When we get to the restaurant, we sit against the wall. On the wall behind my head is an old picture of a large group of people, with one chubby man in a white polo nearest to the camera. The picture looks about thirty years old.
“Who is that?” Pops asks me.
I turn to the people partying behind my head. “Him?” I point to the man.
“Yeah,” Pops says with a slight hint of “duh.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t that look like Chris? I don’t remember his last name, remember Chris mamma? I think that’s him.”
I’m sure it is…
Later in the car as we were driving past Outback, we remark how they are never open for lunch.
Marcine: “I’d hate to own a restaurant.”
Ned: “I’d hate to own a dairy farm.”
Marcine: “Oh yes I’d hate that, too.”
Ned: “Twice a day and seven days a week you milk ’em.”
All I can do is smile in the backseat while the fuzzy sermon plays over the radio, the only thing to ever come over the radio in their car.