Hi all, this is a story some of you might remember from a few years ago. Running it back during summer travel season while I’m on the road. Take care - AK.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the gas station abomination known as Buc-ee’s, I strongly suggest that you keep it that way.
I didn’t know anything about it until June 29, 2023, and henceforth, my life will be divided into my salad days when I was blissfully blind to Buc-ee’s, and the aftertimes. It’s much, much darker on this side of the veil.
My family was on a trip from Florida to North Carolina when the children spotted the cute Buc-ee’s beaver billboards along I-95. They proceeded to harass me relentlessly until I swerved onto the exit ramp about 75 miles after we saw the first advertisement. Why not? How bad could it be?
Oh, how naïve I was.
The first thing you notice when you pull into Buc-ee’s is there are about 700 gas pumps. There may or may not be a sign that says, “Welcome to the Global Warming Capital of the World: Brisket Inside.” Despite the seemingly endless row of pumps, we still had to circle two or three times to find a spot. Apparently, other people have heard of this place?
I don’t know what I was expecting as we walked inside the store, possibly a very large Wawa. That’s not what I got. The kids stopped to take a picture with the big bronze beaver statue that was reflecting the blazing sun with a vengeance. Then, the automatic glass doors peeled open to reveal… a mass of humanity, a million American flags, and brisket as far as the eye could see.
My attention went everywhere all at once, like a beaver presented with a lifetime supply of logs. There were piles and piles of home décor items emblazoned with Old Glory, t-shirts, souvenirs, a literal truck filled with Buc-ee’s beaver plushies of all sizes (we bought three), seventeen brisket stations, a night club, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, snacks, a live petting zoo, and thousands of Buc-ee’s employees walking around wearing toy-like cowboy hats.
We wandered around the store for several minutes or possibly several days. Once you enter Buc-ee’s time ceases to exist. It’s a bit like that enchanted casino in the Percy Jackson books. I swear I heard one guy with big hair wearing a velour tracksuit say, “I guess I should head out so I can vote for Walter Mondale.”
My children stopped to take photos with the beaver truck. You might think the beaver truck is a figment of my punchdrunk, possibly enchanted imagination or a weird euphemism, but it’s not. It’s a literal beaver truck.
While the children had the time of their lives perusing the widest variety of tacky items ever assembled under one roof, I spent the rest of the visit trying to avoid touching anyone. This turned out to be more difficult than expected because of the ridiculous crowds. And let me tell you, when people get hyped up on brisket and beaver paraphernalia, they completely lose their skulls and sense of balance. I was jostled so many times while trying to squeeze between displays of candy and down comforters embroidered with messages that seemed vaguely racist somehow that I felt like I was in the mosh pit of a hard rock concert.
I eventually sought refuge in the iced coffee department which was reasonably well outfitted. So that the visit wouldn’t be a total loss, I filled up a cup with coffee and a splash of creamer while a store employee hovered nearby. I feared that she was going to offer to stir my coffee for me since she didn’t seem to have anything else to do, but luckily someone spilled a 70-ounce cup of soda all over the floor and I was able to escape amidst the distraction.
In the end, we were lucky to escape with our lives, three Buc-ee’s beaver plushies, and one iced coffee for $62.99.
I left feeling like I walked up to the mouth of hell, had a look inside, and was somehow allowed to turn back. The only real downside was I had to leave my soul behind with the beaver for safekeeping. That’s the only way he would let my body walk free without gnawing off my legs with his gigantic front teeth.
I think it was a fair price to pay.
Words by me, Andrew Knott. Best known for duck… and Baby-sitters Club.
My books:
Love’s a Disaster - contemporary fiction about a marriage proposal gone wrong, complicated families, mini-golf, second-chance love, Florida, sword fighting, and punk rock music.
Fatherhood: Dispatches From the Early Years - essays and humor about the very early years of my parenting journey
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.