I went to lunch with Shirley, with whom I never go to lunch. The cafeteria was serving turkey burgers on fresh sesame-seed-encrusted rolls. They looked succulent and we each put one on our plates. We were then informed that we were not to eat them, but to put them down until we had completed a task outside. We put them down and went outside, which looked like New York even though we live in Atlanta. The nature of the task was not revealed so we wandered the streets until Shirley saw her mother looking out of a second-story tenement window and turned off to climb a flight of stairs to tend to her needs. I went back to the cafeteria but my turkey burger was gone. There were a couple of others there but they weren’t mine and they had holes punctured in the buns, so I decided to try the greasy spoon across the street that masquerades as a French bistro. They had large, inflated slices of pizza that looked like Claes Oldenburg sculptures and about as appetizing, and the tri-fold paper menus were all greasy and fingerprinted so I went out into the plaza and decided to go hungry.