“There’s a Buc-ee’s about twenty minutes up the road.”
I swear I can’t tell anymore if this man is just trying to test me or if he really thinks Buc-ee’s is the kind of haute cuisine I actually want to eat right now.
“What about the fact that I was in the middle of blending a green smoothie makes you think there’s anything at Buc-ee’s I would possibly want to put into my body?”
He leans in, his nose about half an inch from my cheek. “Ooh, aren’t we fancy? This isn’t about nourishment, dumbass. It’s about making sure you have enough calories not to take my head off.”
I turn and we almost bump noses. I know it’s a test, so I maintain my position. “You’re calling me a dumbass? That’s rich coming from the guy who nearly ruined an op because you had to pause and make a joke while that shitty politician nearly got away.”
“How was I supposed to know he was a marathon runner?”
“It was in his bio.”
“Nobody reads those.”
“Everybody reads those. Except you, apparently.”
“I caught him, didn’t I? When I fuck up, I make it right. Hopefully. Most of the time.”
The empty road opens into another straightaway, and I turn to find him looking at me intently, his expression open. I allow myself a smile and roll my eyes upward before turning back to the road.
“I suppose you do.”
“Shukran,” he says, touching his heart. Thank you.
“Afwan,” I respond, repeating the gesture. You’re welcome.
We ride for a few minutes in silence, until my desperate and empty stomach grumbles in protest.
“Buc-ee’s, dude.”
“Certainly there’s something out here that isn’t the equivalent of two years off my life.”
Anders taps his tricked-out Apple Watch. “It’s ten thirty and we’re headed to East Texas. I can assure you there’s nothing open that isn’t a heart attack on a plate. And Buc-ee’s has salads. I mean, they’ll be six hours old and wilting, but they do have some green things. It’s also the halfway point, and I need to pee.”
Fine. And now that he’s said something, I have to go, too.
About fifteen minutes later, we pull into the giant, brightly lit monstrosity that is a Buc-ee’s travel center. It’s the size of two grocery stores and has at least fifty gas pumps. Seriously, who needs this much gas station?
We pass a six-foot-tall brass statue of the Buc-ee’s beaver, and Anders insists on stopping to take a truly obscene selfie. I sneak a pic because his rapturous expression as he pretends to lick the beaver is funny as fuck and also a little bit of a turn-on.
I think better of it and delete it off my phone.
As we walk into the store, I’m reminded of the fact that there were lots of things that surprised me about America when I moved here as a traumatized eighteen-year-old. The shopping centers, the natural beauty, the kindness of people, the impertinent questions, the gigantic tubs of soda (which I realized later is because Americans put a ridiculous amount of ice in their sodas—why? That’s so weird). Over the ten years I’ve lived here, I’ve become more or less used to the eccentricities of the place.
Still, I was not prepared for Buc-ee’s. It’s a gas station convenience store on steroids. It’s Walmart and the Flying J mixed together. It wouldn’t shock me if I could adopt a puppy from a section somewhere in the back. There’s a whole clothing section, a whole cooking section, and a junk food section the size of a school cafeteria. Not even kidding.
That said, it has the cleanest restrooms I’ve ever seen. As a self-admitted neat freak, I admire the dedication. After using the facilities—during which time he continues to sing off-key—Anders and I go in separate directions. Me toward something approaching healthy and him toward a diabetic coma.
After several minutes spent wandering through the beaver-themed gift area, a clear plastic bag of something sugary smacks the side of my head. I glare at Anders and pick the bag up off the pristine floor.
“What the hell is this?”
“Beaver Nuggets.”
I bite back a laugh, if only because I refuse to let him win this round.
“I don’t have anything to do with beavers,” I say as solemnly as I possibly can.
