The Gas Station Vice

I have a vice.   I know, it’s hard to believe that I have any imperfections, but I am openly admitting to you that it is true. I suffer from an addiction that a vast majority of the United States shares.  I drink gas station coffee. I eat gas station snacks. When the time is right, I indulge in pre-packaged slave-labored brightly-labeled goodness.  I love it.   But I assure you, there is a reason for my madness.

The coffee shop I work at prides itself on being one of the best.  We toot the horns of direct trade and organic farming, and value the effort that it takes to pick each individual bean and roast it to perfection–only to grind it and then cascade hot water through the grounds with precision and grace.  At Pilot Travel Center, I don’t have to think about any of that.  I become one with the masses and pour into my 16-ounce styrofoam cup without any reservations. I take sheer pleasure in putting aside my esteemed coffee expertise and submitting myself to the burnt watery acids that trickle down my throat. If I had frat brothers, they would raise me on their shoulders and cheer as I drank a coffee keg.  I’m confident and proud of my gas station coffee.

I remember my first cup of gas station coffee.  I was driving all the way from northern Wisconsin to Columbus, Ohio, it was very late, and I was very tired.  My eyes were straining from the continuous oncoming headlights and the thought of staying in any motel by myself gave me the creeps. I had no more oranges to eat, and my CD’s were getting boring.  Then it dawned on me, “caffeine!” I had only ever drank a few cups of coffee in my life, and the drug was still dreadfully foreign to my body; a 20-ouncer from BP would surely do the trick!  Ah, the beginning of a beautiful love affair.

Now, I have been following a vegan lifestyle for nearly eight years.  I may break down for gas station coffee, but I completely refuse to touch any of the so-called “food” that lurches inside the walls of convenience centers; donuts and hot dogs just freak me out no matter where they are.  But I always go for pretzels.  Snyder’s–not Rold Gold.  It’s the closest I get to junk food, and it absolutely must happen with my coffee. Don’t ask why, because I have no idea.  Besides their slightly salty, extra crunchy, extremely satisfying ability to fulfill my caffeine munchies and dissolve the taste of bad black coffee lingering in my mouth.

All this being said, I’m nervous about giving the impression of constantly counting down the minutes until I can hop in my car and race to the nearest BP, Mobile, or Pilot, beads of sweat forming all over until I take a sip. Nor am I physically addicted to caffeine.  No way!  Gas station coffee is an indulgence, a genuine guilty pleasure, that I treat myself to while driving hundreds of miles on highways. Some people turn to donuts, some to a McFish Fillet sandwich, and others to an entire package of Oreos.  When I’m tired, perhaps stressed, and about to face 10 hours of open roads and intimidating life-reflection, I turn to shitty coffee and pre-packaged pretzels.  In a life of striving for perfection, there is something very grounding about enjoying the most absolute low-grade version of a certain product.  There is humility in agreeing to join the populations of average people.  There is perfection in the most imperfect things.

So there.  I said it.  I’m just like the rest of America.