So, the thing was, there were these humongous convenience stores at the time called Stuckey's and my parents would stop there in the middle of fucking nowhere so we could go to the potty and buy some snacks and sodas or whatever. When you stepped inside one of these Stuckey's convenience stores, it was like stepping into a shrine for these truckers or outlaws or whoever was eluding the rascally sheriff or redneck constable or local kingpin cattle rancher or whatever fit the mold of an inept authority figure. Stuckey's had aisle after aisle of cowboy belt buckles and leather wallets and Buck Knives and CB radios and tools and pecan pralines and trucker gear and pop guns and ice cream. It was a little boy's goddamn fantasy extravaganza. It's true.
On these long road trips, whenever we saw the billboard signs for Stuckey's, I would start screaming my head off like a goddamn idiot and my father would turn his van off the highway and we would spend a good 30 minutes roaming around in these convenience store shrines to the trucker lifestyle. Now, when I was an 8-year-old kid, I didn't have a lot of money on my person but I did have a little Velcro wallet filled with a few dollars that I earned from doing chores around the house. I saved those few dollars for times like these when I knew I was going to need to buy a plastic six-shooter or a rubber tomahawk or a miniature screwdriver set or a plastic longhorn or some other worthless trinket that would drive my father absolute ape shit. He hated the fact that I would waste my hard-earned money on some bullshit piece of crap that was imported from China but I absolutely loved it. Stuckey's was a magical place to me when I was a kid. It's true.
For old time's sake, I thought it would be fun to go into a Stuckey's as an adult and see if the old magic was still there. About 15 miles north of Temple, Texas, the hope was still alive, sort of.
"Look! A sign for Stuckey's!" Snaggle said, hemming and hawing all over the goddamn place like a monkey that spotted a banana tree. "Right there!"
He pointed to a billboard on the side of the highway. Sure enough, it said Stuckey's was a few exits up the highway. But the sign looked like it was 30-years-old and had been neglected and battered and worn down by years of sitting in the Texas sun. I didn't get the best feeling from seeing that old, beat-up goddamn sign. But I had hope that I would be able to rekindle some of that childhood magic.
"Let's check it out," I said.
"It should be just a couple of exits up," Snaggle said. What a goddamn genius!
When we arrived at the exit, I felt the anticipation and excitement build in me like a geyser, ready to explode. All the memories from when I was a kid started to pour into my brain and that excitement I used to feel in my gut returned. It was a goddamn amazing feeling. Sometimes, things from your past can come back to the present and feel exactly the same, even as an adult. It's true.
I pulled Clint the Caddy off the pristine highway and sped onto the shitty access road, barely covered with asphalt and pitted with potholes and deep tread marks and covered with gravel. I didn't expect the access road to be in such crappy condition and I didn't anticipate slowing down like I really needed to. A dust cloud quickly engulfed Clint the Caddy, making it difficult for me to see where I was going. I slammed on the brakes and the steering wheel jerked from right to left. All of a sudden, Snaggle started screaming like a little girl, his high-pitched screech scaring the shit out of me and distracting me from the task at hand, which was not driving off the access road into a cow pasture or barbed-wire fence. Everything in the car caught air and popped around in the cabin, including Snaggle. He slammed his face against the dashboard then held his bloody nose, crying and sniffling and sneezing. I could make out a silhouette of a building that was shaped very much like the Stuckey's distinctively styled buildings so I continued in that direction, shit still flying, Snaggle still crying. When Snaggle decided he'd had enough, he screamed at the top of his lungs, triggering both of my feet to stomp the brake pedal almost through the floor board. We had arrived in style, I must say. It's true.
"Are you crazy?" he asked, almost in tears.
"I thought I handled that pretty well, all things considered," I said. I meant it too. It's true.
"Really?! Because we almost died!"
"Almost but not quite."
As soon as the dust cloud started to clear, I could see we had parked catty-corner across from Stuckey's and fortunately, we were the only car in the parking lot. That was good. Clint the Caddy would have crushed any cars in his path. I opened my door and turned to Snaggle, still weeping a little.
"Are you coming or not?" I asked. He gave me a sad look, a sad bastard look, the look a puppy has after you smack it on the butt for peeing on the kitchen floor. He wiped the snot from his nose and opened his door too.
We got out and stood next to Clint and as the dust completely settled, I could tell that something was amiss about Stuckey's. I mean, it looked pretty much how I'd remembered it: steep, high-pitch roof with the long over-hang but it was painted black instead of the bright neon colors I remembered. All the windows had been blacked-out and the front entrance, which once was as inviting as could be, was boarded up. Something was not quite right. It's true.
"I don't think this is a Stuckey's anymore, Simon," Snaggle said. No shit, Sherlock! For a computer genius, Snaggle sure was a goddamn knucklehead. "Look! There's a XXX sign that is not turned on. Right there." For once, Snaggle was right about something. At the front left corner of the building was a neon sign with three large X's on it, in the exact same spot where the Stuckey's sign used to be. It was a strange sight to see. It's true. "Stuckey's is now a porno shop!"
Snaggle started hemming and hawing all over the goddamn place like a jackass, slapping his knee and wheezing for breath. All of his laughing and cackling about made me blow my goddamn top except that the sadness I quickly felt took over any anger I had toward that snaggly bastard. I couldn't help but think that a precious little piece of my youth had been squashed by a fucking sleazy, smut peddler. Who in the hell in this shithole town would let a fine establishment like Stuckey's go under to only be replaced by a porno shop? It was a goddamn disgrace. It's true. I decided right then and there that I was going to go inside and find out what had happened to Stuckey's. It wasn't that long ago that this building was a Stuckey's. Someone inside would have the information I wanted. We walked around the side of the building and found the entrance at the back.
Inside, the porno shop was dark as night and cold as a penguin's penis and had a distinct smell that was somewhere between coconut-scented hand lotion and mildew. It was the smell of my youth's destruction, only to be replaced by someone else's filthy opportunism. It was pretty sad, if you ask me, pretty sad indeed. It's true. The aisles of candy and chips and the trinkets I so looked forward to rummaging through were replaced by aisles of adult DVDs, racks of slutty lingerie, and glass cases filled with dildos and anal probes and tubes of lubricants and magazines so filthy that apparently they needed to be encased in glass. It was a goddamn shame, a goddamn filthy, dirty, pornographic shame. Snaggle followed close behind me, his arms wrapped around his torso as if he was shielding his innocent little heart from being lured to the dark side. It seemed as if Snaggle had no idea of the existence of a dirty place like this but he recognized the sign as being a porno sign so I was sure that at some point in his nerdy life he had been in a porno shop. It wasn't like girls threw themselves at him on a daily basis. All snaggly, sad bastards needed something to jack off to. It's true.
In the far corner of the shop was a counter with a cash register on it, an ashtray with a lit cigarette in it, a beer bottle next to it, and a lava lamp, yet there was no clerk in sight. So I indicated to Snaggle, by tilting my head in the counter's direction, to follow me over there. He stepped close behind me, his arms still wrapped around his torso like vines on a flagpole. It was hilarious, like he didn't want to get the cooties or herpes or something. It's true. I leaned over the counter but didn't see anyone. I looked at Snaggle and he looked back at me, a little concerned.
"Maybe we should go," he
said.
"I just want to ask a few questions then we can go."
"OK."
We stood around like a couple of dopes for a few moments in uncomfortable silence between the two of us, accompanied by the sounds of porno soundtracks and angry humping in the background. We, a couple of nerds from Austin in a porno shop in the middle of nowhere, were as out of place in there as two Eskimos trying to build an igloo in the Amazon. It's true. Eventually, some sounds came from the back of the shop, like someone tripping over something large and heavy, and a short chubby man in a military vest came to the front. He perched himself on a stool behind the counter and looked at us, up and down, up and down, like we were a couple of turds wearing human clothes. He put the lit cigarette in his mouth and took a swig from his beer. He tapped the ashes from his cigarette and crossed his legs in a very "I'm superior" manner. He really thought he was hot shit sitting there behind a counter, smoking and drinking, in a porno shop. It's true.
"What do you two faggots want? I don't have much gay porn here. You'll have to drive over to Juan's store if you want to watch two dudes butt fucking," the clerk said. He sucked on his cigarette some more like you would suck soda threw a straw. He inhaled a half-inch of cigarette with one puff. He had a name tag pinned to his military vest. The name tag said, "George."
"Oh, we're not looking for gay porn," I said, shaking my head.
"Well, you two look like a pair of butt-plugging homosexuals, that's for sure," he cackled. He smashed his poor cigarette into the ashtray and immediately lit another, sucking a quarter of its life in one drag. "You two look perfect for each other. Who is the pitcher?"
"Huh?" Snaggle replied, confused yet inquisitive.
"Which one of you faggots is the pitcher and which one of you is the catcher?" the clerk asked. He was starting to get on my goddamn nerves with all of his hateful, anti-gay slurs and his country boy inflection. I mean, Snaggle and I were in no way close to being in a same-sex relationship but if we were, I'd be mighty offended by now. Who did this guy think he was, anyway?
"I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions?" I asked.
"Oh shit! Are you a fucking reporter from the Temple Daily Telegram?" he asked, straightening himself up, fixing his hair and adjusting his vest. "If so, I'm ready for my 15 minutes of fame!" A slimy smile slid across his stubbly face. He was a real slimy bastard, I could tell. It's true.
"No, I'm not a reporter from the Temple Daily Telegraph."
"Then what the fuck do you want?" the clerk said. He was visibly irritated now, what, with his slimy smile turning into a curdled snarl.
"Did this used to be a Stuckey's?"
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"This building. Did it used to be a Stuckey's?" I asked.
"I have no idea what you are talking about. As far as I know, this has always been The Adult Mega Mall."
"This was never a Stuckey's?" I asked, confused.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Really sure?"
"Look!" he barked, pulling a stubby revolver from his back pocket and slamming it on the glass counter in front of him. He slammed the counter so hard it almost cracked, tipping the beer bottle over and zapping the cord of the lava lamp. "Shit! Look what you made me do. I almost electrocuted myself."
"I'm sorry. I didn't..."
"If you two don't buy a pocket pussy or something, I'm going to shoot you faggots right in the fucking face. You go that?" he said, really mean and irritated and impolite. I was starting to think that he wasn't cut out to work in the service industry. His attitude was just terrible, the grumpy bastard.
"Simon," Snaggle said. "I think we should just do what the nice man says and get out of here."
"All right."
Snaggle reached into his pocket and placed some cash on the counter and said something about letting the clerk surprise him with a product of his choice. So the clerk took the cash and placed something in a paper bag and tossed it at Snaggle. We backed up together then turned around and walked out. I could hear his smoky cackle as the door slammed shut. Boy, I was never so glad to be out of some place than I was to be out of that dark, stinky porno shop. It was all just a goddamn shame. Sometimes, things from your past should just be left in the past. I mean, I was really hoping to relive visiting a Stuckey's but sometimes things are just not meant to be. Sometimes, your cherished memories should just stay that way, as cherished memories. If you try to relive them, then you could end up getting shot in the face by an anti-gay, redneck, porno store clerk wearing a military vest. It's true.
We quickly walked around the building back to the parking lot where Clint the Caddy was waiting for us. We hopped in and quickly drove off, only buckling our seatbelts once we were on our way up the highway. After getting a mile or so away from the creepy porno shop, I asked Snaggle what was in the bag. He opened the brown paper sack and pulled out something long, wrapped in loose cellophane. I asked him what it was. His answer was not very pleasant.
"It says it's a 12-inch Black Thunder King Dong Dildo with a wall-mount suction cup," he said, a tinge of fear in his voice. The goddamn thing was like the size of a small baseball bat. It was huge! It's true.
I asked Snaggle to throw it out of the window. He did. I watched it in my rearview mirror, bouncing around on the highway like a perverted pogo stick, until it vanished underneath an eighteen-wheeler.
14.
Waco. Do I have to say much more? If there was a bigger shithole in the entire state of Texas, then I have not been there. It is everything you can imagine it to be and worse, much worse, a small town trying to put on its big-boy pants and not realizing it had no business putting on big-boy pants. It's true. I spent a little time in Waco when I was in high school. I had a friend whose big brother went to Baylor University. He used to write home to us about how much fun he was having with Baylor, going to parties and hanging out at his fraternity and meeting chicks and drinking beer and this and that and whatnot. We didn't realize from his letters that he was really full of shit and that none of this stuff we were imagining was anything close to reality. The first time we went to visit his brother in Waco was a shock to us. What we encountered was closer to Little House on the Prairie than Animal House, an ultra-conservative university in a small town stuck in a 1950s segregationist mentality and a Baptist stranglehold. It was a goddamn disappointment, for sure. If anyone tells you that Waco is a pleasant town, then they are full of shit too. Mark my words. You'll be sorry if you ever stay one night in that shithole. The only thing worth doing there was grabbing a fast food meal on the way through or taking a dump at a dingy gas station, which sounded like a good idea to me. So we decided to stop and do both.
At the first exit I could find, I pulled Clint the Caddy off the highway and eased onto the access road. We passed a bevy of the usual fast food chains: McDonald's, Wendy's, Kentucky Fried Chicken (or KFC, as they call it now, to hide its southern origin), Pizza Hut, Taco Bell. They were all shit and not very appealing to me at that moment but close to the intersection coming up was a monstrous gas station / restaurant combo convenience stop that looked interesting. The sign had two parts: one that said CHEAP GAS and another that said El Pollo Loco (which is Spanish for the crazy chicken. Genius!). I decided right then and there that that was where we would take a break. I pulled Clint into the parking lot and found a spot by the entrance.
"What are we doing?" Snaggle asked.
"I thought we'd get a bite to eat and take a potty break."
"I'm not hungry."
"Don't you need to tinkle?"
"Tinkle?!" Snaggle started hemming and hawing all over the goddamn place, slapping his knee and jerking his head back and forth like a goddamn idiot. Here we were just an hour and a half from Austin and he was already getting on my last goddamn nerve. It's true. "I haven't heard the word tinkle since I was 5 years old."
"Sorry. I'm used to saying that because of my kids."
"Well,
I don't have to go to the bathroom and I surely don't have to tinkle."
"Well, I do. Time for a break."
"OK. I'll get some Skittles. I love Skittles!"
Inside, we discovered an oasis of junk food the likes of which I had never seen before, row after row of candy, salty snacks, and refrigerators full of sodas. It was a goddamn sugar nightmare. The sight of all the shitty snacks sent Snaggle into a frenzy, his hand shoved in his pocket, his testicles receiving a battering that I hadn't seen since before we left Austin. Just what that bastard needed, more sugar to coat his decaying snaggle puss. It's true. Snaggle dove into the first candy aisle searching for his beloved Skittles. I decided to see what I could get to eat from El Pollo Loco.
The restaurant was in a cozy nook at the back of the convenience store. The smell of roasted chicken permeated the store like a delicious fog, a light smoky curtain hanging behind the counter where the cashiers were waiting for their next hungry customers. There were a few empty tables for patrons and a standing bar where a crew of Hispanic day-labor workers were devouring their meals before having to go back to cutting lawns or roofing houses or paving streets or whatever they were hired to do at a pay rate that was too low for the amount of hard work they had to endure. Hispanic workers got the short end of the stick. Where would the great, prosperous State of Texas be without the massive labor force of unsuspecting Mexicans that were taken advantage of by Anglo businessmen? These poor guys were getting fucked by the Man. It's true. But these Mexican guys here sure knew how to eat. They were stuffing their faces with chicken and rice and beans and tortillas and looked like they didn't have a care in the world on their sun-baked faces. I guess maybe these guys didn't have it so bad after all. If they did, then they would have look like sad bastards. They were anything but sad bastards. They were happy as can be eating their lunches.
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 11