Free Like Grownups Do by Nathan Roden Page A

of New England Patriot games. He was happy to take her out when she was feeling well, although the raucous crowds at Momma’s Sofa during games usually wore her down so that they had to leave early.
    Babe was only one of Momma’s patrons that thought of the place as a second home, and the Schroeders as a second family. It was a part of Boston that Babe loved—family owned businesses that had a soul, where you knew and did business with your neighbors, not just faceless chains and corporations.
     
    Babe was responsible for the name of Momma’s Sofa. He received a card and a check from his mother and step-father for his birthday just prior to the Grand Opening of the newest Momma’s Cafe and Sports Bar. Babe used part of the money to buy a Grand Opening gift for the Schroeders—a large, comfortable leather sofa. He spent hours visiting with the Schroeder family in their office, where the older couple spent most of their time. He could never get over the fact that there was not one really comfortable place to sit.
    A week after the opening of the new location, the nondescript sign outside of Momma’s Cafe was replaced by a large neon sign. Momma’s Cafe had been re-christened.
    Momma’s Sofa.
     
    Momma’s Sofa was one of the most unique establishments in the city. Owned and operated by Klaus and Frieda Schroeder since 1989, the business moved one city block into a larger building in 1997. The final move came in 2001—into a building more than three times the size.
    Mommas began as a lunch-only business. The popularity of Momma’s burgers spread like a wildfire. Local customers, the media, and even celebrities not only went to great lengths to garner a coveted lunch table, but the clamor for the recipe to her burgers became a quest. The recipes for the meat and the sauce were so guarded that Momma Frieda prepared all of it herself and never shared the recipes with another living soul.
     
    The Schroeders arrived every morning at six. Frieda prepared the days’ meat, sauce and other ingredients. Klaus prepared for opening while he monitored the surveillance cameras. These were installed after multiple hi-tech attempts had been made to steal Frieda’s recipes.
    In the year prior to Momma’s last move, a regular customer petitioned Klaus to let him bring his television to the restaurant that evening. It was opening day for the Red Sox at Fenway Park and he couldn’t get tickets. He explained that his wife had scheduled an Avon party that night at their house. The man offered Klaus a hundred dollars. Frieda saw the look on Klaus’s face and smiled. The Schroeder’s television had died a fiery death two nights before.
    “Keep your money,” Klaus said. ”Come at five thirty. Don’t tell anybody.”
     
    By six o'clock the customer’s television was set up in the back corner of the restaurant, as far from the front windows as possible. The customer had brought along his neighbor. Klaus was there with his two sons, Leo, who was twenty, and Lewis, twenty one. The boys worked at the restaurant part-time while attending college.
    During the National anthem there was a sharp rap at the front door. Klaus walked to the door and saw two more regular lunch customers with their noses pressed to the window. He said, “We’re closed,” in an exaggerated voice while pointing to the clock figure on the door. One of the men said something while clutching his coat at the collar. All that Klaus could make out was “the game”. Both men looked like hungry little boys standing outside a bakery window.
     
    Klaus opened the door.
    “Come in—make it quick.”
    The next time there was a knock at the door there were four faces pressed to the glass. Lewis, Leo, and the television’s owner stacked two tables together and put the television on top. By the middle of the first inning every chair in the small restaurant was full. Men, women, and children continued to turn up at the front window until the restaurant was standing room