This is Roadhouse

I work in a restaurant in Iowa City. It’s a good restaurant, and my co-workers are good people. Every so often, one of them says something that really stands out to me as funny, and worth writing about.

Recently, our executive chef hit me with what can only be described as the greatest back-handed compliment of all-time, and I have been wanting to share it with everyone from the second he said it aloud.

To set the scene, I was putting away some dirty dishes a few nights ago, and I made some stupid, half-assed joke, as fellas do when they are on the job and looking to kill some time. Admittedly, the joke wasn’t my best work. It was lazy, and so unfunny that I completely forgot what I even said within a few seconds.

What followed though, was a line of pure genius, delivered from my boss in a solemn, mostly serious, and I’d even say disappointed tone. “Kyle, you would fit right in at a Texas Roadhouse,” announced my superior. I cackled, and I am going to explain why.

Do I have anything against Texas Roadhouse? Do I think I am better than working at a Texas Roadhouse? No and no. Roadhouse, while tacky, and more often than not, filthy, never really disappoints. It’s a chain steakhouse, and to be blunt, a modern-day cult, that I’d be happy to join. Why you ask? I grew up a “Roadie,” if you will. I loved Roadhouse. We had one in my town, right next to Culver’s and Boot Barn (the Holy Trinity), and right off the interstate, allowing for easy access. It’s only now that I work as a server that I see Roadhouse for what it is, and why I found this joke to be so funny. Roadhouse, is, as I stated previously, nothing more than a cult.

Now, if you push back at the “cult” line, I challenge you to be more vigilant next time you eat at your local Roadhouse. I challenge you to watch the staff as they stumble back onto the floor for the 5th time since you sat down to do their same bullshit song and dance, while they stomp on cracked peanut shells, and their customers (you) suffocate themselves (yourself) in the cinnamon buttered rolls (that are complementary upon seating). I beg you to look into their eyes, and tell me if their free will brought them into work that night. I’d argue that wasn’t driving the factor. They’re there, because Roadhouse is bigger than them. It’s bigger than all of us. All cults operate in this way. It’s not about individuals, but rather an experience being shared by many.

And Roadhouse is, if nothing else, an experience. In fact, you could argue that it is the perfect encapsulation of the American experience as we live in it right now. It’s about working all week, to blow a whole day’s paycheck on frozen rattlesnake bites they dropped in a deep fryer, and a loaded baked potato that’s gonna shave years off your fuckin' life. And I’d bet there’s a better-than-not chance you lied to yourself when you sat down about “ordering the side salad this time,” instead of that coveted, loaded baked potato. But the truth is, you have no backbone when it comes to Roadhouse. Roadhouse is stronger than you. You are helpless in its grasp.

And why are you so weak? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re already at Roadhouse, and you can’t break the rituals that come with this cult. Still lost? How about an analogy. Nobody goes to the strip club after work because the drink deals are great. You're there because you're a savage, and probably fighting a losing battle with a demon or two. And you don’t leave that strip club without throwing that same shitty pick-up line out at that same, uninterested dancer for the third straight week. You don't break that tradition, and Roadhouse is no different.

And you know what? There is something beautiful about that experience (Roadhouse, not the strip club for happy hour on a Tuesday.) There’s something beautiful about a toddler screaming because he’s starving, and it’s been like two God damned hours since his family sat down, but their waitress hasn’t been back because she’s line dancing again.

It’s powerful, watching that little 17 year-old pothead mope around. She hates it there. She wishes she took the job at Longhorn that her cousin promised she would get her. The family with the screaming kid isn’t doing much better btw. Their disgruntled dad is already regretting not only coming to this dinner, but even getting married in the first place.There is no light at the end of this tunnel.

Unless there is? What could save everyone from these depths of hell they’ve fallen into? What if I could be the manager that comes up for my nightly table touches, with sweat drenching my shirt, and a bluetooth earpiece half-in, half-out of my ear, asking that dad how his experience is going. Because if even a whisper of negativity comes out of his mouth, I’d crank our God-forsaken theme song up (you know the one) and I’d offer him some free potato skins for his trouble, before slamming that fucking wooden saddle down in front of his thankless, shit kid, and telling my soulless waiters to cut the bullshit line dancing, and throw that kid up on his saddle. Because that little asshole is a cowboy, and this is Roadhouse.