Gastronome Station

I'm going to be honest with you here. I love gas station food.

I walk into a convenience store and I'm drawn to the glow of the heat-lamp. I'm hypnotized by the hot dogs, polish sausage and egg rolls spinning endlessly on their heated rollers. The neat rows of sandwiches and burgers wrapped in their wax paper share the promise of delicious low-grade meat and processed cheese that's constantly changing state. The last corn dog calls out to me.

Then there's the aisle of colorful plastic bags filled with snacks. I marvel at the sour creams and onion, the BBQ s, the salt and vinegars. Why would anyone buy plain chips? I can't count the number of Doritos varieties, so I won't even try. I long to leap head-long into this aisle and to immerse myself in powdered cheese and spices.

So I make sure that I don't "pay at the pump". I grab a bag of nacho cheese/mesquite/super spicy ranch corn chips and then on to the comforting glow of the warmer where I grab a precious, wrapped bundle of bun and beef. There's a jack-o-lantern orange cheese flow solidified and protruding from a fold. I'm feeling groggy for some reason, so next I visit the cooler where I grab a twenty-four ounce can of something with a picture of a cobra on the outside that promises to make me function better than I ever thought possible. I'm on my way to the register when I pass the bakery shelves. There's still room in my arms for some deep-fried dough covered in a thick sugar glaze. It was twice the price yesterday.

Score.

I almost get to the register when I see that corn dog all by itself. It's just not right.

"Come along with us, little buddy. Your wait is over," I say.

No, I don't need my receipt.

But I will need a bag.