Hey Joe

The sun, as Gérard and Gloria drive, is softened by the occasional drifting cloud hanging thin and white in the sky like curtains. On the winding road tall trees bend overhead and, reaching across two lanes, they provide a pleasant, passing shade. They have been driving for an hour, enjoying the lilting music of conversation. "So, I'm not sure if you're hungry, but there's a great roadside sandwich spot coming up," Gérard says.

"Oh, I think I know the one. With the checkerboard floor and milkshakes, right?"

They pull into the lot and park beside a wooden picnic table. The table has been painted over so many times there's more green paint on it than wood. In the sunlight it shines luridly, seems wet. Two crows stalk them from atop a telephone pole, studying their movements, deciding which one of them will leave scraps. The restaurant isn't very large, maybe the size of a small bar. A long red counter hangs over a dozen worn-out bar stools. Behind the counter is a grill and a silver ventilation system which gives the place an old-tyme feel. Another vestige of the past, a vacant looking man in a white paper hat, wearing a white smock, stands ready to take their order. He has a pin-on nametag. It reads: Joe. Joe is also the one who will be making their sandwhiches. It's hard to say for sure, but it looks like Joe has been working here his entire life. His hair has that waxy, grimey sheen one acquires from prolonged exposure to kitchen grease. His skin too, all red and suffocated, seems plastic, candley. He looks at them with tired impatience and busies himself by running a rag over various surfaces. Their presence seems to annoy him, as though they'd barged into his secret roadside fortress of solitude; an isolated, detached establishment that sells stale, lonely bread.

Gloria becomes flustered under Joe's quiet scrutiny and can't figure out what she wants to order. Her eyes avoid his and remain fixed on the sandwich list, bouncing from description to description. The place isn't as she remembered it. The floor is checkered, sure, and they serve milkshakes, but something is different. The pictures on the wall depict the inside of the restaurant from 40 years ago; scenes of bustling crowds, young people dancing, movement. It is still now, empty, watered down by time. An old fluorescent bulb hums above the bar. The light produces a nagging, fly-winged sound. Unable to make up her mind, Gloria says: "Order for me. I'll get whatever you do. I'm going to the bathroom." Gérard orders two roast beef sandwiches and two vanilla milkshakes. Joe disgustedly scribbles on a small white notepad, like he's shooing away a bug. "Oh, and hold the mayo," Gérard adds. Joe doesn't write anything down. He turns around and starts preparing the order. Gérard considers asking Joe whether or not he heard him, for confirmation, but then decides against it. Moments later Gloria is back, too soon to have gone to the bathroom. "I couldn't go," she says.

"What do you mean," Gérard asks.

"That bathroom. Just go look at it."

"Why??"

"I think you should go have a look."

He passes the last bar stool, walks by a dusty jukebox, and turns left toward the bathroom. When he opens the door the smell sours his face. It looks like a woman had a chocolate miscarriage in the toilet. To his right there is a sink missing both handles. The employees must wash hands sign seems more like a mocking joke than a mandate.

"That might be Joe's shit," Gérard says to Gloria.

"No shit."

They both look at Joe standing behind the counter, handling their sandwiches.