Witness at the Altar of the Beaver: A Visit to the World’s Largest Buc-ee’s

by Hogan

A gleaming, turgid river of cars flows in one direction, toward the sign of the beaver: the face of Buc-ee raised above the fray as a North Star for pilgrims. The vaguely rodent-like creature’s eyes are unfocused and glazed in lobotomized giddiness, the muscles of his neck and cheeks strained into a peculiar rubber hose rictus, as though Felix the Cat was possessed by The Thing. Below his aloof gaze, the infrastructure required to house this vehicular Ganges is titanic. There are four lanes with a two-lane roundabout all set aside for the sole purpose of entering and leaving the Buc-ee’s parking lot, which is itself approximately the size of a European microstate. And yet, as I comb through this labyrinth for an open parking space, desperately urged on by a full bladder, I find no sanctuary.

Perhaps it should be no surprise that such a crowd gathers at this gasoline Mecca. For it is not just any Buc-ee’s: located right outside Seveirville, TN—the birthplace of Dolly Parton—it is a monument to the glory of the American highway, the world’s largest Buc-ee’s! At least for now, anyway. An even larger location is scheduled to open in the Sunshine State in 2025. The fascist dictator of Florida, Ron DeSantis, welcomes this development with open arms, describing Buc-ee’s as “the Shangri-La of service stations.” But for now, this location reigns supreme, and I have come out of a morbid curiosity to witness the colossus first-hand.

Finding myself stuck behind an RV that has inexplicably come to a standstill, I begin to feel around in the backseat for a water-tight container when a sedan to the left of my immobile captor pulls out of its space. As the sedan drives away, I see, horrified, that an over-sized F-150 is approaching, but I have waited too long to back down. As the Ford moves forward with the mighty inevitability of a glacier, I frantically twist my steering wheel all the way to the left and wedge myself into position. The Ford may be a Goliath, but I have maneuverability on my side. It can do nothing but honk like an impotent goose as I three-point-turn my way into shelter.

And immediately I burst out from my wheeled cage and begin weaving through the cars. It feels good to run, and I am sprinting straight for the entrance, ignoring the bronze beaver statue welcoming visitors into its cold embrace. I try to make a beeline for the restrooms, but as soon I’m through the doors it’s as though I’ve entered a herd of cattle being led slowly but surely to slaughter. (Perhaps the brisket hides a dark secret? But I do not have time to dwell on such questions). The cacophony in here is deafening, a terrifying dissonance of hundreds of voices merging with arena rock playing from the speakers, and every few minutes an incomprehensible war cry rises above the clamor from out the brisket counter, sending shivers down my spine. As I am swept along my way, I catch sight of a beaver-clad mascot dancing in pagan rites to this brutal symphony.

Eventually, I am deposited by the shores of the lavatory. The hallway leading into this grand chamber of piss and shit is lined with the flags of the six branches of armed forces, a comforting reminder that we are not defenseless in our defecation. Like everything here, the restrooms are enormous, but they are far less crowded than the shopping area, making for vast empty spaces. This wide desolation, in combination with a utilitarian lack of ornamentation creates an imposing feeling reminiscent of the EUR in Mussolini’s Rome. I hide myself away in the hermetic peace of an empty stall and at last find relief.

As I exit the restroom, I see a man in overalls wandering the aisles, his ratty mustache accompanied by a pinched expression of bewilderment. In his arms, he carries a small dog wearing its own set of miniature overalls, with an equally ratty mustache and an equally pinched and dazed expression. This place is confounding to man and beast alike. It is a schizophrenic cornucopia of commodities: luxury camping goods, scented candles, an entire wall hung with various types of jerky, cow-skin rugs, bottles of body wash made to look like whiskey jugs, free samples of popcorn shrimp, wall hangings with homey sayings in a generic off-white cursive, cow-skulls decorated in plastic jewels, hot sauces galore, mass-produced faux-watercolors of horses, welcome mats declaring, “all guests must be approved by the dog,” bags of something with the unsettling name of “beaver nuggets,” cutting boards in the shapes of Tennessee and Texas, etc. They also sell clothes here, primarily emblazoned with the beaver’s painfully contorted face. Many of the people around me are wearing such apparel, signaling their devotion by showing that this is not their first pilgrimage.

In the heart of the chaos is the Texas Round-Up, where workers in identical cowboy hats slave away to prepare the famous brisket. I have come to understand that the occasional bellows originating from here are announcements that orders are ready. But while the content of these cries is simple and commercial in nature, their form is that of a wounded animal’s howls, an expression of proletarian anguish which forms a critical part of the ambience in this pandemonium. The brisket has been highly recommended to me, so I grab a small sandwich on my way out. It costs $8.49 before tax.

As I make my way to the door, I once again cross paths with Buc-ee himself. He has just finished taking pictures with a crowd of worshippers, and an attendant is leading him away. This servant holds Buc-ee by the hand and guides him through the throng. It occurs to me that in his regalia he must be in even more of a blinded fugue state than I am, and that it would be impossible for him to navigate his domain without help. What torment it must be for a god to go down amongst his supplicants.

I eat the overpriced sandwich alone in my car. Having grown up in the South, I have tasted my fair share of barbeque, and I can say with confidence that it was a perfectly average sandwich. Not bad—pleasant even in the familiar interplay of tangy sauce and soft bun—but certainly nothing to write home about. Having finished my sandwich and feeling a deep hollowness in my soul, I enter the tumultuous sound and fury once more to fill up on gas. After fifteen minutes of jockeying for position, I finally find an open pump. Standing beside my car, I reflect on the enormous service station sprawled out before my eyes. America’s traditional vanity project is the skyscraper, the tumescent member striving vertically, longing to fuck the heavens. But here such dreams have been abandoned in favor of the horizontal, and this gas station pleasure dome is perhaps a more honest depiction of the Conqueror Worm’s ambitions: engorged on the spoils of empire, the colossus has collapsed in a drunken stupor and impotently pisses himself out of leaky gas pumps.

Hogan is a writer from East Tennessee. Much of their writing is informed by the peculiarities of culture and nature in the region. They write because nothing else makes sense to them.

return to Lenticular main page