Free Bo's Café by John Lynch, Bill Thrall, Bruce McNicol

takeout from a favorite
     Mexican place where the four of us used to go.”
    Andy’s words lock up again. Tears come into his eyes. After a few moments he sighs and is able to speak again.
    “We all sat down, and I started pouring out how depressed I was and how much I missed Laura.”
    “Then
I
broke down,” Cynthia adds. “Oh, honey, we were basket cases, the three of us.”
    Andy looks at me. “Steven, I didn’t plan on bringing this up.”
    “No, go on. Please,” I say. This is the first info I’m getting on Andy apart from what I found on the Internet.
    “I told Cyn and Keith that Laura had been my strength. I was the successful one out in the world, but now I was completely
     undone without her.
    “Cynthia began walking me through some painfully good stuff that night. In the middle of wrestling with her own grief, she
     took the risk to tell me some hard things about myself that I’d avoided for a long time.”
    “Wait,” I say. “
Cynthia
is the friend you were talking about who helped you?”
    “Yeah,” he says, wiping his eyes. “She and Keith. But mostly Cyn.”
    Before I can stop my words I say, “I didn’t think you were talking about a…”
    “A woman?” the two of them say in unison, then laugh out loud.
    I’m embarrassed, but I start laughing too.
    “Oh, yes! A woman!” Cynthia says. She smiles at me—a smile that tells me she can see right through me and is fully prepared
     to enjoy me anyway.
    At that moment two men appear and sprawl out at our table as though they’ve been there for days and just got up to use the
     restroom. One is a dark Hispanic man. Strikingly handsome, he has a big, beaming smile. He has on an old sport coat over a
     T-shirt tucked into jeans. He wears canvas shoes with no socks. Most can’t get away with this look, but this guy doesn’t really
     seem to care, which kind of makes it work. The other man is sturdy and bald with a forehead that could stop a truck. A linebacker’s
     forehead. His clothes have the rumpled look of a refrigerator salesman who does his own deliveries. The Hispanic guy is bantering
     with almost everyone—part English, part Spanish slang. I have yet to make out much of what he’s saying by the time they’ve
     settled in at our table. It’s all motion, jargon, and fun.
    The handsome one extends a hand. “My man! You must be Steven. I am Carlos Badillo, at your service. And the Cro-Magnon–looking
     gentleman to my right is Hank.”
    I’m half-tempted to look down to see if I’m wearing a name tag again. Carlos leans in, points at Hank, and under his breath
     warns, “Careful with him, man. He just got out from a stint in the slammer for a number of violent crimes against the elderly.”
    Hank grunts back without smiling. “I was innocent on most of them charges, I swear.”
    Carlos has thick jet-black hair, combed straight back. He looks to be thirty-something. Hank, easily ten years older than
     Carlos, appears fully capable of what his friend has accused him of. His piercing eyes and heftiness match his apparent intensity.
     He looks like a cage fighter on a lunch break.
    “So talk,” Hank commands, gesturing to me.
    Carlos nods in agreement. “I’m with him, man. Spill.”
    They both sit there, staring at me, fiddling with packets of soup crackers as though they can’t go on with their routine unless
     I give some kind of response.
    Andy rescues me. “Steven, these are two of my close friends. We’ve been meeting here on Thursdays, at this table, for a long
     time now.”
    Like a kid, Carlos jabs me in the shoulder. “Hey, man, has he fed you the ‘bumping into furniture’ speech yet? It’s one of
     our favorites.”
    Hank joins in. “Yeah, I love that one. Show him, Carlos. Show him. You do it best.”
    Sheepishly, Carlos stands. “You think so?”
    Both Cynthia and Hank nod in agreement.
    He shakes out his hands like he’s about to perform a platform dive. “All right, this is my impersonation of Andy