In the McDonalds winking on top of the hill like a church spire. The man in front of us, who must be three hundred pounds, orders two Big Mac Snack Wraps and what looks like 48 ounces of Coke. One, or two, members of the kitchen staff aren’t grotesquely overweight, only moderately overweight. The rest shuffle around the kitchen delicately, as if they’re wearing slippers, or have gone lame, arms hanging limp beside their raised asses. As I’m waiting, the cashier eyes me vacantly, as if I’m a building on the horizon, then looks forward again when I catch her. Her checks are covered with a raw, red, rash. The customers seated in the dining area are wearing old, out-of-fashion coats and heavy beards that invoke the region’s Dutch protestant roots. One woman, fat and squinting, squishes a hamburger between her teeth while her buoyant, curly mullet (it would look like a poodle’s haircut, if it wasn’t so dirty) wiggles back and forth.