Service Is Better Than Ever … For Now

PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 2023

Having driven across the eastern half of the country four times this summer, I am pleased to report that, despite all the caterwauling to the contrary, the American service economy has never worked better. That said, unless we are vigilant, this golden age of convenience could quickly flip into an Orwellian age of submission.

I must add one major caveat about my trips: I have pioneered a route that can take me from Kansas City to the Atlantic Ocean without driving a single mile on either I-70 or I-80. The America I experience does not have a St. Louis, an Indianapolis, or a Columbus, let alone a Chicago. Cashill’s Razor: the farther you are from the center of the city, the better the service.

I am happy to leave the cities behind. On my most recent trip out, barely across the Kit Bond Bridge on I-35, a tractor trailer ran me off the road and broke my side-view mirror. I chased the driver down and got him to pull over. In this the age of convenience, smart phone in hand, I took photos of his truck, his license plate, and the broken mirror with the mug standing sheepishly next to it.

Using that same phone, I found the number for his company and called his boss. The boss proved to be an uncooperative jerk, but it only took me minutes to find that out. No longer needing to play nice, I sent the photos to the Highway Patrol and filed a report, again all within minutes. With every call, I surrendered some little of bit anonymity. I get that, but sometimes, it’s worth it.

At Cameron, I turn east on Missouri Highway 36. I’ve sung its praises before for the simple fact that driving on it is as effortless as riding a people mover at the new KCI—with the added advantage that the highway is never “shut down for service.”

A cell phone and an AAA card, of course, take a whole lot of the stress out of driving. As a 12-year-old, I remember the car breaking down on a family trip across the Tamiami Trail, then a lonely, two-lane road through the Florida Everglades. 

People had to be more resourceful then. So my father opened the hood—I’m not even sure I know where the latch is on mine—diagnosed the problem and started hitching a ride back to the nearest town. In time, a Seminole Indian pulled over in an ancient pick-up and offered my father a ride. 

My mother was convinced that the Seminole would rob and kill my father and feed his remains to the alligators. Happily, that was not part of the fellow’s game plan. About two hours later, my father came back via another hitch with fan belt in hand, and we were soon on our way.

This stage of our national evolution may not last forever, but we still have some choice as to how we live our lives. To that end, I choose as a destination on each trip, east or west, Hannibal, Mo., a town lost in time, a town where gas seems happily to be stuck at 2019 prices and mask mandates never made an appearance.

I eat at a joint appropriately named “Becky Thatcher Diner”—a name, alas, that has zero meaning to the cosseted “safe space” crowd, a collective that includes just about everyone under 50. Here, the waitresses (not servers) call you “darling,” and they don’t list calories on the menu. Nor do they take your credit card with hand-held gizmos that suggest a (high) range of tipping. Doesn’t matter. I always pay in cash.

What the diner does have is wifi. Since I read at lunch, this does matter. It still impresses me that my tablet remembers the password from my last trip and connects me unaided to the Becky Thatcher router. I know. Big Brother could be watching, but, you know.

Those who whine about the decline in our service economy have obviously never passed any time at a Love’s Travel Stop & Country Store. Headquartered in Oklahoma City, Love’s now has 510 locations in 41 states. 

If they let you, you could live in a Love’s. Literally. They have showers, washers and dryers, every brand of beef jerky known to man, and the cleanest rest rooms since the invention of trucks.

Heading east or west, I stop in the same Indiana town and stay at the same $75 a night motel. For 75 bucks, I get a queen-size bed, free wifi, a walk-in shower, and quiet air conditioning. In the aforementioned trip to Florida, we sought out motels with AC. As late as the 1960s, AC wasn’t the norm, even in the South. Motels that had it, bragged about it. 

The first time I stayed at this motel, I asked the desk guy what time breakfast began. He laughed, pointed to the McDonald’s across the street, and said, “Whatever time you get there.”

McDonald’s embodies the technological conundrum that faces us all. They are introducing self-service kiosks at the same time they are removing self-service soda fountains. McDonald’s tiptoes around the real reason for the removal of the fountains. My guess is that they don’t want people hanging around their stores. Having watched my share of “Girl Fight at McDonald’s” videos, I cannot say I blame them.

The kiosks are what worry me and fellow Luddites. It’s annoying that we kind of need a tutorial to operate one, but it’s just a little bit frightening that we absolutely need a credit card. 

For the sake of convenience, we have all made concessions to the surveillance state. But at this delicate moment in our nation’s history, we can still choose between the anonymity of cash and the self-reporting submission of credit. 

The question is: how long will this moment last?