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you want those burgers dee-luxe ?” Len said the word as if it were two. “ Dee-luxe includes mustard and chopped onion.”
    “ We’re celebrating, give us the works, make them de-luxe.” Wendell said.
    “ You got it. Two dee-luxe burgers with mustard and onion coming right up.”
    Jake sat at the counter watching as Len put two patties on the grill and, after the paddy started juicing up, flip it and put one half the bun on top of it and the other he placed on the grill to brown. He grabbed a fist of fresh cut potatoes and put them in a basket and lowered them into hot grease that bubbled up over the fries. As the burger and fries were cooking, Len set to work on the malts and put the metal container in the milk-shake machine and went back to the grill. When the burgers were done, Len slid the spatula under the patty and put the burger and bun on the plate, grabbed a handful of chopped onions and spread them over the patty. On the other bun, he spread mustard and put that on top the onions and by then the fries were done. He slid the burgers in front of Jake and Wendell and poured two glasses full of the thick chocolate malt.
    “ There you be, two dee - luxe burgers, fries and two chocolate malts,” Len said as he slid the meal onto the counter in front of Wendell. “Watch out for this ol’ bastard,” Len said, tilting his head toward Wendell and giving Jake a wink when he put the order in front of Jake. “Better count your money when you get home. Make sure it’s all there.”
    “ Get the hell outa here,” Wendell said and Len chuckled and walked to the end of the counter.
    As Jake remembered it, not word one was mentioned about his goddamn fifty-five dollars or that yellow check sticking out of his uncles breast pocket. Jake kept looking at the check, waiting. His uncle talked about a lot of crap but was silent on the matter of the check as they ate their burgers. The engine noise was too great to talk as the gears ground each time Wendell down-shifted on the inclines on the ten miles to the logging site. They got into Wendell’s green pickup and headed for home. He stopped to let Jake off at his mailbox at the end of his drive. Jake hesitated long enough to make himself uncomfortable, in hopes his uncle would give him some cash. Not a damn word about the fifty-five smackeroos. He got out and walked the hundred yards through the drizzle up the rutted drive to his home.
    Would it hurt the bastard to tear out one of those beige checks in that blue plastic checkbook he carried is shirt pocket, write Jake Forest in the “pay to the order of” line and fifty-five and no one-hundreds in the “dollars” line? Not a goddamned bit.
    No need to check his pockets for any missing money. Except for some pine needles, his pockets were as empty as they were that morning when he left to work in the woods with his uncle.
    “Pig-fucker,” Jake said as he walked up the steps to his back porch. He smiled. The only positive shit he ever got from the bastard all summer, a couple of de-luxe burgers and some really classy cuss words.
     
     
    When he thought back on it, his experience in the woods with his uncle and the fifty-five dollar log, or more accurately, the dee-luxe burger, fries, and chocolate malt log, it was his earliest lesson on how The Man takes advantage of the powerless working stiff; it would not be his last. Too bad The Man had to be family. He’d worked his ass off all summer for a fast-food meal. He was too timid to confront his uncle on the subject, the fucker was a gypo-logger and infantryman in Italy during the big one; Jake was fifteen, for Christ sake. On top of that, there was his uncle’s temper. Jake witnessed more than once Uncle Wendell flip out. Once, when a nut wouldn’t loosen on his John Deere cat, Uncle Wendell’s face turned purple and he flung the eighteen-inch crescent wrench into a pond. That was the first time he’d heard “pig-fucker,” but it was far from the last. Uncle