Juniper Dreams of Being an Urban Human

Bread and meat with gravy over it is all you need. Thick ground black pepper or even the powder in a tornado from a stainless and glass shaker, deep-fried pork tenderloin and crispy cottage fries with lots of smooth creamy brown gravy on mashed can get you make you stare at the cashier on the phone while yor waiting or corner-eyeing the street crowd in the picture winda at yor booth. Someone could pound on the glass or squat and pee there without being noticed much. All you care to care about right now is your ice water and napkin. You dive into the crunchy mess when it comes with both hands and all of your attention. It's treating both sides of your brain to the attitude of a chef who can hate staying these long hours and make you insultingly decent chow like what, you can't do this at home? You chew and think how you want to come back again and again and will tip the waitress well, for every decade another dollar, and she dresses more like a movie star. You picture the manager and a pig and a frier, the cook and the freezer supplier in an internecine sqabble that ends in feasting and gobbling crunchy globs of hot, greasy snow.