When the barista called the name he’d give him, the stranger went to the counter to pick up his coffee. There was a large framed photo on the wall behind the cash register. Three young men. One in baggy dress pants and two in jeans. As he paid for his coffee, the stranger nodded toward the picture.

“It must be interesting working where they used to drink,” he said.

The young man looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I’m not from around here.”

“But surely you recognize them. That’s William Burroughs on the end.”

The barista looked again. “That’s a real old photo. Were they a band? My buddy, Ryan, is into all kinds of seventies classic bands. I think I’ve heard of them. Burroughs Turner Overdrive?”

“You’re thinking of Bachman-Turner Overdrive. And they were Canadian. No, that’s William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. They were writers.”

The barista frowned. “Maybe. I’m not really a word guy. I’m more into hyperedge interactive visual happenings. Music. Video. Lights.”

“Yes. That began in this area, too. In the mid-nineteen-sixties. They were called Acid Tests.”

The young man shook his head. “You sure? I’ve never heard of them.”

The stranger smiled. “Of course. Why would you? They’re old and gone. What’s the use of old things? The now. The future. The unexpected twists and turns down the road. Those are the only things of value.”

“Exactly,” said the barista. “You get it.”

“Thank you for the coffee.”

The young man waved a counter rag at him and helped the next customer. The stranger drank his coffee, but didn’t stay. He was restless. So much had changed. It wasn’t his place to judge—that was for wiser heads than his—but it was hard not to be a little peeved at humanity’s capacity to forget. To minimize even its own accomplishments.