By the light of the moon

brother,
Shepherd, hadn't been in a puzzling mood, Dylan would have sought a
restaurant with healthier fare. Shep wasn't currently able to cope
in public, however, and when in this condition, he refused to eat
anything but comfort food with a high fat content.
    The restaurant was brighter inside than out. Most surfaces were
white, and in spite of the well-greased air, the establishment
looked antiseptic.
    Contemporary culture fit Dylan O'Conner only about as well as a
three-fingered glove, and here was one more place where the
tailoring pinched: He believed that a burger joint ought to look
like a joint , not like a surgery, not like a nursery with
pictures of clowns and funny animals on the walls, not like a
bamboo pavilion on a tropical island, not like a glossy plastic
replica of a 1950s diner that never actually existed. If you were
going to eat charred cow smothered in cheese, with a side order of
potato strips made as crisp as ancient papyrus by immersion in
boiling oil, and if you were going to wash it all down with either
satisfying quantities of icy beer or a milkshake containing the
caloric equivalent of an entire roasted pig, then this fabulous
consumption ought to occur in an ambience that virtually screamed guilty pleasure , if not sin . The lighting should be
low and warm. Surfaces should be dark – preferably old
mahogany, tarnished brass, wine-colored upholstery. Music should be
provided to soothe the carnivore: not the music that made your
gorge rise in an elevator because it was played by musicians
steeped in Prozac, but tunes that were as sensuous as the food
– perhaps early rock and roll or big-band swing, or good
country music about temptation and remorse and beloved dogs.
    Nevertheless, he crossed the ceramic-tile floor to a
stainless-steel counter, where he placed his takeout order with a
plump woman whose white hair, well-scrubbed look, and candy-striped
uniform made her a dead ringer for Mrs. Santa Claus. He half
expected to see an elf peek out of her shirt pocket.
    In distant days, counters in fast-food outlets had been manned
largely by teenagers. In recent years, however, a significant
number of teens considered such work to be beneath them, which
opened the door to retirees looking to supplement their
social-security checks.
    Mrs. Santa Claus called Dylan 'dear,' delivered his order in two
white paper bags, and reached across the counter to pin a
promotional button to his shirt. The button featured the slogan
FRIES NOT FLIES and the grinning green face of a cartoon toad whose
conversion from the traditional diet of his warty species to such
taste treats as half-pound bacon cheeseburgers was chronicled in
the company's current advertising campaign.
    Here was that three-fingered glove again: Dylan didn't
understand why he should be expected to weigh the endorsement of a
cartoon toad or a sports star – or a Nobel laureate, for that
matter – when deciding what to eat for dinner. Furthermore,
he didn't understand why an advertisement assuring him that the
restaurant's French fries were tastier than house flies should
charm him. Their fries better have a superior flavor to a bagful of
insects.
    He withheld his antitoad opinion also because lately he had
begun to realize that he was allowing himself to be annoyed by too
many inconsequential things. If he didn't mellow out, he would sour
into a world-class curmudgeon by the age of thirty-five. He smiled
at Mrs. Claus and thanked her, lest otherwise he ensure an
anthracite Christmas.
    Outside, under the fat moon, crossing the three-lane highway to
the motel, carrying paper bags full of fragrant cholesterol in a
variety of formats, Dylan reminded himself of some of the many
things for which he should be thankful. Good health. Nice teeth.
Great hair. Youth. He was twenty-nine. He possessed a measure of
artistic talent and had work that he found both meaningful and
enjoyable. Although he was in no danger of getting rich, he sold
his paintings often enough to cover expenses and to bank a little
money every month. He had no disfiguring facial scars, no
persistent fungus problem, no troublesome evil twin, no spells of
amnesia from which he awoke with bloody hands, no inflamed
hangnails.
    And he had Shepherd. Simultaneously a blessing and a curse, Shep
in his best moments made Dylan glad to be alive and happy to be his
brother.
    Under a red neon MOTEL sign where Dylan's traveling shadow
painted a purer black upon the neon-rouged blacktop, and then