Memphis Truck Stop
Several years ago, my sister, mother, and I made a trip to Memphis, TN, and ate at a truck stop . . . no, we didn’t purposely go there to eat at a truck stop, but it was the highlight of that two-day trip to our mother’s eye surgeon. We really enjoyed going to Graceland too, but since we measured our fun by tried and true scientific methods, it just didn’t live up to our “fun standards”. Reaching the top of our fun scale depended upon 1) how long and hard we belly laughed, and 2) how close any of us came to peeing our pants. While Graceland was a great time, it was only a five on the scale of one to ten. It was a visit full of one-liners, lusting after the young Elvis down in the Jungle Room, and making fun of the aging, rotund Elvis (forgive us, King), but we didn’t become terribly out of control because of security guards and cameras aimed at us from every direction. The truck stop was another matter; it was a ten out of ten.
You see, growing up in our household meant you ate out at only the classiest restaurants. Fine dining was the nearest truck stop or occasionally a Bonanza. One of our favorites was a drive-in burger joint in the county we fondly called the “The Ssshht Ditch,” because of its location next to the county dump. Our parents believed truckers, crisscrossing states and familiar with all the best diners, had to know the best places to eat. I never fully bought into this idea, theorizing instead, that truckers look for cheap food with convenient proximity to the interstate and don’t spend time seeking out-of-the-way primo food. But I kept my mouth shut, because eating out regardless of where, was a treat.
Leaving Memphis, the three of us naturally pulled into a truck stop Mother spied, because of the large number of big rigs in the parking lot. The food was unremarkable. After eating, I went to the restroom hoping there was a feminine product vending machine. There wasn’t. When I returned to the dining area, Mother and my sister had already paid and were waiting for me outside the door. I sashayed across the room, swerving around a few tables and went out the door to meet them. My sister led us down the sidewalk to the parking lot, with me in the middle and Mother bringing up the rear of our single-file line. Mother was legally blind, seeing only light and dark, and yet she asked me what “that” was?
“What is that thing hanging off you?”
“I don’t know, where?”
She started reaching for and grabbing at the back of my legs. When we saw what it was, we both began cackling. My sister came back to us and joined in the hilarity. We laughed so hard we were tipsy on the sidewalk. I turned crimson and thought about how I had maneuvered around the tables in front of eight to ten truckers like I owned the joint. But, like tripping over a crack in public and pretending you meant to, I wanted my brain to believe those truckers were too engrossed in their open-faced beefs to notice. By this time, tears were streaming down our faces and we made our way to the car. My sister shrieked and pointed to the window as we unlocked the car doors. I looked up in time to see as many as four grown men peering out grimy mini-blinds, waving at me. Oh my God! Not one of them had missed the toilet paper hanging out of my shorts, dangling behind me like a proud streamer wafting from a parade float, as I made my way through the diner and out the door.
We weren’t peeling out of that parking lot fast enough for my taste, because my sister was driving slowly past that window, waving back, savoring every minute. I needed to get to the nearest convenience store quickly, but being the kind-hearted soul I am, I of course remembered to offer my traveling companions a little “tissue” to dry their dang eyes.
