I had a shower and afterwards as I dressed I switched on the television and watched the Reverend Jimmy Swaggart, a TV evangelist who had recently been caught dallying with a prosti tute, the old rascal. Naturally this had put a certain strain on his credibility and he had taken to the airwaves, more or less continuously as far as I could tell, to beg for mercy. Here he was once again appealing for money and forgiveness, in that order. Tears rolled from his eyes and glistened on his cheeks. He told me he was a miserable sinner. 'No argument there, Jimbo,' I said and switched off.
I stepped out onto 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 a hundred 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 give each other hotfoots and pinch the bottoms of passing waitresses. They seem to 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 armpits 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 probably 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 dis comfort 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, subimbecilic 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 the milk of human kindness was exceeded in tininess only by the size of the Shriners' brains.
I trudged up the road in the direction of the Tastee-Freez. I walked for some way, out past the last of the houses and onto an empty highway that appeared to stretch off into the distance for miles, but there was no sign of a Tastee-Freez, so I turned around and trudged back into town. I intended to get the car, but then I couldn't be bothered. There was something about the way they can't even spell freeze right that's always put me off these places. How much faith can you place in a company that can't even spell a monosyllable? So instead I went to the gas station and bought about six dollars'
worth of potato chips and candy bars, which I took back to my room and dumped on the bed. I lay there and pushed candy bars into my face, like logs into a sawmill, watched some plotless piece of violent Hollywood excrescence on HBO, and then slept another fitful night, lying in the dark, full and yet unsatisfied, staring at the ceiling and listening to the Shriners across the street and to the ceaseless bleating of my stomach: 'Hey, what is all this crap in here? It's nothing but chocolate. This is disgusting. I want some real food. I want steak and mashed potatoes. Really, this is just too gross for words. I've a good mind to send this all back. I'm serious, you'd better go and stand by the toilet because this is coming straight back up in a minute. Are you listening to me, butt- face?'
And so it went all night long. God, I hate my stomach.
I awoke early and peeked, shivering, through a gap in the curtains. It was a drizzly Sunday dawn.
Not a soul was about. This would be an excellent time to firebomb the restaurant. I made a mental note to pack gelignite the next time I came to Wyoming. And sandwiches. Switching on the TV, I slipped back into bed and pulled the covers up to just below my eyeballs. Jimmy Swaggart was still appealing for forgiveness. Goodness me, but that man can cry. He is a human waterfall. I watched for a while, but then got up and changed the channel. On all the other channels it was just more evangelists, usually with their dumpy wives sitting at their sides. You could see why they all went out for sex. Generally, the program would also feature the evangelist's son-in-law, a graduate of the Pat Boone school of grooming, who would sing a song with a title like 'You've Got A Friend in Jesus And Please Send Us Lots of Money.' There can be few experiences more dispiriting than to lie alone in a darkened motel
