Random notes from the road…Missouri has fast drivers; I get sick from leaf tobacco & I think my motel is a brothel

Part nine...

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ST. LOUIS – The drive from Kansas City to St. Louis was most excellent! The posted speed limit is 70 but it could’ve been 95, because that’s how fast everyone was driving…including me! To my surprise, the good people of Missouri know how to drive at high rates of speed while being safe at the same time. They really should change the name of I-70 to the Ozark Autobahn or the Redneck Express. My GPS calculated the trip at exactly 4 hours but at this rate, I figured I could make it in 3 hrs and change. And that’s with one quick stop, too!

Time was flying, a compilation of ZZ Top, 38 Special and The Charlie Daniels Band blared from my radio, and I was calling everyone I could to brag about my awe-inspiring lunch at Gates BBQ. Normally my drive time is spent evoking baseball memories for the next stop but this was different, this was too fun. So much fun, actually, I decided it was time to start chewing leaf tobacco, just like baseball players.

Like a Formula One driver, I shot down the off ramp, made a quick right, and used both feet to brake as I reached my pit stop, a place called the Ozark Gift Shop. I jammed the fuel nozzle in my car, sprinted inside with great excitement, grabbed a Gatorade and asked for a package of Redman. The lady behind the counter looked at me like I was crazy and turned my two minute stop into an eternity.

Weird lady: “Ain’t sure we got that.”
Me: “Yes you do, I see it right there.” (I point to it)
WL: “Oh, that’s (mumble)”
Me: “That’s what I want.”
WL: “You sure ya want that?”
Me: “Yeah, I’m sure…why?”
WL: “’Cause that’s been here awhile.”
Me: “I don’t care.”
WL: “Sometimes it gets old if it sits too long.”
Me: “That’s perfectly fine. I’ll take my chances.”
WL “You got some identification?”
Me: “I’m 40 but sure.”
WL: “Don’t matter how old ya are, we card everybody.”
Me: “Fair enough, here you are.” (I hand her my license)
WL: “You from Arizona?”
Me: “Yes I am.”
WL: “You’re a long ways from home.”
Me: “Yes, I’m aware of that. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude but I’m kind of in a hurry.”
WL: “Watcha in a hurry for?”
Me: “Nothing.”
WL: “Then why the rush?”
Me: “The traffic…”
WL: “What ‘bout the traffic?”
Me: “I don’t want to miss out on the fast traffic.”
WL: “How’s that?”
Me: “I was making record time…traffic was really moving and I’m afraid it was a fluke. I just need to get back on the road.”
WL: “You know you can only be in the left lane to pass…you gotta stay in the right lane otherwise.”
Me: “Yes, I saw those signs, thank you.”
WL: (She studies my license like it’s a fake)
Me: “Is there a problem?”
WL: “Could be.”
Me: “What? What do you mean?”
WL: “This don’t expire ‘till 2033. Bill, ya know anything about Arizona license?” (She talks with her coworker)
Bill: “Sure don’t…why?”
WL: “This thing don’t expire ‘till 2033. We’ll all be dead by then.” (WL and Bill share a strange laugh)
Me: “That’s the way we do things in the desert.”
WL: “Hear it gets real hot down there.”
Me: “Yep.”
WL: “It’s a dry heat, right?”
Me: “Seriously, can we please wrap this up?”
WL: “You know you get a price break if you buy three Gatorades.”
Me: “Yes, the sign was very clear about that. I’m only interested in this bottle of Gatorade and the Redman.”
WL: “Saving money is saving money.”
Me: “(inaudible)”
WL: “That’ll be $6.59.”
Me: (Hand her my credit card which she carefully examines like an Inspector from Scotland Yard)
WL: (she hands me back my card and license) “You know this stuff will kill you?”
Me: “I know”
WL: “Then why you chewing it?”
Me: “I’m not too bright.”
WL: “Yep.”

Eight minutes later, I dashed from Deliverance II, jumped in my rig and stepped on the accelerator like a man possessed by delicious, leafy tobacco.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, I almost barfed in my car. Redman was a bad decision, even though it was carefully planned and well thought out. It had been nearly 25 years since I tried the stuff, back when I was playing baseball in high school, and as I tried to keep my lunch down, I remembered I actually did barf from it when I was fifteen.

After powering down my Gatorade, an aspirin and three Imodium, I recovered and set my sights back on the road and the Southern rock that seemed to be on every station. I was doing much better.

An hour later, the British babe from my GPS barked at me to “turn left, turn left, turn left,” as I passed my exit in North St. Louis. I told her to back off but she didn’t listen, she never does. “In 2 miles make a u-turn and exit the motorway,” she demanded. “Turn right, turn right, and destination on the right.” I complied and coasted to the lobby of the worst accommodations I have ever seen in my life.

My motel looked like a giant pile of cat vomit. I didn’t know anything about St. Louis and, as usual, I made my reservations on hotels.com the day prior to my arrival but this was a shock…even worse than the disgusting, leafy tobacco.

The first thing I noticed in the lobby was a sign posted on the bullet proof glass separating me from the clerk. The sign was clear: NO VISITORS AND NO GUESTS! I naturally asked the clerk why I couldn’t have any guests or visitors.

Me: “Um, why can’t I have a visitor or a guest over?”
Clerk: “No bring hookers here!”
Me: “Hookers?
Clerk: “Yeah, no bring hookers here!”
Me: “What in the hell are you talking about?!
Clerk: “You no bring hookers here!!!”
Me: “Listen Dude, do not yell at me or we’re going have a problem, and what kind of friggin’ place are you running here?!”
Clerk: “You no yell at me!”
Me: “(expletive)"
Clerk: “You got reservation!!!”
Me: “Unfortunately I do AND it’s nonrefundable, so I guess we’re stuck together.”
Clerk: “You only one key.”
Me: “Come again?”
Clerk: “You only one key and only you stay here.”
Me: “Believe me; I won’t be here very much.”
Clerk: “You no make loud noise. You be quite here!
Me: “Just give me the key, and I need 6:00 a.m. wakeup call.”
Clerk: “No wakeup call!”
Me: “Whatever, dude.”

The interior of the motel was dark and smelled like steamed cabbage, with the expectation of my room which smelled liked a dead rat. My room had a TV, a bed, rusty bathroom fixtures, and a second floor view of an abandoned movie theater. The other side of the motel had more of the same, with the addition of a boarded up roller-skating rink where the local hobos seemed to enjoy flopping. This place was a dive! There were shoes hanging from the power line in the parking lot, an indicator drugs were being sold from the property, and it’s never a complete train wreck without the mandatory crazy lady throwing her possessions in the dumpster and screaming something about someone being a (double expletive)…I had that, too.

There wasn’t anything redeeming about my current accommodation; this wasn’t the Palace Flophouse in Cannery Row. I wouldn’t be hanging out with Mack and the boys, sipping Old Tennis Shoe Whiskey and planning a surprise birthday party for Doc. Nope, this was skid row and the only thing I would be planning is my escape route in the event I was mugged by a pimp.

All eyes were on me as I walked through the lobby with my trusty 7 iron, my favorite choice of protection on the road. The clerk started to yell in my direction, probably something like “No golf clubs allowed!” but I breezed by him, turned the corner and made the long walk to my room.

I wasn’t going to let my poor due diligence sway my impression of St. Louis before I had an opportunity to see the city and stadium. After all, I did see the photos of the room the day before and I was pretty sure they were touched up with Photoshop…or of another property all together. And the $40.00 rate was simply too good to be true.

NEXT STOP: Busch Stadium (June 16, 2009)