The line wraps around the corner of the fried chicken joint. Tuesday is two pieces for a buck.
The line stretches from the freezing winter into the dense heat inside. With fresh chicken, boiling oil and the commotion of the customers, the ice cold windows sweat heavy beads on the inside. You can see the switch from cold to hot in the people. Once inside, they strike up conversation, slowly removing the arctic gear as their faces and fingertips thaw.
Chicken finally in hand, they begin re-hatting and re-gloving, and tell themselves it’s just a quick sprint to the car.