This day had been a normal enough day. Brown was incensed because the Montrealer was back on the tracks so soon. He was also furious at the fools who rode the train. He had seen some of them on the evening news the night before, and they just said that they were sure Amtrak would be very careful this time, so there was nothing to worry about. People who didn’t look at the evidence were as stupid as people who couldn’t see the nose on their own face. Amtrak would kill them all, over and over. “What starts that stops?” Brown said. “Go ahead and tell me, Pasani.” “A cheap watch,” Pasani said. That pleased Brown; he thought that everything that was manufactured now was junk. He changed the subject from the derailed Montrealer to the fact that the war had ruined the way the Japanese thought. The Japanese didn’t care about anything anymore. “You ever see them say goodbye?” Brown said. “They stand there bobbin’ like birds. Everybody’s got to be more gracious than the other guy. If they put more of that energy into making their products, maybe the shutter wouldn’t fall off the camera and the watch would tick. Tickee tickee,” Brown said. He started bobbing his head at the steering wheel. “No clickee, no tickee,” Brown said. “The world’s going to hell. You know what I mean?” Brown dropped his jaw open and bobbed his head at the steering wheel again. Pasani braced himself. Brown stopped just inches short of the bumper of the car in front of him. “I ought to audition for a job drivin’ the Montrealer, huh?” Brown said. Once something caught his attention, Brown usually talked about it for six months. Around Christmas, Pasani would stop hearing about the Montrealer.
“Where do you feel like eating lunch?” Brown said.
“Pull by the grill. I’ll run in and get us a couple of ham sandwiches.”
“Nah,” Brown said. “I don’t want ham sandwiches.”
“What’ll I get you?” Pasani said.
“That greasy spoon?” Brown said. “You’re putting me on.”
“I think I feel like one of those fried-ham sandwiches,” Pasani said.
“They take forever,” Brown said. “They go out and catch the pig first.”
“You’re right,” Pasani said. “I’m gonna get a turkey sandwich.”
“That turkey’s so tough it’s like mozzarella cheese,” Brown said.
“That’s okay. They stuff those sandwiches pretty good. What’ll I get you?”
“Don’t get me anything,” Brown said. “I’m not going to poison myself.”
Brown was speeding along. He gunned it at a yellow light and swerved into the other lane to avoid a car nosing out from a steep driveway.
“You’re kidding,” Brown said. “You really want to go all the way over to the grill?”
“Sure,” Pasani said.
“We never go there anymore,” Brown said.
“Today’s the day,” Pasani said, smacking his hands together.
Brown pulled off the road. There was a half-circle that went into the woods just at the bottom of the hill. Brown liked to hide in there and catch speeders. The shopping center with the McDonald’s was two miles straight ahead. They had given a woman with a car full of kids a ticket one day, and when they pulled into the McDonald’s later, she was in the parking lot, with her head on the wheel, sobbing. The doors were thrown open, and a lot of children stood on the grass. Some of them were crying, too. Others were trying to get them to stop. A few were trying to coax the woman out of the car, and one of them climbed up on the trunk and curved his arms, jutting out his jaw, hunching his shoulders, and walking toward the back window like a gorilla. There was still complete pandemonium when Brown and Pasani drove through the line and looked over their shoulders, driving out.
No one was speeding. Car after car came down the hill with the brakes on. Brown was getting mad. Another car passed by, at a snail’s crawl. Brown raised his eyebrows at Pasani. “What?” Pasani said. “You think I’m sending them telepathic messages or something?”
Three cars came down the hill. None were speeding. Brown pulled out abruptly and rode the tail of the last car for about a mile.
“We’re almost to the McDonald’s,” Brown said. “What do you say we grab a burger and fries?”
“That’s an idea,” Pasani said.
“You like that blonde that looks like Farrah Fawcett, don’t you?” Brown said.
“I don’t like young girls.”
“You don’t like young girls,” Brown said. “Sure you don’t like young girls.”
“I can’t stand them. They’re all idiots,” Pasani said.
“What?” Brown said. “You interested in spending an evening chatting?”
“Yes,” Pasani said.
“That’s a good one,” Brown said. “You hang out the flag first?”
Pasani said nothing.
“Aah,” Brown said. “You had a flag, you’d use it for a sheet.”
“I’d never do that to the flag,” Pasani said.
“Not if you were sober, you wouldn’t.”
“I stay sober. Otherwise I can’t get it up.”
Brown turned and looked at him. “What’s with this wacko mood today, Pasani?”
“Brown — you know me. I’m the same every day.”
“Better save your sweetness for Farrah Fawcett,” Brown said. “I wouldn’t mind sucking those fingers she runs around in the french fries.”
“They don’t put their hands in the food,” Pasani said.
“When nobody’s lookin’? You think teenage kids shovel fries in a bag with that dipper?”
“What do you think they do?”
“Use their hands.”
The car in front of them pulled away. “The usual?” Brown said.
“Yeah,” Pasani said.
“Hey, let me have a quarter pounder and two cheeseburgers, one large and one small fries, two milks and a large Coke,” Brown said.
His words echoed above the roar of the kitchen — it was probably canned noise, Pasani thought; at the window, you could see into the kitchen, and it was relatively quiet. The woman repeated their order. She asked if they wanted hot apple pie.
“Gotta keep my trim figure,” Brown said.
He zoomed to the window. If he got there fast, the order wouldn’t be ready, and he could watch the girls. The girls were always energetic and cheerful. Pasani recognized all the faces now. The girls jumped around instead of walking. “There you go, thank you, sir,” one said, hopping to the window. She handed the two containers of milk in separately. Brown turned on the siren, and she jumped. “Accident,” Brown said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t do that,” Pasani said. “I hate that.” As they pulled back onto the highway, he removed one cheeseburger and a small french fries. He put them in the space between the seats and took Brown’s food out of the bag and folded the bag the way Brown liked, and handed it to him. Brown put it in his lap. Pasani handed him a napkin. Brown tucked it under his collar. Pasani opened one of the milks. Brown took it and drained it. Pasani put the container, and the wad of napkins, on the floor. A car streaked past, going ninety. Brown shook his head. The car slammed on its brakes, barely avoiding a car that was in the left turn lane. “Jesus,” Brown said. Pasani handed him the other carton of milk. He drank half of it and put it on the dash. Pasani steadied it with his hand and unwrapped his cheeseburger one-handed, removed the pickle, and handed it to Brown. “Thanks,” Brown said. He unwrapped his own cheeseburger and peeled back the bun. He put the pickle in. He ate the cheeseburger, occasionally putting it on the paper so he could eat some french fries. “Good fries today,” Brown said.