The squat, square building, all glass up front, looked as though it might have been, in a previous life, a doughnut franchise. There was a row of tables along the front window, then down the right side, in an L shape. At the left end of the long aluminum counter was a cash register, and above it a menu made out of little black plastic letters that fit, crookedly, into grooves on a white background. Written in marker, on a sheet of cardboard and taped to the wall, was the special: “Ch’burger/fries/Coke/$5.49.”

At the cash register must have been the woman Paul said could stand in front of a moving tank and total it. She appeared, in a word, formidable. She was shorter than I, but standing there behind the cash register, she seemed rooted like an oak. Stocky, fridge-like, with thick fleshy arms that hinted at considerable muscle underneath. Slavic looking, late fifties, early sixties maybe, gray hair pinned back, a severe, weathered face devoid of anything you might call makeup, deep creases running down from her nose on both sides of her mouth, and piercing black eyes.

She fixed them on me and said, “What want?”

Some kind of accent, Russian, Turkish, Croatian, I had absolutely no idea. “The special,” I said, looking around, wondering where Paul might be. “The cheeseburger special.” There were people sitting on swivel chairs bolted to the floors, eating burgers, dipping fries into tiny containers of ketchup, off chipped Formica tables.

“Here or go away?” she said, her words clipped as if each one were chopped off at the end with a butcher’s knife. For a moment, I thought she was asking me to leave.

“Uh, to go,” I said. I thought the ambiance at home might be better, although the way things were these days, probably not by much.

I handed her a ten. She dug her short, thick fingers with chipped nails into the cash register tray and handed me my change.

“Thanks,” I said with my usual charm. She didn’t even look at me.

Next to the register the counter was raised up, and it was like a salad bar in reverse. Before me, behind glass, were the toppings. Pickles, onions, relish, tomato, hot peppers. Two identical-looking women—these had to be the twins Paul had mentioned—were working shoulder to shoulder. They were younger, but not necessarily more attractive, versions of the woman who’d taken my money. Large, soft, and doughy looking, with arms like hams. They both had their blonde hair streaked with black, pulled back and tied into short ponytails.

They were being handed burgers fresh off the grill, asking customers how they wanted them garnished. That’s when I spotted Paul, standing at the grill, flipping burgers, living his life’s dream.

“Hey,” I said.

He didn’t hear me the first time, so focused was he on his job. He had a huge apron, which years ago might have been white, tied around his waist, a white cap pulled down over his hair.