“Coke,” I say. “Small Coke.”

“Pepsi all right?”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“That’s all we’ve got.”

“I’ll take it,” I say, and she pops an empty cup down on the counter in front of me, then slides the basket of red wings over.

“That’ll be three forty-seven,” she says.

“So, nobody knows who wrote the sign?” I persist as I probe for my wallet.

“That’s right. Nobody seems to know.”

“Maybe it was somebody on a different shift?”

“That’s possible.”

“I’d like to talk to that person if I could,” I tell her as I hand her a ratty-looking ten.

“Why is that?”

“I’d like to see if the person who wrote that sign is actually living it or if he’s just talking through his hat.”

“Living what?” she says.

“The sign. The meaning of the sign.”

“Look, I don’t know who wrote the sign, okay?” she says as she deals my change back to me with finality.

“Well, have you noticed any one of the employees on the other shifts being particularly auspicious? Particularly present and attentive? Almost buoyant, maybe?”

“I’m not on the other shifts. I’m on this one,” she says.

“That’s true, but maybe you’ve heard about this person. He’s probably notorious by now. Fun to be around.”

“What person?”

“The one who wrote the sign.”

“Look, sir, I don’t know who wrote the sign. Somebody wrote the sign but it wasn’t me. Okay?”

“I wrote the sign,” the kid with the pulled-down cap and the ears sticking out says as he hangs the phone up softly and rubs the back of his neck.

“You wrote the sign?” The girl giggles and turns to the other two. “Dicky wrote the sign!”

“What sign?” the fry-cooks say in total unison.

“This sign! This sign right here!” She bats the sign with the back of her hand, causing it to spin wildly above the steaming wings.

“What’s it say?” one of the cooks asks halfheartedly.

“You can read,” she says, and the skinniest fry-cook slouches over to the sign, rubbing his wet red fingers on the black apron. He reaches up and stops the sign from dancing. He squints and reads it.

“I don’t get it,” he says, backing up a step and sucking some of the sauce off his thumb.

“It says: ‘LIFE IS WHAT’S HAPPENING TO YOU WHILE YOU’RE MAKING PLANS FOR SOMETHING ELSE,’ ” the girl informs him.

“I know what it says. I can read.”

“Well?” she says.

“Dicky wrote that?”

“What’s it mean, Dicky?” the girl asks seductively, making a wispy mysterious voice.

“Just what it says,” Dicky mumbles.

“It’s very sharp,” I say. “Where’d you get that?”

“Just made it up,” Dicky says.