Where he found a lunch counter that had been preserved, unchanged since, perhaps, the summer of love. A dozen leather-topped stools were mounted before a marble ledge. The black and white menu on the wall above the grill was faded but legible and offered a handful of staples like chicken salad and lime rickeys. Sweeney stared at it, thinking the prices were impossible. That over the years, the menu had evolved into a piece of nostalgic art. Of the same era as the napkin dispensers and the cake plates with their glass domes, but no longer functional.
The old key maker was behind the counter but he’d removed his cardigan. He was bent over a spitting grill, moving a beef patty around with a spatula. A single customer was perched on the last stool at the end of the counter, a tall biker in full leather, including jacket, chaps, and boots.
The guy had his elbows resting on the counter and his hands folded in front of him, as if in prayer. And though he wore sunglasses, Sweeney had the sense that his eyes were closed. At least until the biker turned his head and said, “What are you looking at?”
The question contained just the right degree of threat. The key maker turned from the grill and gave Sweeney a look as if to say Stop bothering the customer.
“Nothing,” Sweeney said. “I just didn’t know they served food here.”
The biker cocked his head until the old man slid a platter in front of him. The plate was bone white and heavy-looking and big enough to contain a rump roast but it held only a plump burger garnished with lettuce and tomato, a dill pickle, and a small pile of potato chips. Sweeney looked from the biker down to the platter and felt himself start to salivate.
“You going to order,” asked the old man, “or can I shut down the grill?”
“Aren’t you just opening?” Sweeney said, and the old man cleared his throat and let it suffice for an answer.
Sweeney put his basket down, slid onto the stool, and said, “I’ll have what he’s having,” gesturing toward the other end of the counter.
The old man tilted his head and bulged his eyes a little, as if to confirm the order, but the biker paid no attention. He was taking fast, aggressive bites out of his burger, making snapping, doglike motions with his jaw, and wiping the resulting spray of grease off his chin with the back of his hand. By the time Sweeney’s meal was ready, the biker had cleared his platter. He pulled a stack of napkins from the dispenser, wiped at his lips and then his fingers and deposited the saturated paper in the middle of his plate.
“Food of the gods, Myer,” he said to the old man as he climbed off the stool. “I’ll see you next Saturday.”
The old man poured water onto the grill from a glass coffeepot and watched the liquid sizzle and spatter. He shook his head without turning around and began to scrape debris into a grease well. As the biker passed behind Sweeney on his way to the exit, Sweeney swiveled and said, “Excuse me.”
The biker stopped walking and froze, overly dramatic. The old man, Myer, turned and put a hand to his forehead. Sweeney had taken a bite of pickle and began to talk with his mouth full.
“I wonder if you can help me,” he said. “I’m new in town and I was wondering, you know, if you knew a good garage. I’m having some problems with my car.”
The biker looked at Myer, then at Sweeney. He took a step forward and removed the sunglasses. He let his head sink down into his shoulders a little, then said, “I look like a fucking mechanic to you?”
Sweeney looked at Myer, hoping he’d step in or turn the moment into a joke. The old man looked infuriated.
“No,” Sweeney said. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“You just what?” the voice getting even lower. “You just looking for a reason to talk to me?”
“No, I thought—”
“You some kind of faggot?” the biker said and looked at Myer. “You serving faggots in here now, Myer?”
The old man looked down to the floor and said, “Not that I know of, Mr. Cote.”
“Look,” said Sweeney, “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“You’re goddamn right you’re sorry. You trying to pick me up, you little cocksucker?”
“Jesus Christ,” Sweeney said and put his hands up. “No. No. You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m new. I’m new here.”
The biker put a finger on Sweeney’s chest and pressed in on the breastbone. “I’ll bury your fucking ass, you want.”
“For Christ sake,” Sweeney said. “I didn’t mean anything. I was looking for a garage.”
The biker bit down on his bottom lip, seemed to think for a second. Then he removed his finger, reached past Sweeney, and took the uneaten burger off the platter.
“You’re new to a town,” he said and pointed with the bulky roll and Sweeney watched some grease drop onto the boots, “you watch your manners. You understand that?”
Sweeney shook his head. The biker bit into the meat, chewed and swallowed, then said, “Buzz Cote is no fucking mechanic, asshole.” Then he put the burger back on the platter and left the lunch counter. Sweeney could hear his boots click on the tile floor all the way to the front of the store.
Myer took the platter and threw it in a rubber bus tub and said, “What the hell is the matter with you, mister?”
Sweeney looked up at him. “You heard me. I just asked the guy a simple question.”
Myer threw a hand out, disgusted.
“Listen,” Sweeney said, the weight of the encounter starting to settle on him, “I’m brand new in town. I’ve got some problems with my Honda. That’s it. I swear to you.”
“And why didn’t you ask me?” Myer said, steadying himself with a hand on the counter. “I’ve lived here seventy years. Most of my life. I’ve been through more lousy cars than you can count. Why the hell didn’t you ask me for a garage?”
“I just thought, you know, the guy must know bikes—”
“You just thought,” wiping hands on a dishrag, disgust moving up a notch to contempt. “Did you find the pajamas?”
The shift in subject, if not tone, was so sudden that Sweeney was confused.
“The pajamas,” Myer said, on the verge of yelling, “the pajamas. Me, you’ll ask about boys’ pajamas. You know I once lived next to a garage?”
“I didn’t mean to cause any problems,” Sweeney said. He got off the stool, bent down and lifted his basket, and took a step toward the checkout.
“Give me that,” Myer said, extending his arms across the counter for the basket.
Sweeney handed it over, but said, “Don’t you want to ring it up down front?”
“Something wrong with this register?” Myer said, indicating an antique brass machine located down by the soda taps. But he didn’t go near the ringer. Instead, he rummaged in the basket, shifting items and muttering. “Gimme thirty bucks.”
Sweeney was getting more confused by the second. “What are you talking about?” he said. “The percolator alone is twenty dollars. I’ve got three sets of sheets in there.”
“You,” Myer said, shaking his head, resigned to his annoyance, “are a disagreeable SOB.”
“But you’re cheating yourself.”
Myer handed the basket back to him and said, “Gimme thirty bucks or get out of my store.”
Sweeney went into his pocket, came out with a hundred. “I’ve only got big bills,” he said. “Can you make change?”
Myer pushed air out between his teeth, his aggravation beyond words now. He snatched the bill, shuffled to the register, hammered the sale tab with the palm of his hand, planted the bill, grabbed change, and slammed the cash drawer with his hip. He moved back to Sweeney with a heavy head and handed him a fifty.