Diane reads at an online forum that there are authentic tacos for sale uptown, and we agree they’re worth a try with the sweet corn we bought earlier at the farmer’s market. We’d seen the collection of vintage Porsches parked uptown for the annual Porsche show but not the taco truck. We’re curious—how authentic can these tacos be? What does authentic even mean when it comes to tacos? So I back the VW out of the driveway and not more than three houses down I spot two girls, middle schoolers, behind a table selling lemonade for 50 cents. That’s something, I think, I haven’t seen kids selling lemonade in years. The price has gone up a little. Then I wonder where they got the idea—if their parents or teachers encouraged them because they thought this would be a good way to teach them about business or because the girls were restless and this got them out of the house. Then it occurs to me that it could be something altogether more sinister. Sinister is on my mind because all day we’ve had news about a rich and famous serial rapist found dead in his jail cell. As I pass the girls in my car I wonder if their parents have put them out in the yard on the busiest street in the city—there’s no place to park; this doesn’t bode well for sales—to be something like ornaments, visual evidence of their family values while god knows what they are really up to inside. Maybe it’s not that bad, okay. Maybe this is something their parents did as children on a hot day, or something they’ve seen in a sentimental movie. Maybe they think setting up a lemonade stand is somehow American, part of another, gentler time in our nation’s history, something to be remembered or started up again if we are to make America great again. I am not tempted to stop. Diane is boiling the sweet corn.