I can’t figure out what the problem is. Obviously I’ve upset her—she’s been shooting daggers in my direction the past hour and a half, each and every time she lifts the rim of her glass to her lips. But I’m friendly and kind—I promise. The past history of this blog may tell you otherwise, but I do genuinely care about a customer’s experience. Which is why I’m confused when she asks to see the manager on the way out. Tells her how unpleasant her entire dining experience was. She used the words, “reminiscent of a Truck Stop.”
Now, for those of you who know me, this kind of language scratches the itch that is my white trash family history. Sure, I’m selling liquor behind a bar—but let’s just take it a step further and infer that this is the same as me selling my body to weary drivers whose rigs line the parking lot of the local Flying J. This is gonna get real fun.
Welcome to my Truck Stop Diner. Off to the right you’ll find a convenience store where we charge double or nothing because there’s most certainly a tax on convenience. Peruse the shelves for a bit and you’ll discover parts for a CB radio, audiobooks on purposeful living and mindful meditation, police scanners, coffee mugs, and fireworks that are illegal in at least 38 of the 50 states. Want some cheap entertainment? There’s a video arcade off to the left. Want a shower? It’s free with a $50 Diesel fuel purchase. Want a hot meal and some good company? Step foot into my little corner of the world, this little slice of heaven where I make the fantasies of burly men everywhere come true. Golden Corral, Hometown Buffet, The Iron Skillet that I’m about to strike plumb across your highfalutin face—and baby, Cast Iron hurts like hell.
Yeah, sure. My bar’s just like a Truck stop. It’s called Love’s for a reason honey. See the local John over there at the corner? I give him a discount on Fridays—two for one. He gets a double and I charge him for a single and all the while you’re wondering if we’re talking about liquor or something else.
I’m selling myself for whatever’s on the table over here—don’t you know I’ve got mouths to feed? It’s a roach motel full of homicidal pimps and crack heads who’ve found themselves at the end of the road and I do mean the end. I don’t know if you think I look like a lot lizard or something—like one of those gals that moves in and out of the rigs like a damned Chinese Fire Drill. But the thing is I have all my teeth. And I may be scrawny but that’s not from the heroine it’s from the stress of waiting on people like you. If you’re here to support the local wildlife you’ll get no complaints just sit up there on your high horse and wait for one of us gals to knock on your door or call you in on the CB radio. Anyone looking for company?
We’ll step foot into your car where there’s a half empty bottle of Gatorade rolling around on the floorboard of the backseat. 1.23 in change in the cupholder of the cab and a folded up fleece perched up on the dash next to a guardian angel figurine swinging from your review mirror because you’re holy and sanctified and on a mission from god to save my corrupted soul. And I’m on a mission to show you some good old-fashioned Southern Hospitality don’t forget to pull out straight and slow—wouldn’t want you denting up the siding of your rig.
Yeah, I’m abrasive. I’m abrasive because I’m taking it from people like you left and right. Because I have bills to pay and student loans and tuition and this is the best thing I’ve found for it if you want to complain take it up with the government their tax rates are positively draining my account.
To be frank, I’m doing an honest day’s work. I pull up and I pack in and every night I climb into bed, dog tired, all by my damned self because people like you burden me—make me want to be alone. Yeah, I’ve got 14 piercings between my ears and my nose and that’s not talking anywhere else on my body. Yeah, I’ve got a few tattoos and a bitchy resting face and I have a little bit of an edge to me but if you want to rid me of that try a little kindness. That goes a long way. Because words like yours cut deep.
Then again, maybe you’re just mad I didn’t offer to clean out your rig. But if your heart is so ugly that even a hooker won’t hit on you—well, sounds like the problem is your own.