The Buccee’s turn off is well advertised by a billboard countdown lining the highway. It
starts with an optimistic “You can hold it, 104 miles.” And I do hold it. Even when I start
squirming to find a position to adequately hold it while still managing to keep a sufficient touch
on the gas. But it' s all part of the build up -- as if I hadn’t already incessantly built up this stop to my best friend and road trip accomplice, Carson, all month. In our tour of the American South, I
was charged to present my great state of Texas.
Turning into the parking lot, Buccee’s greeted us with an expansive concrete field, an
industrial lattice of parking spots and gas pumps. But somehow it managed to be charming,
decked out in an obsessive yellow and red color scheme and the ubiquitous jolly, rotund, buck-
toothed beaver mascot. We natives reluctantly explain our Texas jewel as a gas station, but never
fail to add, “but it's so much more.” And it's this indescribable “so much more” that I anxiously waited for Carson to acknowledge. I acted casually and strained my peripheral vision to watch
her take in the majestic beast of a road stop. We passed through the automatic sliding doors to
enter the beaver emporium: me nervously silent, her obliviously silent. So much riding on this
encounter, like bringing your boyfriend to Thanksgiving for the first time. What would it say
about me if she didn’t like my Buccee’s jerky? What would it say about her? I needed Buccee’s
to perform; I needed the beef jerky to deliver.
Buccee’s has a curious way of making you feel both sorely out of place and immediately
accepted. Like a local voting station, you encounter the whole world but still know its your
rightful place. The staff is consistently welcoming, putting on the most genuine show. It always
starts with the token sweet-old-lady door greeter. She’s iconic, a staple carefully placed to
provide organic Southern hospitality. I painted on a casual grin so that Carson knew that this was all part of the plan. I led her confidently through the maze of beaver-endorsed products to the
pride of the establishment: the beef jerky counter.
When serving dried, intensely seasoned, shreds of smoked meat by the pound, one does
not focus on presentation. The product is protected behind an LED lit glass case and lies in metal
troughs padded with parchment paper. The whole display looks as though an initial effort for a
rustic vibe was displaced by a weighty focus on cleanliness. It feels like purchasing road snacks
from a full-on butcher (although the signs printed in yellow Comic Sans offer friendly
assistance).
The jerky guy immediately pegged us as visitors from our hesitation and slightly agape
mouths. I began to take offense -- I was so clearly not a Buccee’s virgin like my guest! -- but I
was distracted by a flannel-clad-trucker-hat true local. The exact type of man you would expect
to have a “usual” at a gas station jerky bar. He struck up conversation in the most perfectly Texas
way: asking briefly where we were from and where we were going before diving into an
encyclopedia of jerky taste and memories and occasions. I quietly added “consider Bohemian
Garlic bonfire nights a regular occurrence” to my bucket list. For these folks, jerky is a lifestyle.
We munched on our ice cream shop style samples while politely nodding. Mine barely passed
my lips as I searched my friend's face for signs of appreciation. I watched Carson enjoy every bite with the same mesmerized, vulnerable anticipation as I had watched her finally watch my favorite movie on our dorm room Craigslist TV.
In true Southern style, the staff at Buccee’s understood they knew what was best for us.
The man behind the counter asked us how much we wanted, a formality. He accurately deduced
that we were unsure how to gauge the serving size of dried meat without the friendly guidelines offered up by trusty nutrition labels. He didn’t wait for us to answer and began to load up a
parchment paper burrito of various flavors.
I let her wander through the megaplex to truly cement the experience. And my beloved
Buccee’s performed perfectly. The staff was over-friendly without seeming unctuous, a delicate
balance perfectly executed. I bought her a few souvenirs just to ensure the experience could be
memorialized forever as an enlightenment on her part. We reloaded the car to dig in to our
purchase.
The teen-romance author John Green once narrated, “I fell in love the way you fall
asleep; slowly, and then all at once.” I would describe eating jerky in this same way. At first just
a few bites, optimistically closing the packaging each time to encourage your will-power. But
after a few too many re-openings, you give up and begin the devouring process. I still watched
Carson with every bite; my jerky had to live up to the hype. I wondered what she tasted.
I wondered if she tasted the way the parchment paper package is passed around the full
Highlander on family road trips. The way I waited for the jerky to cycle back to me, fingers
crossed that I would not be passed an empty load next round. The way my family “shared” by
silently hoarding. The way we couldn’t quite decide if the five of us stuffed against over-packed
luggage was unbearable or a love-to-hate pleasure. The way losing a few bites of jerky to my
brother’s teenage football playing appetite was grudgingly worth it, worth the hours that we were
forced together when we couldn’t even regularly rally for family dinner.
I wondered if she tasted the way the jerky package would sit lonely in the passenger seat
on solo trips to visit my boyfriend. I wondered if she tasted the uncertainty with which I nibbled,
consistently unsure what would be greeting me in Austin. The first time I got in the car and
realized I didn’t need a map to the University of Texas anymore and wondered how to evaluate this ability. That jerky saw my hopeful pursuits and my sobbing returns. It seasoned my unwise
decisions, sometimes tasting like regret and sometimes tasting like relief – always fleeting. Hill
Country Turkey Jerky lost its taste altogether after it came to Austin as a gift but left as a gift
cautiously not given.
I wondered if she tasted the spontaneous road trips with my sister, in the golden moment
where we had the freedom to travel and the luxury of proximity. The way I could text her on a
Saturday morning, and we would be loaded up within the hour. The way we could giggle in the
car in a way regularly deemed unacceptably annoying at home. The photo shoot we took with the
copper Buccee’s sculpture even though it was dark. The way we wasted time in the aisles (we
really never had anywhere to be). The way she consistently broke her supposed vegetarian diet
for Trail Boss Hot & Spicy. The way sisters understand the unspoken role of the passenger to
feed the driver carefully crafted bite sized shreds.
I wondered if she tasted the car packed with high school girls and led by a thinly-
concealed-panicking driver. The way we all shared the jerky we had only tasted before with our
family. The way Turkey Teriyaki suddenly featured undertones of maturity and independence.
I wondered if she tasted how important our jerky snack is. If she realized the way it
would be archived, the way Buccee’s beef jerky commits an experience to memory. A jerky
reserved only for road trips, for the familiar and the first time, for the confident and the unsure.
As the dried beef entered her system, she entered the catalog, the jerky journals.
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