172 The Meadow time he was there. They were now called Perko’s Café & Grill, and the vinyl red-and-white checkered tablecloths were gone. The tables were made from slabs of what looked like redwood, and the booths were clad in a leatherlike material. He opened the menu and was relieved to find the food and prices were nearly the same. They’d added a Thai salad, which seemed ridiculous since a person could walk next door and get the real thing. He ordered the special—rib-eye steak, baked potato, vegetables, and strawberry pie. His waitress brought his plate. This is the kind of food Karen used to cook. He cut into his meat and red juices ran under the potato. He used a piece of bread to sop them up. When he was finished with his meal, he walked to the nearest bar across the street. It was dark and nearly empty. Three women were sitting at a table in the corner and one guy was sitting at the bar, where Jim joined him, leaving a stool between them. The guy looked about Jimmy’s age and was wearing a trucker’s hat, but it was impossible to tell if he was in the business since it seemed to be the style now. The guy had olive-colored skin and dark hair. Nobody looked like Jim anymore. He was often the only whiteskinned, light-haired person in the room. Who’s the minority? he thought. He ordered a shot of Jim Beam, his dad’s drink. “How’s it going?” the young man asked. Jim listened for an accent. If this guy had one, it was very slight. “It’s going fine,” Jim answered. “What do you haul?” “How do you know I haul anything?” “You have the look—you hold that drink like a steering wheel. I move furniture for Ethan Allen. Pick it up in North Carolina and deliver it all over the Western states.” The young man was drinking beer. “My name’s Eduardo, but everybody calls me Ed.” “You look too young to be called Ed.” Jim stuck his hand out. “Jim. My son looks about your age.” “You look too young to be my dad.”
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