What A Country! (Or Evan's Missouri Compromise Short Story That Could Be A lot Better)

St. Louis was a pit stop. We nearly wanted to refill our tank before getting on the road. The majesty of the gateway arch was inspiring, but it didn’t exactly compel anyone to kick the shoes off their feet and stay awhile.  Rather it’s imposing figure spake unto us and said, “Ignore our Anheuser-Busch brewery and the Bowling Hall of Fame and keep going west young man. You wouldn’t stop just inside the pearly gates of heaven and just hang out there for eternity.  No, you’d want to see what lies beyond.  There’s an entire Western United States out there.  If we’re going to let you through that door at least make it past the foyer.”

Truth be told, we hadn’t planned on going much further than the foyer. Our sights were stubbornly trained on the “Live Entertainment Capital of The World,” none other than Branson, Missouri. 

It wasn’t the wholesome family atmosphere that drew the axles of our 1998 Honda Civic into Branson’s gravitational pull, but the comic stylings of one man who many years before had instilled in us that the land of the free and the home of the brave was the most wonderful place on earth.

“What a country!” was a familiar refrain as we transported ourselves from the liberal elite mecca of Brooklyn, NY into temporary and quite mobile residents of the American frontier.  Like those that came before us enduring hardship as they trekked through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois; we were quite eager to see what Missouri had to show us. 

Fifteen hours on the road would have been thirteen, if it weren’t for whimsical stops in Allentown to listen to a Billy Joel song and Punxsutawney to attempt to smoke a Groundhog out of it’s hole.  We planned on spending the night that on our return trip to see if failing to order Sweet Vermouth on the rocks with a twist would have us stuck there forever.

We drove clean across the central portion of the state of Ohio without encountering anything of interest unless you count the college town of Columbus.  Had one of us been big ten graduates we might have been compelled to get off the interstate and badger some Buckeye fans, but for us east coast educated types, we were above such tomfoolery. Well, not above such tomfoolery, it was just a different sort of tomfoolery that motivated us.  It was pure tomfoolery that motivated our travels, just not the type that could be categorized as “antagonistic.”

Our final stop before setting foot in the Show-Me state was a brief one. I had always wondered whether or not Indianapolis had a food specialty. I’m not sure why I thought it would.  It’s just seemed like that sort of place. Buffalo has it’s wings, everyone in San Francisco seems to love garlic.  I imagined Indiana having possum fingers or something odd.  We arrived at the city limits to a sign noting we were at “The Crossroads of America.” I imagined that it was the crossroads of American cuisine as well.  Maybe there’d be a hybrid hot dog hamburger donut milkshake or something, but as we pulled over at what looked to be the first busy city street we encountered that was peppered with Hoosiers.  We made a quizzical and obnoxious inquiry from our car window to the crowd, somewhere along the lines of “What’s so great about Indianapolis?” 

Joe, who had been driving for the last three and a half hours and took comfort in being behind the wheel since he had only been involved in traffic accidents with others in control, quickly grew tired of boredom induced case of travel hysteria and got back on the highway before we were able to reach a satisfactory conclusion, brought on by a more sensible line of questioning.  He forged ahead content to make good time to the Missouri border.   

15 hours to St. Louis was right on target with our mapquest estimate.  Down the stretch we went to Branson. A restless bunch ready for a nap outside of a moving vehicle, but just as ready to take in premium comedic entertainment from the brilliant mind of one Yakov Smirnoff. 

Having fond recollections of his anecdotes of reversal about how in Soviet Russia bread waits for you, I was extremely curious as to what this laughter legend was making yokes about since the fall of Communism and what it’s appeal was to middle America. 

After witnessing a brief piece on his success on Entertainment Tonight several years back, I had talked up this cross-country expedition for years, but was met with little positive reaction and mostly blank stares.  I had somehow managed to hastily rustle up a Branson posse on the spur of the moment for a President’s day weekend. And now our posse was nearing it’s destination. 

It was nearing 5pm when we rolled into town bleary-eyed and starving.  Our first order of business though prior to crashing our hotel, was to pick up some tickets to Smirnoff’s show.  We found our way to the town’s main ticket office.  When we got there we were in for the shock of our life.  Yakov Smirnoff’s show only ran from April to December.  Being February, we either had to spend another two months in Branson or go see another show. 

Having heard our predicament the box office attendant was moved to assist us any way she could…and really the only way she was authorized to.  She gave us 4 comp tickets to Take It To The Limit A Tribute To The Eagles. 

In accordance with everyone in our group’s hatred of The Eagles, we got back in the car and drove four hours the other direction towards St. Louis.  We may have missed out on Yakov Smirnoff, but the Bowling Hall of Fame ended up being no gutterball.

What a country!