Authors: John Lynch,Bill Thrall,Bruce McNicol
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
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
“You Really Don’t Get It, Do You?”
“She’s a Lot of Detroit Magic, She Is.”
“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?”
“This Whole Stinking Thing’s a Joke!”
Good-bye to the Mint-Strawberry Water
“How Have I Missed This Kind of Life?”
“So the Suit Found a Date, Huh? What the Deal Is with Dat?”
“There Ain’t No Together People, Just Those with Whiter Teeth.”
“I Was Playing You Like a Gibson Hummingbird.”
“I Have Waited for This Moment All Week.”
Personal Message from the Authors
Coming soon from Windblown Media
Dedicated to all the “Andys” who have been creating Bo’s Cafés for “Stevens” everywhere.
(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 people 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.