I’ll wait until he says something. The essence of our e-mail interaction went like this:

  Andy,

  Hello, friend. So much to talk to you about. When we were last together you asked me to write once I was ready to have you come pick me up. I think I’m ready. Except I’d like my wife to come along, if you don’t mind.

  Sincerely,

  Steven

  Steven,

  Well, well, well… So Lindsey wants a ride in the old Buick, eh? I tell you, the ladies love the old Electras. Hard to explain. They’re not as sexy as your GTOs or Barracudas. But something about that cushiony drive shaft just seems to hit ’em where they live.

  So, Thursday at 11:00 a.m.?

  Andy

  Just honk, and we’ll come right out. Thanks for everything, Andy.

  Steven

  So, just wondering. Is this the thanks you were gonna wait on until you saw how things went?

  Andy

  Yeah, I think it’s that thanks.

  Steven

  Then, you’re welcome.

  Andy

  And just when I’m thinking that’s it—that he’s not going to mention the car:

  Hey, Steven… ?

  Yes?

  Thank you, my friend. I’m not sure what to say. Thank you….

  Andy

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

  (Late Morning, Thursday, May 21)

  He should be at our house any minute. I’m more anxious right now than when Andy showed up at my office. We’re about to sail into uncharted waters. What if Lindsey doesn’t like him right away? I sure didn’t. What if she’s put off by the crowd at Bo’s? What if she doesn’t get their humor? What if they don’t get her?

  Lindsey shyly walks down the stairs. She is wearing a pair of sunglasses with oversize frames.

  I smile up at her. “Where did you find those?”

  “Chanel. They’re retro. They’re actually pretty stylish.”

  “Well, thanks. They should make Andy very happy.”

  Then comes the sound of a horn.

  We open the door to see Andy standing behind the Electra’s fully opened passenger door. He is wearing baggy shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, the ever-present L.A. Dodgers hat, and one of the three or four Hawaiian shirts I’ve ever seen him in since I met him. The dark blue one with the hula girls. Geez.

  Lindsey has been unusually quiet all morning, so I take charge. “Andy, this is my wife, Lindsey. I’ve told her all about you. Or, as much as I thought she could bear.”

  Andy totally ignores me, smiles at Lindsey, and reaches for her hand. “I’m really glad to meet you, lovely lady,” he says, with just the slightest bow.

  “May I say,” he adds, referring to her sundress, “yellow is definitely your color.”

  I give him a look. Don’t push it, old-timer.

  Lindsey breaks into a beautiful smile at Andy’s greeting. She looks great, even in those ridiculous glasses.

  And then, suddenly, she throws her arms around Andy and gives him a very tender hug.

  Have you ever had one of those moments that freezes time and seems to last for minutes? This is one of those. My mind flashes to that night at Fenton’s when Andy promised me his car could take us to the places I needed to go. And now, here in my front yard, my wife, full of gratitude and hope, is hugging this unlikely driver who has brought me to those places.

  “Now, those… those are sunglasses. See, Steven? Didn’t I tell you? It’s not just a thing from my generation. Classy young, hip women get it.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him… .

  As he ushers us both into the backseat he mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for us both to hear, “It never ceases to amaze me how one can have such great taste and the other so little. The guy must be a great kisser. That’s all I can say.”

  Then we’re off. He was right. Lindsey loves the car. And she appears completely delighted and comfortable with Andy. It’s a beautiful, clear day, and she’s beaming as he brings the car up to speed on the Coast Highway from Manhattan Beach toward Bo’s.

  I look over at my wife. Her beautiful dark brown hair is blowing behind her. Her eyes are closed, drinking in the cool, morning wind. She scrunches closer to me and puts her arm in mine.

  For the first time in a very long time, I am actually in the moment, fully enjoying it, fully a part of it. For so long I was watching my life
from a distance, critiquing everyone and everything in it. Standing outside its enjoyment. Today it’s as if that whole way of coping has blown out the top of Andy’s convertible.

  Before too long I sit up and realize we’re driving down Washington Boulevard—that ribbon of asphalt forming well back into Los Angeles proper and eventually dwindling to a single congested lane, dividing Venice from Marina del Rey. It ends in a cul-de-sac a few steps from the boardwalk and from Bo’s.

  The anxiousness returns.

  How will my hygienically sensitive wife respond when Hank and Carlos take food from her plate? Will Bo swear at her?

  Bo greets us as we walk through the louvered front doors of Pacific Bayou.

  “So the suit found a date, huh? What the deal is with dat?”

  “Bo,” Andy intervenes. “This is Steven’s wife, Lindsey.”

  She brightens. “Steven has told me about you, Mr. Bo.”

  “Mr. Bo?” He thinks for a moment, tilting his head. “Hmm. I like dat. I’m likin’ dat a lot!”

  He yells into the restaurant, to the staff at the front desk, several yards away: “You hearin’ that in there? This beautiful woman, she calls me Mr. Bo! Time da rest of you be showin’ that kind of respect! Startin’ today, it’s Mr. Bo around here.

  “Mr. Bo.” He rears back and laughs out loud. “I does like the sound of dat.”

  He spins back around to my wife.

  “You eatin’ free today, pretty lady. Suit, he’ll be payin’ double, but you, you’re eatin’ free!”

  We’re ushered through the restaurant and up and outside onto the deck. I’ve missed just hanging out here. Hank and Carlos are sitting at the same table in the middle of the deck, like they haven’t gotten up since the very first time I visited. I think Hank’s even wearing the same shirt.

  Pulling out a chair for Lindsey, Andy, acting like a maître d’, says, “Sit right here, young lady. I called ahead and told them you two were coming. Bo wanted us all at the special table today.”

  Bo politely hands Lindsey a menu and then barks at the rest of us. “Okay, here the deal is: We’re outta most everything on the menu. You got boiled carp and scary mussels left over from last Sunday. You get you one check, not all separate. That way maybe at least one of you be a decent tipper. Not a bunch of pocket change. Have you a nice day, an’ don’t make a mess!”

  He turns to Lindsey and says under his breath, “You like shrimps?”

  “Uhm… yes,” she says.

  “You lucky today, pretty lady,” he says, snatching the menu back from her. “I take care of you.”

  As Bo turns to badger more of the deck crowd, I take a deep breath and say, “Lindsey, this is Carlos and this is Hank.”

  Stating the obvious, I add, “I—I’ve told you a lot about them.”

  Carlos and Hank jump up like a couple of seventh graders about to pull a prank.

  Hank blurts out, “Hi, we’re the Wasabi brothers. Everything you’ve heard about us is true.”

  Carlos steps directly in front of Hank and takes Lindsey’s hand. “Please, let Carlos Badillo shelter you from my remedial friend. He’s not so well. And don’t feed him nothing. You won’t be able to get him off your lap. Welcome to Bo’s, Lindsey. We’re all really happy you’re here.”

  Hank steps back next to Carlos. He says proudly, “We were a little rough on your husband a couple of times back. We weren’t sure we’d ever see him back here.” He forces an expression that almost rises to a smile.

  Bo barges in with Cynthia on his arm, beaming as if he’s just won a prize at the fair. Depositing her in a chair next to Hank, Bo leans in to Lindsey and says under his breath, “Dis lady you gotta know. She’s the one keeps all these crawfish in line. They don’t be skippin’ out with a bad tip with her around. More customers like this lady, and maybe someday you gonna see Bo shut down this crab shack, move down the Trinidad way, and spend all day drinkin’ rum and playin’ Sudoku.”

  He laughs as if he’s the funniest thing he’s met all day. The deck crowd joins in.

  Just behind them Keith, Cynthia’s husband, walks in wearing a commercial pilot’s uniform.

  “Hey, everybody, look!” Carlos says, bowing deeply. “The flyboy returns from the Orient! With spices and… what… abacuses? Hey, man! Welcome home.”

  Everyone stands to greet him. Keith looks like what you’d hope the pilot on your flight would look like. Tall, professional, solid, and stable-appearing. His greetings are warm but precise. Standing next to Hank, I imagine a picture of them in the dictionary next to the word contrast.

  Hank lights up. “You bring back any of those bags of honey-roasted peanuts?”

  “Sorry, Hank. All they’ve got now is what they call ‘pretzel medley.’ ”

  Hank shakes his head.

  “When did the pretzel get to medley status?” Carlos questions. “You gotta earn your way to medley status, man. Fruit medley—now that’s a medley. Remember? You had your pears in there, man, grapes and peaches and maraschino cherries and who knows what else? The whole thing swimming around in, like, mango juice or something. That’s a medley. What, you add some bland dough sticks to pretzels, and suddenly some marketing suit calls it a medley? I don’t think so.”

  Andy looks off in the distance, wistful. “I’m so old I can remember when they gave you real silverware with the meals. In coach!”

  “You got meals? When did that stop?” Hank bellows.

  Keith sits down next to Cynthia. “About the same time they started making plastic pilot’s wings for us to hand out to the kids.”

  I offer my hand to Keith.

  “Hello. I’m Steven and this is my wife, Lindsey.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you both,” Keith says as he shakes my hand. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for this introduction. I’m in the air three out of four Thursdays. So I miss out on a lot of deck action.”

  Keith hugs Cynthia tightly. “I’ve really missed you, my wife. How’s the book coming? Are we going to be rich?”

  “I’d keep your day job.” They hug each other again.

  Soon we are all sitting at the table. The banter is flowing freely, but Lindsey seems, to me, unusually subdued and quiet. Well, of course. These guys are a lot to handle the first time. She’ll settle in and really enjoy this.

  Cynthia makes an attempt to draw Lindsey into conversation a couple of times, but for some reason my wife—usually pretty social—isn’t entering in.

  What’s going on? Is she willfully trying to not like this? Maybe because I think this is a great place and because these are my friends, she’s going to go silent and pretend to not enjoy herself? Is that what’s happening here?

  “Lindsey,” I whisper. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s great. Really. I’m fine.” That’s all she gives me.

  Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’ve been here before. I know this feeling. Still…

  Cynthia smiles and places her hand on my arm but addresses Lindsey. “These guys are pretty random. I don’t even try to keep up. I just let them babble.”

  Cynthia must feel it too. She can see what Lindsey’s doing. They all can.

  “What do you mean, babble?” Carlos objects. “My man Hank and I, we don’t babble.”

  “Right.” Cynthia rolls her eyes. She now places her hand on Lindsey’s arm. “Just before you got here, they spent several minutes debating whether the boulders on the hills outside Temecula are actually giant petrified vegetables. I rest my case.”

  “That’s important talk,” Carlos defends. “This is how science got started. Guys like us.”

  A shrimp cocktail is placed in front of my wife. Lindsey looks at it and says, “Why is it on a plate? I thought you were joking about that.”

  I can’t believe she’s saying this.

  “Come on, Lindsey,” I plead. “It’s cool. It’s different. Just taste it.”

  There is an awkward silence at the table.

  “Just try it,” I say loud
er, fully embarrassed.

  I only said what everyone else was thinking. Geez, it’s like nothing has changed. You try to do something a little more fun and unusual, and unless it comes from her, she can’t get with it.

  “I wasn’t complaining, Steven.” She takes a bite. “It’s good. I thought you were kidding about it being on a plate, that’s all. Then they bring it on a plate and… I didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve just never seen shrimp cocktail on a plate.”

  Carlos pats her on the back. “It’s great, huh? I love how they put all those purple onions around the shrimp. Keeps my people in jobs. Now that you’ve tasted it, you’re gonna keep coming back. I know it.”

  Oh, come on. Now she’s got Carlos trying to make her feel better because she’s got such an insensitive husband. Yeah, I’m such a bad guy. And by the way, Carlos, that’s the same line you used on me the first time I was here. Come up with a new one sometime, huh?

  “So, Lindsey,” Andy says suddenly. “Tell us about you. How long have you been putting up with this bozo?”

  Lindsey looks at me and then quickly down when our eyes meet. “We met when I was a senior in high school.”

  “Oh,” Carlos helps. “So you two go back a ways. That’s great.”

  He’s trying to help make things work, but my wife is giving absolutely nothing. She barely looks up.

  Andy’s staring out at the ocean. He seems slightly embarrassed. Maybe he’s thinking this wasn’t such a good idea. This is just what I feared. She doesn’t get what goes on here.

  A conversation full of easygoing banter has quickly become stilted and forced simply because my wife can’t relax and enjoy something a little different from her regular day-to-day.

  A server sets a crab salad in front of Cynthia.

  Andy steps in. “I’m really glad you two were able to join us today.”

  I can tell he’s trying to smooth things over. Lindsey’s strangeness has got me completely off balance. I should just take her aside in private and tell her I’m frustrated, but that seems even more awkward.