Road Signs

In my exploration of past journal entries, I found one about a trip I made to Arizona to find a house to buy. This was in 1994, only a few months before we would finally get our New York house sold and we could escape from spring and winter woes in Upstate New York to find refuge in sunny Arizona.

Along the way on Highway 40 (what was once called Route 66), I noted some amusing signs. Just west of Kansas City, a sign beckoned me to stop for a drink or two at a bar called Shenanigan’s. Clever.

Then, at fifty-mile intervals through Oklahoma, big signs warning “Do not drive into smoke.” Now what do you suppose that means? Does Oklahoma have smoke problems peculiar only to Oklahoma, or is it simply a warning to Oklahomans (who must be related to Pennsylvanians) not to do what no one else would do even without the warning? Strange.

A sign in western Oklahoma warned me not to pick anyone up because “Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates.” Whoa, now that’s an effective deterrent. They don’t tell us not to pick anyone up, just that whoever we do decide to pick up may be a knife-wielding, babbling, bloodthirsty psycho who's  just escaped from some prison or asylum. No way in hell I’m picking anyone up with that image in mind.

I saw a bumper sticker on a pickup, “Old truckers never die—they just get a new Peterbilt.”

At a restroom stop in the middle of the Texas Panhandle, in the spirit of the old Burma Shave signs, graffiti on a stall wall: “Here I sit, / Cheeks a-flexin’, / Givin’ birth / To another Texan.” I’m guessing the poet must have been a disgruntled (pun intended) Oklahoman.

And last but not least (certainly not least), a sign for a steak house called Big Texan that claims to serve the best steak in Texas, and has a standing offer of a FREE! meal involving a 72-ounce steak “if eaten in an hour.” Double whoa!! It’s not just the monumental size that astounds me; it’s the very nature of the offer. Picture this: a big meat-eater (and I mean a really big meat-eater, like a grizzly bear or a saber-tooth tiger) takes them up on the challenge. Would there be an official standing by with a stopwatch to keep track of the time? And what if, as Mr. Bear or Mr. Tiger is finishing his steak, the official says, "Sorry, Time's up. You lose." Or “Nope, you left a little on the bone. No deal.” Would Mr. Bear or Mr. Tiger be presented with a bill for $172.36 to pay for a meal involving a four-and-a-half pound steak? I’m not sure I’d want to be the one who gives that check to anyone big enough to take the challenge in the first place. Another thought struck me: this could hardly be called a meal since no one in his right mind would try to consume this steak as well as all that went with it—the salad, potato, veggies, and rolls. This deal puts a whole new spin on gluttony. Maybe they should also tie his hands behind his back and make him eat it like they do in a pie-eating contest. Just pitch forward and start chomping, jowls bloody, juices dripping down chin and neck. “Arrrggghh!” as the old pirate would say, “Now that’s a real man’s meal!”