Photo by Spencer Davis on Unsplash
If there is a hell, my version would involve being locked in the Camel Smoking Lounge at the Frankfurt, Germany Airport with tech bros reciting their favorite lines from The Princess Bride. Purgatory would include a lifetime of attending pot luck meals hosted by co-workers, neighbors, and distant relatives. Purgatory is more realistic and I therefore fear it more.
When it comes to food regulation, I am 100% big government. I will only dine in restaurants that include a big A in the window or a certification from an official source like Zagat’s or Stanley Tucci. If Uber ever got religion I would gladly hire my own personal rabbi so he could proclaim before I ingested anything, “were it kosher I’d let my people eat it.” While I enjoy the camaraderie of sharing a meal, I don’t like sharing food. I cringe at the prospect of passing around a gyro or burrito for everybody to get a nibble.
My adherence to this axiom was tested years ago while driving back from my parents’ home in Connecticut to college in Indiana. Eyeing a longer break, I pulled into a Bob Evans restaurant in Toledo, Ohio. It was early evening and the establishment was crowded, filled with people from an antique car show, baseball card convention, or some other event people attend in the Midwest as the summer is winding down.
I was greeted by a kind host, who sat me down at the only open table, a large booth that appeared to be the centerpiece of the restaurant. I ordered an Arnold Palmer, which I explained to her did not contain vodka, and started perusing a magazine I had picked up at the last rest stop. I felt like a deputy third world dictator conducting international business transactions out of a reasonably-priced casual dining chain. After about five minutes, I looked up and saw the hostess coming my way with a stack of menus and what appeared to be a family of four behind her.
“Time to get cozy!” she announced as she dropped the menus on the table. “Do you mind if I sit this family at this table? It looks like you could use some company.”
I obliged despite my confusion because it was really a rhetorical question. They were already climbing in by the time I mumbled, “Sure. Wait. Where are they sitting?”
I was more puzzled by the fact that the family acted as if this was normal. The father politely waited for his two kids to climb in next to me. I scooted over so I was on the edge of the crescent-shaped booth. The mother squeezed in and the father followed. He nodded at me and then grabbed a menu.
“What’s good here?” he asked.
“Not sure,” I replied. “I’m not from here.”
“I thought you were a regular because of where you were sitting,” the mother said.
“You look like a mafia boss the way you were crouched in this huge booth!” the father added.
I explained that I was on my way back to college. They acted impressed, especially the mother who was cheerful and seemed like someone who never missed an episode of Highway to Heaven. They introduced themselves as Dale and Katie. Dale was in his thirties and looked more weathered than Katie. They were from the state of Washington. Dale was a truck driver and they were visiting Katie’s family in a nearby town I can’t recall except for the fact that it was somewhere near the Maumee River. They had spent the day at the zoo and the girl carried a stuffed animal as a prize possession.
The boy, about eight, was well-behaved and had an odor of hay, likely from spending hours too close to the animal pens. While I was watching the daughter, who was about five, draw something feverishly, Dale and Katie surveyed the menu options as if they were planning an attack on Normandy.
Dale asked me how the lamb chop was and I again responded with a hesitant “not sure” even though I was ready to remind him that this was a Bob Evans located off of an interstate in the middle of Ohio.
“Here you go,” the daughter said handing me a picture I could only surmise was some sort of vehicle.
“That’s amazing,” I said. “Is that a truck?”
“It’s an ambulance,” the boy chimed in. He had made one himself. He showed me and I grimaced as it was only slightly better than his younger sister’s creation.
“We had a little scare with Grandma last week,” Katie chimed in. “She’s OK. That’s why we just wanted to give her some space and time to rest.”
I was curious why the girl’s vehicle had a beard and seemed to be driven by some sort of charred swollen piece of meat, like a prime rib or veal shank.
“Who’s the driver?” I asked.
“Nathan,” the boy interceded.
“Big black fellow,” Dale added looking up from his menu while I now looked more inquisitively at the daughter’s depiction of the traumatic incident. “Guy was built like a brick shithouse.”
“C’mon Dale. He sure was nice,” Katie added. “And he took such good care of grandma.”
The waitress came for our order and there was a kerfuffle between the kids and Dale as to whether the kids could have pancakes. Dale asked for my opinion and I sided with the children. I feared Dale wouldn’t like my answer but I spoke from the heart. “Pancakes are always a good choice,” I opined. Dale wasn’t bothered and returned his attention to the Encyclopedia-sized menu.
I ordered another Arnold Palmer, which alerted Katie. She leaned around her kids so as not to concern them that they were sitting next to an alcoholic launching a bender at a Bob Evans.
“Don’t you still have a long drive ahead?” she observed.
“It’s just iced tea and lemonade,” I said trying to comfort her.
“Oh,” she said hesitantly. Dale looked up from his menu and winked at me.
The table contained comment cards and a space for suggestions. Perhaps out of habit, boredom or both, I grabbed one and started and filling it out. It was a practice I had started a few years back during a trip I took with a friend and his father to visit colleges. I used an alias to offer feedback to the restaurant, typically all positive but often with a helpful suggestion or two from the mind of a skilled traveler like Rex Woodie or Wayne Hercules. Two months later our mailbox would be filled with coupons and souvenirs from establishments like The Dutch Pantry, Beefsteak Charlies, and Howard Johnson’s.
I explained the prank to Dale and Katie, who looked at me inquisitively.
“Why would you sign the comment card from Rex Woodie?” Dale said.
“It makes no sense,” said Katie. “And who is Rex Woodie and why should he get the coupons?”
“Because it’s funny that there’s a guy named Rex Woodie on the road filling out comment cards. The name – Rex Woodie – is funny – and he’s just a fictional character, an alias to get free stuff from chains who like to get positive feedback. Everybody wins,” I tried to explain.
Dale and Katie stared at me.
“This must be college humor,” Dale summarized. “It makes no sense to me.”
I got a reprieve when staff members arrived to deliver the entrees as if it was haute cuisine. The food was met with “oohs” and claps, especially from Dale who was relishing in his choice of country fried steak and an extra baked potato. They lived on the Idaho border and the football-sized starch oozing with butter made Dale feel at home. I picked up my knife and fork but then realized that the family had paused. They had clasped hands and were about to pray. Dale earned my respect as the prayer was quick and painless and there was no singing involved. At the end, he asked me if I had anybody I wanted to pray for. My father had survived a heart issue the year before but I opted to go in a different direction.
“Let’s pray for Grandma.” Dale and Katie looked at me curiously. “You know,” I said nodding at the kids, “Katie’s mother…. That grandmother…. The ambulance.”
Katie welled up. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The second round of Arnold Palmers had done its work and after the meal I got up to go the bathroom. The boy announced he had to go as well and ducked under the table to join me. Dale asked me if I minded taking him.
I was not a parent at the time but the vision I saw as I entered the Men’s Room would indelibly remain with me years later when “pervert checks” would become a natural reflex of fatherhood. There were three urinals on the side against a wall, one of which was taken, and two stalls, one of which was occupied by a man on the toilet with the door fully ajar. He had curly hair, wore tinted glasses and looked up from the book he appeared to be enthralled in: Stephen King’s Carrie. The boy selected the middle urinal and started spraying with the aim of a cowboy in a spaghetti western. The occupant to the left appeared irked that the child had not yet learned of urinal etiquette. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t know the boy, that I had just met him less than an hour ago, but I surmised that this would raise far more questions. The boy then stopped urinating, pulled up his pants, and announced that he had to go “number 2.” He raced to the empty stall. I didn’t bank on this detour. As I finished washing my hands the awkwardness of the situation grew more apparent. Twenty minutes ago I was enjoying the freedom of the open road blaring Lunatic Fringe in my red Acura Integra. Now it was just me in a Bob Evans bathroom waiting for a little boy I didn’t know finish his business while I stood idly by absorbing the intermittent but palpable gaze of a man with his pants down taking his time reading a novel.
We returned to the table and I thought Dale and Katie needed an explanation for the long break but they did not seem fazed. They were talking to the waitress about plans for the next day and other tourist attractions in the greater Maumee River region.
I figured my obligation to humanity was done and I could throw down a $20 bill and escape but Dale and Katie wouldn’t have it.
“Your money’s no good here,” Dale said tossing the $20 back to me. “You were kind enough to let us join you for dinner. It’s the least we could do.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I should get going.” I got up and attempted to throw down the money again but noticed that everyone was distracted. They were focused on the waitress, who was grinning and carrying a massive ice cream sundae and five spoons.
“This is on the house,” she said to us as the kids screeched with joy. Dale and Katie clapped and yelped as the spoons were set before the table. I wanted to leave but I love ice cream as much as I abhor awkwardness. I felt like I was a guest in Dale and Katie’s house, that they had invited me into their world. Not the other way around.
I decided that I needed to move quickly. I reached for the spoon with reckless abandon and started scooping whipped cream and ice cream into my mouth. The kids laughed and picked up their spoons. I played it off as a joke – acting like an animal they had just visited in the zoo – but was only trying to be strategic. I wanted to get as much ice cream into my mouth before the family got their share. I had managed to harness at least five scoops from a discrete uninhabited corner of the sundae before the family had all jumped in with similar reckless abandon. Once all spoons had penetrated my germophobic halo, I delicately placed my spoon down and watched as the family all picked away at the massive sundae as if they were prospectors mining for gold. When they all ran out of steam the bowl contained one long strand of hot fudge. The kids had their fill and Dale and Katie looked at me.
“All yours,” Dale said.
“Oh, I can’t. I’ve had enough,” I said now again looking for my escape pod.
“C’mon we insist,” Katie said pushing the bowl over to me. The waitress was now in front of us and egging me on.
“Come on,” she urged as if she were a cheerleader. “Last bite! Let’s go! Last bite! You can do it!”
But there was no way I was reaching for the strand of fudge even if it were the last piece of subsistence on Earth.
“Nope. No way,” I said sliding the bowl.
“Come on,” Dale said more forcefully, almost threateningly. “We don’t leave anything on our plates. It’s disrespectful.”
That was the magic word – my Kryptonite. …and the family and waitress started clapping and jeering me with threats and barbs. And now all eyes around us were on me, the big shot who needed his own damn booth when the restaurant was at full capacity.
I grabbed the spoon and told myself I could do it.
I moved the bowl over to me and scraped the bottom of the bowl holding back the bile that was now surfacing in my throat. The spoon was full and just as I put it near my lips I looked over at the top of the booth and ledge that divided our section from the one behind us. There, perched right near Dale’s outstretched arm, on top of the ledge was a weathered copy of a Stephen King novel. And there looking at me from the table behind us was the man with the tinted glasses. He was again glaring at me like he had been minutes before, his interest sparked by that oh-so-kind waitress egging me on. But I could not see him in this form. I could only see him in the form he was just in: the one in the Men’s room with the door wide open. A moment of awkward privacy that he had carelessly shunned as better-suited for a public spectacle. I saw the book and I wanted to cry.
“The book!” I said while pointing at Dale as I choked down the fudge to the delight of my new fan club. “Get away from that book!” Dale looked over at the ledge. He was uncertain of my reasoning. He had always questioned my sense of humor but I had earned his respect over the course of the meal. And he slowly moved his hand around to the nape of his wife’s neck.
We said our goodbyes soon after. I thanked Dale and Katie for paying for my meal, a battle I had tried to win but to no avail. The choice booth was ready for other patrons, perhaps another family on the never ending quest for sustenance. We exchanged pleasantries and Dale promised me he would come visit me if his route ever crossed into Northern Indiana. Like me, Dale was just trying to be polite. I was young but mature enough to know I would never see him, Katie, or the family again. Our paths only converged for this one odd hour, which I tried to process during future road trips whenever I passed a Bob Evans, Red Lobster, or Applebee’s. It wasn’t Heaven. But it certainly wasn’t Hell either. Purgatory? Maybe. I did enjoy the family’s company. They were nice and wholesome and although they were in my rearview mirror I always remembered the family fondly and would forever think of them, even root for them wherever they were. I knew that they were rooting for me, probably praying for me for months to come, or at least as long as Katie’s grandmother stayed alive. In the abyss of trying to get from Point A to Point B how often do we forget to let people in as part of our daily nourishment?
No. It wasn’t Hell. Not even purgatory. It was life. For as someone from Google, or maybe it was Facebook, told me at an airport lounge once: “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”
Chris Parent is a writer and intellectual property attorney currently living in Zurich, Switzerland. Chris has published essays in Across the Margin, Kairos Literary Magazine, The Good Men Project, Memoir Magazine, Points in Case, The Whiskey Blot and Ginosko Literary Journal. He won the Fall 2020 Memoirist Prize for a story about his early introduction to racial inequality. Chris is an active member in the Geneva Writers Group and the San Diego Memoir Writers Association. Links to a selection of his works can be found on www.chrisparent.net.