One night I went with my friends Caleb and Mike to Zips. Zips was (and still is) a tiny fast food restaurant down third street half way between downtown and the grocery store, with a brilliant red logo on their sign, red like the Cleveland Indians. We sat down underneath the fluorescent lights, and ordered a series of greasy hamburgers, with a special sauce that made Caleb sick (I shared our common goal of culinary self-flagellation, but did not go so far in my asceticism as to order the sauce). We swayed out as if lead balls had formed in our guts, and for the next three years of living together, we would, once every few months, grin at each other and propose an outing to Zips. Caleb would giggle, and then frown, and his face would grow red. “Agh!” Mike would protest and put up his hands, like a cat pawing at a window. Zips, muse of our amusement.