Gas Stations

I find gas stations to be interesting places. Why, you ask? Well first of all, where else can you purchase a deep fried tortilla, frozen Mountain Dew, and petroleum all at one time? Exactly. Only at the gas station.

Now personally, I am a devout customer of Super America establishments. I think part of this is due to the influence of my father. My dad is perhaps the grand vizier of the SA philosophy of daytime eating, a position he has quite possibly held since time immemorial. By this, he starts out the day with a cup of delicious SA coffee (100% Colombian!), which he uses to wash down half of a Super Mom's old fashioned donut and part of a delectable prepackaged egg salad sandwich. As a child, I found this to be quite scarring. Why eat egg salad when you could have a double cheeseburger, dripping with grease and ketchup? Exactly. The most horrifying part of my dad's continuing obsession with Super America has to be the coffee mug. Something's gotta hold all that delicious 100% Colombian brew, right? My dad however, subscribes to the theory that since the mug's given purpose is to hold SA coffee, it never requires cleaning of any kind. Instead, he's content to let it become a seperate ecosystem.

For many years, I was terrified of this aspect of my dad's existence. Until the other day. That's when I realized something. I was driving back to Luther from a weekend spent at home, drinking a liberally sized cup of 100% Colombian Super America coffee, eating part of a SA donut, and fretting over the status of my Speedy Rewards card. If only I could accumulate one more hot beverage, the next one would be free! As the coffee sloshed down my throat, my eyes bulged with horror, my arms started shaking, and my heart palpitated precipitously, as I realized my fate. I started gasping for breath, the world around me started to go by in a blur, I could have sworn a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. Yes, I had begun the conversion. I was becoming as my father.

Upon reaching Rochester, I was drawn to the Super America on Circle Street as is a moth to light. My car almost drove itself. I stood drooling at the pump, swiping the gift card my mom had so generously donated to my poor college ass, watching as gallon after gallon cascaded into the tank of my Intrigue. Clutching my Speedy Rewards card, I crawled into the station. Isn't it sort of funny how you always see the same mix of people in a gas station? First of all, there is usually a man in jeans and a white racing T-shirt picking up a case of Busch Light. Typically, there is a guy (or girl) in a suit who is in a hurry to get out of there. They typically look repulsed by the gas stations denizens, especially that dude in the flannel standing next to him in line, clutching a fistful of condoms purchased from the bathroom. There's usually the person like myself, holding a 64 oz. mug of 100% Colombian coffee and a sack of donuts, eager to swipe their damn Speedy Rewards card and get back on the road for a few more hours before being inexplicably drawn to the next Super America to appear on the horizon. There are hockey moms dragging their kids. Emo high school kids buying Red Bull. All sorts of people. It's really quite the cross-section.

One thing I find very strange is "Shockwave" coffee. Essentially, it's coffee with added caffeine. First of all, what the hell is the point? It just seems like some sort of point is defeated. I don't understand. Plus, why would to drink "Shockwave" coffee when you could have delicious 100% Colombian coffee? I don't understand.

Ah yes, the gas station. Quintessential staple of the American experience. Bastion of the highway. Old guard of the car culture. So many things. Damn it, I could use a jumbo supply of 100% Colombian coffee right about now. I don't even know.