The suburban loser orders three burgers at Cutter’s Meats and Lounge inside Eastern Market. He and his two sons are the only ones there outside an old man alone at the bar, hooked up to an oxygen tank. Red and blue lights above the dance floor shine against a lonely disco ball that washes the room in purple. Every now and then, the heavy velvet curtain separating the lounge from the butcher next door flutters open and attacks the suburban loser's table with harsh fluorescent light and the sound of electric meat saws. The suburban loser leans over and tells his sons that Cutter’s is a Detroit institution that's been here since the 60’s. They don't say anything, maybe because the music is too loud to talk. When the burgers arrive, large flakes of salt float in the pools of grease on the patties and they taste like cartilage. Only the suburban loser's eldest son finishes his plate. A middle aged man wearing a bold shirt that matches his pants comes over and asks the suburban loser how was the meal. Top notch, the suburban loser says, top notch. He pulls the man in close with a handshake and introduces him to his two sons before saying they'll need a box. When the man leaves, the suburban loser rushes his sons out the door. His eldest son asks how he knew that man and the suburban loser says he didn't. He just saw a news article recently and recognized him as the owner. Outside, the afternoon sun catches all of them by surprise. Lamb carcasses overflow from the dumpster outside the halal butcher and clear plastic bags of rotting vegetables sit outside the produce terminal. The suburban loser panics for a moment when a delivery van blocks the view of his car. His youngest son walks slowly behind them, and the suburban loser realizes he didn't keep track of how many beers he had at lunch. They drive west on Outer Drive, passing a building that used to be a toy store. His Grandpa Sullivan used to work there in the 70's, the suburban loser tells his sons. He was a toy buyer and took trips to places like Japan back before people did that sort of thing. Now the building is abandoned and painted bright pink for some reason. Piles of trash collect in the doorways and it looks like someone is sleeping there, too. At Mount Oliver Catholic Cemetery, the suburban loser holds his fist out for the gateman. He bumps it, and the suburban loser is proud to show his sons how he mingles with the working class. Deep into the cemetery is his father's grave, but first the suburban loser makes a detour to show the boys their ancestors, as is tradition. He pulls a weed pen out of his pocket and blows huge clouds as he walks among the tombstones. Using a tree branch, he points to the graves and explains how each person is related to the other, making sure his sons notice that some people have an extra letter in their last name, a leftover vowel from the old country. It's strange to think what might have happened if they never changed their family name. The suburban loser's youngest son watches him with the most interest, following the weed pen as it moves from the suburban loser's lips to his pocket and back again. The eldest son asks if the suburban loser knows anything else about these people, like what they did for work or if they had any interesting stories. No, the suburban loser tells him. The website he used to research didn’t really have stuff like that. At the suburban loser’s father's grave, they all stand over the memorial plaque that was installed after the cemetery banned tombstones to save on landscaping costs. The late summer sun casts the suburban loser's sons in a golden glow. I sure wish you could have met your grandfather, he tells them. I bet you all would have gotten along. His eyes water behind his Ray-Bans. The suburban loser's eldest son crouches down to remove some of the weeds crowding over the edges. When he was younger, old enough to know what death was but young enough to not know embarrassment, he wrote I Still Love You on a small slip of paper and stuck it next to a photo of his father the suburban loser kept in his office. When the suburban loser found it, he cried harder than he did when his dad died. He got it framed the next week and still keeps it hung up on the wall in his office all these years later, sometimes feeling a spiritual connection when he looks at it.