There are enormous oak cabinets arranged against every wall. Behind their locked glass doors is displayed an incredible amassing of porcelain dolls and China dishes, none of which are ever to be used.

Over whatever wall space not taken up by these rosewood fortresses hangs a taxonomy of finely-painted animal portraits. Everywhere the driver and the hitchhiker look, if they were to give their surroundings a more thorough inspection, they are met with the imploring eyes of all manner of fauna. Most disturbing about these gold-framed instances of nature is how unnatural they appear. Though the style is as realistic as one can get outside of photography, the animals are frozen in the stiff poses usually reserved for portraits of European royalty or, the American equivalent, so-called captains of industry. A fox scowls and a hummingbird, in mid-hover, cocks its head to one side, inquisitive of a flower. It is visitors to this purgatory for tchotchkes, parading as an eatery, that should be quizzical, or at least weary. The hitchhiker merely wonders if he’s missed the chalkboard menu, as he continues to scan the clutter of cuteness for any sign of food. Even the air smells of mothballs and advanced old age, not the most appetizing of scents. The driver itches to leave before they’ve even stepped inside.

The owner/hostess meets them at the door. She is plump, with a stained apron that probably remains on her day and night. Her face bulges with two ruddy cheeks and a tight gray bun atop her head. Her smile, also incessant, causes her eyes to squint to the point where one can’t tell if they’re open or closed. She is exactly the person one would expect to live in, or at least run, this monument of bad taste.

True to her look, the woman is friendly -overly friendly, it has to be said- and makes a grand show of leading the driver to the booth at the side of the house, where they had a phone put in.

“Oh, yes, yeeeeeeesss. Of course you can make a call. Just follow me, but of cooooourse.”

The driver thinks it a shame that there exist people so nice that they will eventually end up punched in the mouth, just out of sheer annoyance. He leaves the hitchhiker to his own devices, tucked into a corner in the over-decorated dining room.

The numbers come much easier this time. The driver has spun the dial so eagerly –its new or recently oiled- that he fears he may have added one too many digits. There are fewer rings this time, and a raspy woman’s voice answers.

“Mrs. W’shansky?”