Tormented by his co-workers, snubbed by the cops in the front booth,
Spencer finds a true friend among the fry-cook's paraphernalia.
LEMUEL'S FAMILY RESTAURANT
is in a middle-sized town in the USA's Industrial Corridor. The name is written cursively across the roof in orange and turquoise neon. Placards propped against the front stoop advertise patty melts, bottomless cups of coffee, lemon meringue pie, etc.
When the front doors open to admit or expel customers, it's possible to hear bits of the piped-in muzak, the kind of "audio architecture" designed to get bodies in and out of the booths sooner rather than later.
OUT COMES A NUCLEAR FAMILY:
Dad and mom in Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts, and a few kids in tee shirts emblazoned with the restaurant's cartoon logo, Lemmy the Lemur.
This creature is pictured wearing nothing but an orange vest and turquoise neckerchief. His eyes are perfectly circular and vacant. His hands are a bit odd: they seem to belong on a tree frog rather than a lemur.
THE NUCLEAR FAMILY
hops in their SUV. Dad, at the wheel, joshes, "The National Safety Council urges everyone to buckle up for safety!"
They all laugh together and sing, "Put your mind at ease, tell your riders please--"
Nobody can remember the rest of the words.
ON ITS WAY
of the parking lot, the SUV side-swipes a large dumpster which stands against the back wall, jostling a clique of picturesque bums. Most of them are just browsing, but one simple-minded bum speedily ransacks to the rhythm of the muzak oozing through an open window nearby.
The largest bum of all, the boss, takes this fellow by the shoulders, looks deep into his eyes, and says, "Slow down. You must experience this with all the senses."
The simple-minded bum just stares.
IT'S NIGHT,
and the neon sign on the roof is switched on, bathing everything in orange and turquoise light.
A youthful bum makes a significant find: an intact kiddy place-mat featuring a large portrait of Lemmy the Lemur. He proffers this treasure up to the boss, who holds it up high for everyone to see and adore. He strokes the image as though it were the icon of a saint.
"Say, 'Thank you, Lemmy.'"
"Ank-hoo, Reema-a-argh," gurgles the simple-minded bum.
