"Let's go to lunch," Tracy said, seeing how frustrated I was after discovering that I had miscalculated the distance needed to rough-in a door that I was helping her install in a newly framed wall.

"Fine.  How about chile rellenos?"

"I know this restaurant," she said, "but I don't remember the name... down on Southwest Boulevard.  You go past the overpass and then there's the train trestle... you know?"

I have a clue, but she insists that it is not in the Westside.  "Not that far."

Tracy and I share some things in common, like getting fatigued and making no sense after only a few hours of working on something.  She has Lyme disease and I have... well, whatever it is I have.

She knows how to get there though and gives me directions while I drive us there in my pickup.  "The next light," she says.

"You mean Summit?"

"Yeah, that's the name of the street.  Turn left at the light."

"That's El Tacquito," I said, as I turn onto Summit and pull over to park.

Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a sense of loss that I haven't felt in years.  My throat thickens.  My eyes squint, waiting for the once too-familiar sensation to pass.

Instead I start to sob.  Tracy reaches over and asks what's wrong.

"This is where I first met Johnny," and I tell her the story as I gradually regain control.

Many years ago, I met my friend Alfredo for lunch in this very restaurant.  Alfredo knows everyone on the Westside, home to a large Hispanic community in Kansas City.  Our waiter was only 16 or 17 years old, cute as a button and friendly as all get out.  "Johnny's gay," Alfredo tells me just before introducing us.

Of course, Johnny was off limits then...

(Read the rest of the story here. )