Southern Hospitality

So I was at a small truck stop over in Louisiana just the other day when I had an experience that was annoying and shocking.

I had been at it all day, shutting down the truck with barely an hour left on my fourteen hour clock. I was exhausted and hadn't really slept well the night before. Let me say up front that I don't really feel like my exhaustion had anything to do with how I was treated at this truck stop. I tried quite hard to be positive and upbeat during the whole thing, you'll understand as you read on.

I wanted a hot meal before I crashed out for the night, and I was pretty much starving (the downside to trying to keep fresh fruits and veggies in the truck is that they either spoil or get eaten very quickly and leave me stuck purchasing food). So I pulled into this truck stop with food on my mind.

I went inside and used the restroom to wash my hands, because I was raised right and like being clean before taking a meal. Once my hands were as clean as they were gonna get I moseyed across the main portion of the truck stop, following my nose to the smell that was emanating from the Mexican joint that shared the building.

But despite the salivating that had begun in my mouth, I opted out of dining there. When I opened the door I was smacked in the face with the wall of cigarette smoke that filled the place. Quickly I closed the door and turned around resigned to the fact that I would just have to settle for a toasted sub from Subway.

When it was my turn to order I stepped up and confidently and clearly placed my order, six inch steak and cheese on wheat toasted with lettuce, pickle, banana peppers, green peppers and some of that tasty southwest chipotle sauce. (yes that's exactly how I ordered it, verbatim)

The gal making the sandwich seemed less than enthusiastic to be working and I figured she'd just put in a long day like me and was just plain tired. So I tried to be as nice as I could. She did manage a small smile at the "tasty" sauce bit.

Little did I know the person behind me in line was going to come along and ruin everything.

I was in the midst of the payment portion of the show when the lady behind me, who had begun her order with the gal behind the counter as my sandwich was toasting, started getting frazzled. She had ordered three personal cheese pizza's. (she had a couple of kids with her, she wasn't a piggy)

The gal had unwrapped the pizza's, placed two of the three on a toasting tray so that she could slip them in as she took my sub out of the toaster. She deftly made the swap when the timer chimed on my steak and cheese and upon closing the door to the oven, turned and proceeded in putting on the extras from the cold bar on my sub before wrapping it.

It was apparently at this point that the lady behind me realized that two of the three pizza's had already went into the toaster and this happened:

"Excuse me, did you already put two of my pizza's in the toaster?"

"Yes, (she said sideways to the lady) Do you want the meal? (she asked me at the register)"

"Excuse me, I didn't get to tell you that I wanted extra cheese on those. I WANT extra cheese on them, now!"

"Ma'am, we've been told not to put extra cheese on them because they come WITH cheese already."

"This is f*cking ridiculous. I was just in here yesterday and they put the extra cheese on before toasting them! When did you get this news about no extra f*cking cheese!?!"

(holding up the memorandum with one hand, pointing to the bold "no extra cheese" header)
"It came this morning and I have to follow rules, MA'AM."

During this exchange the gal behind the counter had stopped processing my order at the register and was getting more and more irate by the second. I waited patiently, not wanting to get pulled in to the mix.

"This is bullsh*t, I order a pizza and I some cheese on it!!! I pay for it, I should get what I want."

"Credit or debit?" the gal asks me realizing I'm standing there quietly with my card in my hand.

"Credit please." I replied.

She ran my card, handed it back with the receipt and I took my things and walked away from the counter. But the crazy b*tch was still yelling behind me and the gal behind the counter was starting to yell back. In the end, two cooked pizza's probably got thrown out because the woman in her outrage had grabbed her two kids and left empty handed.

So that was southern hospitality episode one; someone else's problem. Episode two; my problem, followed immediately after.

I was looking for the soda fountain since I'd gotten the meal and had an empty cup in my hand that I wanted to fill. I walked around looking, probably looking like an idiot. But I couldn't for the life of me locate the soda machine. I walked cautiously back over to the counter.

"Miss, could you point me in the direction of the soda machine please?" I asked meekly.

I was met with silence and the back side of the gal behind the counter, as she was busy probably throwing away the pizza's or counting to ten to calm down.

Not wanting to disturb her or risk getting her fury unleashed on me, I turned and noticed another lady in a shirt with the name of the truck stop on it and walked over to where she was putting things away on a shelf.

"Excuse me, ma'am, where is the soda machine?" I asked.

She looked up at me and just stared for a second unsure perhaps of whether or not I'd addressed her or someone else. When our eyes met, she quickly looked back down at what she was doing.

I sighed and went over to the fuel desk and figured I'd try there.

"Hi! I'm looking for the soda machine." I stated clearly, holding up my cup so as to convey with actions as well as with words what I was seeking.

Again I was met with full eye contact and a closed mouth.

Lucky for me when I had resigned myself to carrying an empty cup back out to my truck I spotted the machine in an out of the way place kind of hidden from plain view. As I headed towards it I said cheerfully and loud enough for all three of the people I'd asked to hear, "Thanks for all the help ladies!"

I then filled my cup and walked out.

Later I was discussing the situation with my husband on the phone. I was still struck by how inhospitable the south had turned out to be on this trip. During the course of our conversation he asked me one to-the-point question that stopped me in my tracks and made me immediately realize that what I'd experienced was far more sinister than just a few bad attitudes.