The Lost Continent - Bill Bryson [138]
I stepped out on to Main Street. It was ten of seven, as they say in this part of the world. The evening was warm and in the still air the aroma of charbroiled steaks floated over from the restaurant across the street and berthed in my nostrils. I hadn’t eaten all day and the whiff of sirloin made me realize just how hungry I was. I smoothed down my wet hair, needlessly looked both ways before stepping off the sidewalk – there was nothing moving on the road for at least 100 miles in either direction – and went over. I opened the door and was taken aback to discover that the place was packed with Shriners.
The Shriners, if you are not familiar with them, are a social organization composed of middle-aged men of a certain disposition and mentality – the sort of men who like to engage in practical jokes and pinch the bottoms of passing waitresses. They get drunk a lot and drop water balloons out of hotel windows. Their idea of advanced wit is to stick a cupped hand under their armpit and make farting noises. You can always tell a Shriner because he’s wearing a red fez and his socks don’t match. Ostensibly, Shriners get together to raise money for charities. This is what they tell their wives. However, here’s an interesting fact that may help you to put this claim into perspective. In 1984, according to Harper’s Magazine, the amount of money raised by the Shriners was $17.5 million; of this sum, the amount they donated to charities was $182,000. In short, what Shriners do is get together and be assholes. So you can perhaps conceive of my disquiet at the prospect of eating dinner amid a group of fifty bald-headed men who are throwing pats of butter around the room and setting fire to one another’s menus.
The hostess came over. She was chewing gum and didn’t look overfriendly. ‘Help you?’ she said.
‘I’d like a table for one, please.’
She clicked her chewing gum in an unattractive fashion. ‘We’re closed.’
I was taken aback once more. ‘You look pretty open to me.’
‘It’s a private party. They’ve reserved the restaurant for the evening.’
I sighed. ‘I’m a stranger in town. Can you tell me where else I can get something to eat?’
She grinned, clearly pleased to be able to give me some bad news. ‘We’re the only restaurant in Sundance,’ she said. Some beaming Shriners at a nearby table watched my unfolding discomfort with simple-minded merriment. ‘You might try the gas station down the street,’ the lady added.
‘The gas station serves food?’ I responded in a tone of quiet amazement.
‘No, but they’ve got potato chips and candy bars.’
‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ I muttered.
‘Or else you can go about a mile out of town on Highway 24 and you’ll come to a Tastee-Freez drive-in.’
This was great. This was just too outstanding for words. The woman was telling me that on a Saturday night in Sundance, Wyoming, all I could have for dinner was potato chips and ice-cream.
‘What about another town?’ I asked.
‘You can try Spearfish. That’s thirty-one miles down Route 14 over the state line in South Dakota. But you won’t find much there either.’ She grinned again, and clicked her gum, as if proud to be living in such a turdy place.
‘Well, thank you so much for your help,’ I said with elaborate insincerity and departed.
And there you have the difference between the Midwest and the West, ladies and gentlemen. People in the Midwest are nice. In the Midwest the hostess would have felt bad about my going hungry. She would have found me a table at the back of the room or at least fixed me up with a couple of roast beef sandwiches and a slab of apple pie to take back to the motel. And the Shriners, sub-imbecile assholes that they may be, would have been happy to make room for me at one of their tables, and probably would even have given me some pats of butter to throw. People in the Midwest are good and they are kind to strangers. But here in Sundance