Adventures in Missouri

I spent Memorial Day in Missouri with my wife’s extended family. This isn’t as bad as it sounds, actually. Sarah’s cousins have a nice home in the southeastern portion of the state. Despite still recovering from my wisdom teeth extraction, I played pool, ran around like a wild man with Jackson and his young cousins, ate pork steak (not pork chops mind you), told funny stories with a hydrocodone amplified brain/mouth filter, and ate at Lambert’s, home of the the “throwed rolls.”

What strikes me about Missouri is the vast difference in customer service in nearly every establishment. In every instance save for renting my car from Enterprise, the service was slow, sullen, and accompanied by either grumbling or mumbling. I’m not sure how things are in your neck of the woods, but in the DFW area, even fast food workers are efficient, friendly, and offer a smile. You may have to repeat yourself in a mixture of Spanish and English to be completely understood, but by goodness, you get in and out of a place quickly, and the friendly face sticks with you for a time.

Here’s a case in point. Driving from the the southeast corner of the state back to St. Louis, I decided to stop at Steak’n'Shake, which is a burger/shake place. A milkshake would hit the spot, I decided, especially with a still-sore mouth. I ordered my shake and went to the bathroom.

Conditions in the bathroom were roughly equivalent to a Civil War era outhouse. The odor of urine was almost overwhelming. To top it off, there was a large soap spill on the tile floor. I almost fell on my arse as I made my way to the urinal that was a credible stand-in for an abbatoir of death. I finished my business and disdained washing my hands (because I’d have to touch the sink). The manager happened to be outside the bathroom, stacking booster seats and high chairs.

Me: Hey, man. There’s a soap spill on the bathroom floor. I almost fell. It’s probably a good idea to get someone to clean that up.

Him: We just cleaned that bathroom.

Me: If by cleaning you mean that you spilled some soap on the floor, then yes, you did. You at least should put a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign in there. Someone could really get hurt.

Him: Don’t tell me how to do my job. That bathroom is spotless.

Me: That bathroom was so spotless that I didn’t wash my hands because I decided that my penis was the cleanest thing in there.

And that’s true, actually. Given the condition of the sink, I decided I’d risk a pube or two in the milkshake rather than soil my hands with the burgeoning super-bacteria undoubtedly growing on the crusty sink. I experienced the same sort of sullen resignation at the Comfort Inn and Suites (I know, that’s what I get for staying there), the Wolfgang Puck Express, and a McDonald’s. 

God bless Texas.