Page 64 of Wayfarers

We’re peering in through the windows.

“I think they’ve just opened,” he says.

“Are they wearing red squeaky noses?”

“Sylvie.”

“And big old shoes? Boat-size plastic shoes, in every color of the rainbow?”

“Sylvie.”

“And riding around on little unicycles, flipping cold cuts in the air and catching them—”

“Do you mean juggling? Isn’t that just juggling?”

“Don’t you dare act like I’m being weird, sandwich clown.”

A LITTLE LATER

“This is . . . great.”

“For a sandwich made by clowns or—” I say. We’re sitting on the floor of the van, subs between us, knees almost touching.

He takes another bite of his turkey sandwich. “The bread is nice and puffy.”

“Yep.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever had bread like this before.”

“Pillow bread. You could take a nap on it if you wanted.”

He puts the sandwich to his cheek and shuts his eyes angelically. “A brand-new chain restaurant sandwich. I’ve never had one of these before.”

“Because it’s bad for you? Or because of capitalism?”

“More like, this wasn’t the kind of thing we dumpster dove for. If we couldn’t get it for free, we were complicit with the system. Which made us bad people.”

I eat a few more chips. “Absolutes make me kind of nervous.”

“What do you mean?”

“The idea that things are wholly good or wholly bad. Experiences. People. I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

“Why?” It’s not a challenge when he says it. He just wants to hear more.

“I think it’s . . . okay, I don’t mean to be mean about your family and your upbringing or anything, but I think it’s kind of childish. That it comes from a desire for rules to follow, and for good versus evil, and I don’t believe in that stuff. Because it’s hollow.”

He’s stopped chewing. He looks genuinely a little concerned. “How?”

“If you see the world that way—that some of us are right all the time, and some of us are wrong all the time—what side are you going to put yourself on? The right side. The good side. Every time. I don’t really know if humans are capable of seeing themselves otherwise. So the distinction is meaningless. And then what happens—yikes, I’m like building up speed here—”

“Don’t apologize for having an opinion.”

“—let’s say you say all fast food is bad, it’s capitalist and bad, it exploits workers, it hurts animals, it’s bad for your body—all true, by the way—and then let’s say you’re driving through, like, west Texas, where apparently you can go for like seven hours without seeing a gas station, and you’re starving, you didn’t bring snacks—and that’s on you, your fault—and then like an oasis in a cartoon-y desert at the end of the road there’s . . . a Del Taco.”

“What’s a Del Taco?”

“Oh my gosh,” I tell him, with all the fervor in my heart, “I love Del Taco.”