I'm not a complainer, by nature (Pause for
several minutes of unrestrained...and rude...laughter from my four loyal
readers) but
occasionally I will encounter a situation where I will feel COMPELLED to share
as a service announcement of sorts to the public at large. It is my duty as
both a patriot of these great Unites States as well as my position as a global
citizen.
SUBJECT: Thru-way
restaurant, quality & service (or lack thereof)
My expectations are not
unreasonable when I pull off at a thru-way rest stop so I feel that I am more
than emotionally prepared for what I am about to encounter. A John
Stossel report once (graphically) demonstrated that the first bathroom stall
you encounter upon entering is statistically the most hygienic. Check. I
vigorously wash my hands to the tune of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" as
my friend Hazel taught me because it (a) impresses and inspires fellow bathroom
go-ers and (b) I still have nightmares about the John Stossel report.
Check.
From there, I proceeded to the
alarmingly SLOW "fast" food order line. We're not going to talk about
prices. Of course they hike them up because you are being held hostage by your
state and your taste-buds. Capitalism and consumerism in their ugliest forms,
mired in a meat patty and saturated with salt. And you just HAVE to have it.
Savannah and I made it to the register emblazoned with pictures of food for a
society that no longer depends on literacy. No "Welcome to
McMeatPatty." No "How can I take your over-priced order?" Not
even a "Hello." But as a slave to the ironically-named
"service" industry, I overlooked this lack of human interaction and
eagerly ordered my McMeatPatty and was assigned my number. Stripped of my
identity, I (now known as Number 53) shuffled over to the side with
the rest of my human herd, waiting, wide-eyed and unblinking, for our number to
be called. Very dystopian. An elderly woman ahead of us (“Mom, how do you
describe yourself, age-wise,” Savannah unwisely asked, especially since I would
soon be in charge of golden crisp French fry distribution), clutched her ticket
number 52 hopefully. She did not light up with delight when her number was
called and I realized that her grasp of the language wasn’t quite as firm as
her grasp on her ticket. She approached the counter fearfully, holding up her
ticket like a shield or a sacrificial offering even though I’m pretty sure that
the McMeatPatty didn’t meet the high standards of the fatted calf. The “restaurant”
staff barely acknowledged her, shoving the bag in her direction without
checking her oh-so- important assigned number. No smile. No thank you. Just a
really riled up Number 53. 53’s daughter was concerned about a scene.
“53?” I aggressively approached the counter. Savannah disappeared.
“We just have to make your sundae,” the woman explained. I watched in horror
when, instead of pumping their patented hot fudge sauce onto my imitation ice
cream, she upended a bottle of chocolate topping. I was speechless. She brought
it over and we stared at each other. “Anything else,” she asked roughly. “Ketchup
packets for the fries,” I answered, the “please” that I’d been raised with,
long gone. “We don’t have any ketchup,” she informed me dismissively.
Shell-shocked, I stumbled away. Everything that I had come to count on had been
ripped away from me. But there was more to come. I unwrapped my McMeatPatty
with resignation. Normally I would have ordered extra pickles but I know not to
expect such extravagance from a rest-stop restaurant. I still peeked though and
then gasped. “ONE pickle?!?!” This was too much!!! Actually, it was not enough…but
you know what I mean.
From where I sat, cozied up next to the over-flowing trash can, I
gazed across the little courtyard to the multi-generational family who unpacked
their simple yet exotic meal. They pulled out a bag of mandarin oranges and my
mouth watered. I savored my one translucent pickle and bemoaned that I should
allow myself to have fallen victim to a culture that doesn’t value me as a
customer. My expectations need to be adjusted. A thru-way rest-stop is not a
magical oasis of culinary refreshment. Shame on my delusional food fantasies.
The thru-way rest-stop does not serve as a welcome way-station for weary
travelers. We are not treated like guests…just garbage. Which is where I threw
the rest of my McMeatPatty. Next time, I’ll pack oranges and just use the
thru-way rest-stop in the manner it was intended: As a toilet.
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