The Wrong Place for Lunch

PLATTSMOUTH, Nebraska—It was hunger that lured us off the highway and into the Twilight Zone.

After exiting Kansas, we found ourselves in Nebraska and a state of immediate unease. Previous encounters in The Cornhusker State had placed the region on our least favorite list, but hunger pangs after a delayed start to our travels lured us like a siren's song into Plattsmouth—home to Mom's Café, ostensibly a purveyor of decent road food, according to at least one travel guide. Against my better judgment, I steered toward Plattsmouth's "Historic Main Street." We joined a cavalcade of highway traffic that had been diverted onto the narrow quarter mile of what at one time must have been a proud center of commerce in the nascent days of Plattsmouth history.

Plattsmounth, Nebraska, Main Street

We got out of the car and stretched our legs. My lingering knee injury had rendered me stiff and hobbled, and the swelling from the bee sting in my eye had become serious enough to blur my vision. Upon exiting the vehicle, we were overwhelmed by the sounds of Doris Day blaring out of loudspeakers mounted on every refurbished retro lamppost inhabiting the downtown district. Even stranger than the anachronistic tune itself, was the fact that every 30 seconds or so a semi-truck applying its Jake brakes would drown out the Les Brown band, despite the music's volume, which had been cranked up to the point of distortion.

"What is this place?" I shouted above the din, as Doris Day faded to Tommy Dorsey punctuated by staccato strains of tractor trailer speed control. Caroline shrugged and pointed down the street.

Mom's Café beckoned. It seemed a suitable refuge from the madness manifesting in front of our eyes. I hobbled down the street to the café to secure a table while Caroline secured the bikes. Although a steady stream of vehicles had been diverted onto the street, ours was the only one that had stopped. Storekeepers gathered at the entrances to their stores and pressed their noses to the glass, watching us hungrily without subtlety. A man hauling a long hose from his truck to the back entrance to the eatery informed me that Mom's closes up at 2 p.m. on Mondays, so I was out of luck.

Mushroom Rock in Kansas, which really has nothing to do with this story

I had to pee so bad that I was sporting wood. I clapped my hand over my crotch and spun around in place so I could hightail it back to the car. I was almost run down by a semi as I crossed the street. I was certain that every person in Plattsmouth was evaluating my stiffee as I danced in place waiting for the truck to pass, hoping that my old prostate hadn't lost pee-arresting powers. I realized I wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. My eyes darted back and forth and my brain registered the word BAR. I jogged for the wooden front door despite the protests from my knees.

"Can I use your restroom Mr.? Please?"

The man behind the bar used a voice box to answer in the affirmative. Then he picked up his cigarette and turned toward the television. I hustled into the water closet.

Although the bathroom was as cleaner than any I've ever seen during years of travel, the smell of urine was overpowering—as if every generation of Plattsmouth men from the year 1896 forward had peed on the floor daily and the wallboard had stepped in to soak up the mess. I gagged. I finished my business and shook extra carefully to ensure that none of my urine would mix with the angry ghost urine that was haunting the place.

The bartender offered me several suggestions about where to eat with his fuzzy Mr. Roboto voice. We decided to try the restaurant at the historic hotel up the street. Other than a family of plump misfits with dirty hands and angry scowls, we were the only customers. Our waitress was pretty and blonde and couldn't have been more than 20 years old. We overheard her tell the other table that she and her husband had divorced and the she had stopped allowing her kids to visit him because they were not being fed during the previous visits. I searched my memory to match the waitress's face with one of the featured kids on MTV's hit reality series, "Teen Mom." I didn't recognize her as one of the regular cast members.

Strangely enough, Caroline's reuben sandwich was the best she'd ever eaten—a life-changing experience, the pretty waitress had said—but we were distracted by the parade of trucks outside and the endless selection of down-and-out country music hits blaring inside. We left a generous tip and stepped back out onto the diesel-scented street, where Louis Armstrong was saying to himself, "What a Wonderful World."

Our route out of town led us across the Missouri River by way of a toll bridge, a final Nebraska insult. I hadn't seen a toll booth in years, and for all we knew, a family of hobos had taken up residence inside an old Tough Shed at the end of the bridge and had come up with an innovative plan for securing some Fourth of July drinkin' money. But when we arrived at the booth, the guy in front of the shack was wearing a safety vest, so I figured everything was on the level. I paid the man at the toll booth the buck and a quarter he demanded.

"Do I get a gumball or something?" I asked as I plopped my money into his hand.

Later that night we ate at Happy Chef in Mankato, Minnesota

"Come on out of there and I'll give you something," he said, pantomiming a kick to my nuts.

On the other side of the bridge we were in Iowa. The birds were chirping and motorists were smiling once again. We turned on the radio and it was playing Rock 'n' Roll music. Good Rock 'n' Roll music. We were free of Nebraska once again!

See you on down the road.