This is a effn’ good hot dog.”
My brother Dan is a geologist and he never swears.
We’re in an old building with salmon-colored walls. Dan plows through his third hot dog, smothered in relish, pickles and ketchup.
“Are they dotted? Hey! Are they dotted? Five, one, three!”
Yester-slingers shout in this thick Yester-brogue, barely audible over Casey Kasem’s American Top 40: The 70s. Coke and Quaker Oats spokeskids wink and pout from their rusty metallic signs. A girl, no more th
