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where the most prosperous-looking truck stops were gathered, forming an oasis of bright-
ness in the pinkish dusk.
I went into what looked to be the best of them, the 4-Way Cafe, which I gather took its
name from the fact that it consisted of a gift shop, restaurant, casino and bar. The casino
was small, just a room with a couple of dozen slot machines, mostly nickel ones, and the
gift shop was about the size of a closet. The cafe was crowded and dense with smoke and
chatter. Steel-guitar music drifted out of the jukebox. I was the only person in the room
who didn't have a cowboy hat on, apart from a couple of the women.
Itwasabsolutely,inmyopinion,theworstfoodIhaveeverhadinAmerica,atanytime,un-
der any circumstances, and that includes hospital food, gas station food and airport coffee
shopfood.ItevenincludesGreyhoundbusstationfoodandWoolworth'sluncheoncounter
food. It was even worse than the pastries they used to put in the food dispensing machines
at the Register and Tribune Building in Des Moines and those tasted like somebody had
been sick on them. This food was just plain terrible, and yet everybody in the room was
shovelingitawayasiftherewerenotomorrow.Ipickedatitforawhile-bristlyfriedchick-
en, lettuce with blackened veins, french fries that had the appearance and appeal of albino
slugs-andgaveup,despondent.IpushedtheplateawayandwishedthatIstillsmoked.The
waitress, seeing how much I had left, asked me if I wanted a doggy bag.
“No thank you,” I said through a thin smile, “I don't believe I could find a dog that would
eat it.”
On reflection, I can think of one eating experience even more dispiriting than dining at the
4-Way Cafe and that was the lunchroom at Callanan Junior High School in Des Moines.
The lunchroom at Callanan was like something out of a prison movie. You would shuffle
forward in a long, silent line and have lumpen, shapeless food dolloped onto your tray by
lumpen,shapelesswomen-womenwholookedasiftheywereondayreleasefromamental
institution, possibly forhaving poisoned foodinpublic places. The foodwasn'tmerely un-
appealing, it was unidentifiable. Adding to the displeasure was the presence of the deputy
principal, Mr. Snoyd, who was always stalking around behind you, ready to grab you by
the neck and march you off to his office if you made gagging noises or were overheard in-
quiring of the person across from you, “Say, what is this shit?” Eating at Callanan was like
having your stomach pumped in reverse.
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