April 2025 by T. J. Hot Dog
Texaco in Wills Point, Texas: A Pit Stop for the Disillusioned and the Hopeful.
I rolled into the Texaco station in Wills Point the other day, somewhere between “my tank’s almost empty” and “how did I end up in Wills Point?” The place was just like every other gas station in the universe—except this one had a soul, a character, and an odd sense of humor.
It’s the kind of gas station where the pumps beep at you like they’re trying to get your attention, but you’re too tired to listen, too distracted by the strange billboard outside that advertises something called “the world’s best jerky” next to an image of a confused cow. Who knows? Maybe it is the world’s best jerky, but I wasn’t about to take the cow’s word for it.
Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered like they had something to say but were too tired to say it. The cashier, an older man with a mustache so thick it could double as a winter coat, looked at me like I was an alien. “Where you from?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer and was just testing me. I answered, “Houston,” to which he nodded slowly, like I’d passed some kind of secret test.
Then, just as I was about to pay, the pump decided to really start its performance art. It didn’t just stop when it was full—it spat gas everywhere, like it was trying to make some kind of statement about consumerism or global warming. I stood there for a moment, watching the gas spill, wondering if this was the universe’s way of telling me to slow down. It wasn’t, of course. It was just a malfunction. I apologized to the ground, grabbed my receipt, and left—ready to forget, but somehow, unable to.
In a world full of hustle and heartache, this Texaco in Wills Point was like a brief and unexpected pause in the madness. A place where gas spilled, jerky was promised, and the only thing certain was the man behind the counter, still nodding slowly, trying to make sense of it all.
