They pissed in the pickle barrel,
at least that was the summer's rumor.
It sat beneath the trestle,
covered with layers of orange paint,
its accordion-fold doors
opened to a scrubbed wood counter,
chrome stools with cracked
black seats. We stayed in our car,
Dad and Mom in front, Gay and me in back,
while lanky teens in black-white-and-orange uniforms,
military-style paper caps, brought trays to hang
on our half-closed windows.

We chugged foamy root beer
from sweating glass mugs, chomped burgers
delivered in translucent paper bags,
fished out stray onions,
licked sticky orange sauce from our fingers,
then ate the pickles.

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