2030_ The Real Story of What Happens to America - Albert Brooks [15]
“Sure, I could go for a pastrami sandwich.”
Brad knew of one place somewhere toward downtown that had great pastrami, but he wasn’t sure of the name or where it was. That’s where Susie came in. That’s what he called the voice of his car. “Susie, what’s the name of the delicatessen somewhere off the Ten freeway near downtown?” Susie dutifully named off three delicatessens but none of them sounded familiar. “That’s not it.” Then Susie named another place that rang a bell. “That sounds familiar. Call them.”
A voice came on the line, Hispanic sounding, but then again, every voice on the phone sounded Hispanic to Brad. “Is this the place with the great pastrami?”
“I can’t hear you,” the man said.
“Forget it.” Brad hung up. “That’s the right place. I recognize the accent. Take me there, honey.” And Susie displayed the route, traffic conditions, alternate routes, time to destination, average speed, weather, and three rest stops along the way, something the dealer programmed in thinking Brad would need, which he really didn’t.
“That’s amazing,” Herb said. “How did she figure out the restaurant?”
“She’ll take all the restaurants in the area, look at their menus, check for reviews, and if pastrami comes up a lot, she’ll tell me.”
“Can you fuck her?”
“You actually can, but that was another four grand. And you have to stick your dick in the lighter.”
About fifteen minutes later Brad’s car pulled into a parking lot next to Amigos, a beat-up-looking diner, crowded to the gills, with a line snaking out the door. “This is the place?” Herb asked, a little reticent.
“This place has the best pastrami in town. Trust me, it’s gotten raves. That’s why there’s a line.”
“There’s a line at the doctor’s office, but no one’s raving about that.”
“Do you not want to go in?”
“No, I do. Come on.”
They got out of the car and stood in line. They seemed to be the only ones over fifty. Certainly no one in that diner was anywhere near eighty years old. People made no eye contact with them, and as the line moved slowly toward the counter, Herb wondered if they should go elsewhere, but he didn’t say anything. After thirty minutes they were facing the menu board, about to be served. “What are you gonna have?” Brad asked.
“Tuna fish.”
“What?”
“What the hell do you think I’m gonna have? You think I stood in line for an hour for peas?”
They both placed their orders, two large pastrami sandwiches with cole slaw, pickles, and a dipping bowl of beef juice that would make the sandwiches fall apart in their mouths. They were told to go to a table and the food would be brought to them. They found a small table near the window and sat down, and at that moment two Hispanic men in their early twenties walked over. One of them said to Brad, “Get the fuck out of here, old man, this is my seat.”
“No one was sitting here,” Brad said.
Herb stood up. He was not in the mood to argue. “Maybe it was their seat.”
“It wasn’t. The table was empty.”
“Get the fuck out of here, did you not hear me?”
A waitress appeared with the sandwiches and put them down, oblivious to what was going on. One of the young men picked up a sandwich and took a bite. “What the hell are you doing?” Brad was getting angry. “That’s mine!”
“I don’t think so, man. This is our table and it’s our sandwich.”
“I’m calling the manager.”
“You fucking do that, Grandpa. Good idea. And when you’re through we’ll talk about it outside.”
“Brad, let them have the sandwiches. I’ve lost my appetite.”
“They’re not having my sandwich. I paid for it, it’s mine.”
Brad went to find someone. Herb just wanted to disappear. He stood there not saying a word as Brad brought back a heavyset man, also Hispanic. Brad showed him the receipt. “We paid for these; these are ours.”
The man looked at it and said something in Spanish to the young men. The three of them laughed and the two men decided to leave. “Eat your sandwiches, you old fuck,” one of