George

It has come to my attention that Midwesterners don’t know how to behave themselves in certain situations. We always complain that no one famous comes to Kansas, but every time they do I see people acting foolish, trashy, or down right disrespectful. It’s as if we get so excited to have someone here to entertain us we forget all about our sense of decency and manners. There have been a few instances in the last few months that have really made me scratch my head.

David Cross came to Midland Theater in Kansas City last month to do standup. We were less than 30 minutes into the show when the performer made an all too familiar mistake: he commented on how excited he was to be in Kansas City, Kan. Well, you can probably guess what happened next – something that I’ve seen happen on numerous occasions. The audience huffed and guffawed and replied in unison: “This isn’t Kansas it’s Missouri!”

And I let out a sigh, disappointed that we couldn’t go more than one evening without bringing up this issue. Like an inside joke that spans two states, we continue to debate the boundaries of this specific city for reasons beyond my comprehension. While it is apparently endlessly fascinating for those living in Kansas and Missouri, it holds little interest to those just traveling through.

For most performers, knowing where Kansas ends and Missouri begins ranks in importance somewhere between knowing the state bird of Delaware and the current superintendent of their old high school. Just because it’s fun for us to talk about it does not mean we should bring it up in public. I have issues with the whole thing –  why don’t we just take that land from Missouri or let them rename that section “Missouri City”? Although it’s a trifling matter, I find it annoying that we can’t even name our cities properly. Anyway, the end result is that performers walk away believing Midwesterners are quaint, simple folk, who enjoy spending their time squabbling over slight details.

Quaint isn’t that bad though. I could live with quaint. I want to fight the ideas that we are trashy slobs.  And it’s not going well. In August, the theater I work for in Emporia held a country music concert, bringing in two semi-well known musicians to perform.    Now let me say right off the bat that this theater is a piece of history, recently restored and reopened. Built during the 1930s, it inspires ideas of the good old days when “going out” was actually an occasion, worthy of getting dressed up and putting on your best manners. Well it’s obvious that society does not hold to that idea much these days.

I was thoroughly grossed out by the actions of some of the audience members that night. It started simply enough –  I was surprised at how much beer was being sold.  There was an ample bar available, full of a varied selection of liquors. But the audience wanted none of that: Coors and Coors Lights were selling like hotcakes. I personally delivered two buckets of Coors (16 in each) to a table of 3, before the show even started.           That’s fine, I thought, to each their own.

The real trouble started around 9 p.m., 30 minutes into the show. I was on trash duty, checking the men’s rooms, when I saw it. Well, I smelled it first; the overpowering stench of puke, booze and dinner. Someone had thrown up in a urinal.

Viewing the damage, I could tell two things immediately; 1. This man was very drunk. 2. He ate some kind of fish and potatoes combo for dinner. (OK, let’s talk about this guy: who shows up to a concert at a NATIONALLY REGISTERED HISTORIC SITE, gets drunk off of Coors by 9 p.m., and pukes in a urinal?).

I cleaned up the mess, and reentered the concert, silently scouring the audience for the culprit. It was like one of those murder mystery dinners –  the guilty person is there, but he’s blended in with the rest of the crowd. I went about my duties for another hour or so until my boss pulled me aside.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “But there’s been another accident.” She showed me on the carpet near the lobby where the pile was still steaming. “We don’t know who did it, or if it was the same guy as before.” But I knew. I recognized that stingy smell of potatoes and beer.  He had struck again.

Cleaning up puke on carpet is never easy, especially when it’s dark and loud and very smelly. I swept up as much as I could and was on my way to get the mop when I ran into my coworker, a fellow janitor.

“I’m sorry man, I can’t believe he threw up again.” He said, with a slight smile on his face. “It’s okay, I got it cleaned up.” I replied. His smile grew wider, and we both realized he knew something I didn’t. Something in his grin told me I should probably check the men’s room again. Before I even reached the urinal I could tell by the stench that the Puker had returned to the scene of the crime. While I was busy cleaning up his second mess, he had ventured back into the bathroom, puked on the SAME urinal, and left. “How much fish does he have left in him?” I wondered as I retrieved my bucket and gloves for the third time that night.

Luckily, this story has a happy ending. As I was cleaning the bathroom the Puker was identified by one of the security guards and was escorted out of the theater. It turns out he didn’t even bother cleaning off his shirt the last time around, so it was kind of a dead give away. I entered the lobby just in time to see him and his rather embarrassed girlfriend being led out the door.

You think I’m being too harsh on my fellow Midwesterners. Maybe I am. I just want the rest of the country to start taking us more seriously, and for musicians and performers to think we are worth their time when out touring. But if we keep acting like this, it makes it hard for me to plead my case. I’m not saying we have to act fancier or smarter than we really are. I know that we can be respectable; we just don’t always go to the trouble. So the next time you go out just remember you aren’t just representing yourself, you’re representing your whole region. And please, stay away from the fish and potato dinner.

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