A white Jeep blocks the old drive-through lane of a one-time McDonald’s, set in the back of a Shell station in the Orlando suburb of Kissimmee, a patchwork of stucco strip malls southeast of the theme parks. On the deck around front, men gather in the dark beneath strings of café lights, wearing flower print shirts and flip-flops, smoking fat cigars, bright red tips dancing across the night like fireflies.
From the back corner of a dining room lined with faux ivy walls and set with butcher paper–draped café tables, a
