Why Buc-ee’s Brings Me Down
It’s not the end of the world, but it sure looks like a warning sign
I ventured into a Buc-ee’s for the first time recently. It was bustling with men, women and children who looked as delighted as if they were about to ride Dumbo at Walt Disney World.
Me? I used one of Buc-ee’s celebrated clean restrooms and hustled back to my car — depressed.
For those who’ve not heard of Buc-ee’s, much less patronized one, it’s a growing, Texas-based chain of service stations, although that old-fashioned designation is rather like calling the Louvre an art gallery.
Buc-ee’s stations sell gas — Lordy, do they sell gas — but the service aspect goes way, way beyond the peanuts and soft drinks of old-time, two-pump “filling” stations or even modern iterations like Quik Trip or Race Trac that dispense a dozen frozen yogurt flavors and have hotdogs by the hundreds spinning on rotisseries.
I think of Buc-ee’s as “inconvenience” stores. If you go inside, whether it’s to pee or buy a Coke, you aren’t likely to get out quickly or without dropping an unplanned $20. Or more. Buc-ee’s will swallow you. It’s like the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland, but with florescent lighting.
