At midnight in Little Rock, the neon sign of the highway diner hummed with the sound of a dying insect. I was the only customer. My wallet contained two dollars and forty cents. I ordered a black coffee, intending to sip it across two hours while the rain washed the highway clean. Behind the pie carousel sat a solitary slice of cherry pie under a plastic dome. The crust was thick and golden; the filling was the dark, glossy red of fresh arterial blood. The waitress was sixty-five years old. Her nametag read Dorothy. Dorothy set down my coffee. Then she walked to the carousel, extracted the slice of cherry pie with a metal spatula, and slammed the heavy plate onto the counter before my nose. Eat that up, baby, Dorothy said, wiping the counter with a bleach rag. Health department comes at six. It goes in the dumpster at twelve-thirty anyway. I froze. My grandfather did not survive the battle of Sekigahara for his bloodline to accept public charity under the guise of municipal sanitation disposal. Dorothy, I said rising from my swivel stool. A samurai does not consume waste. If I eat this pie, I must balance the ledger. Eat the damn pie, sugar, Dorothy said, not looking up. You look like a wet scarecrow. I took one forkful to demonstrate polite contempt. The buttery crust shattered. Warm cinnamon, almond extract, and tart cherries detonated across my palate. My eyes watered. My stomach roared. Before my intellect could intervene, my fork was scraping the ceramic clean. Then Dorothy dropped the check on the counter: Coffee: $2.00 Pie: $0.00 (Trash) The dishonor burned like acid in my throat. I paid for the coffee. Then I took off my outer robes, kicked off my sandals, and marched directly through the swinging aluminum service doors into the diner's dish pit. Dorothy dropped her coffee pot. What in God's name are you doing? I am working off the pie, I roared through the steam. I seized the high-pressure spray nozzle. I attacked forty greasy breakfast platters with the precision of a master swordsman. I scrubbed egg yolk from cast iron. I loaded twelve dish racks in three minutes flat. The line cook, an elderly man named Earl smoking a cigarette near the grease trap, watched in stunned admiration. Hell, Dorothy, Earl shouted over the dishwasher. Keep him. The dishwasher called in sick and this kid works like a diesel turbine. Get out of my kitchen, Dorothy screamed, brandishing a metal ladle. I refuse, I shouted back, spraying suds across the ceiling. My honor requires thirty minutes of commercial sanitation. Dorothy grabbed me by the collar of my undershirt. For a sixty-five-year-old woman with a beige knee brace, she possessed the grip strength of an industrial vice. She dragged me out the back door into the rain. She shoved a warm brown paper bag into my chest. Inside were two massive buttermilk biscuits and a jar of apple butter. Listen to me, you crazy little man, Dorothy hissed, poking my breastbone with her finger. Nobody does dishes off the clock in my diner. That is a labor violation. Take these biscuits and get in your car before I call the sheriff to give you a ride. She slammed the metal door. The deadbolt clicked. I stood in the Arkansas rain in my wet socks, clutching two hot biscuits to my ribs. I had tried to maintain my warrior dignity. Instead, I had been physically ejected from an alleyway with double the carbohydrates I had started with. I climbed into my car. I bit into the biscuit. It was hot, flaky, and tasted like complete, unconditional defeat. I will never understand this country. I will be back for breakfast at six.