Ghosts of Florida Past
Finishing a chapter means starting a new one.
I was standing in a Buc-ee’s parking lot south of Jacksonville, FL shoving a burrito in my face. It was the first solid meal I’d had all day. My last 12 hours had been spent nervously piloting a 10ft. U-Haul half-full stuff I hadn’t sold off over the last few years.
In the 21st Century, journalism forces you to make a lot of really difficult life choices, and I had just made one I’d been avoiding for years…but we’ll circle back to that later.
Something was gnawing at the back of my mind.
This all looked familiar. Very familiar. “International Golf Drive?” I’ve heard that before. The CostCo across the street? I remembered that too. There aren’t too many Buc-ee’s with a CostCo across the street.
Then again, it’s a Buc-ee’s. If you’ve seen one, you’ve pretty much seen them all. And if you haven’t: it’s a massive gas station with over a hundred pumps, overpriced food, clean and relatively private toilets, and a hell of a lot of tchotchkes featuring their mascot, a cartoon beaver.
That damn beaver has become very prominent along US highways east of the Mississippi over the last few years. Who’d have thought that a gas station would be a must-see attraction for tourists during the 2026 World Cup?
So, as I stood against a light pole sucking down my first cigarette in hours, it suddenly dawned on me that I’d been to this exact Buc-ee’s before. I’d stood under the same light pole with a cigarette marveling at the absurdity of the place several years back.
But when had I been here? It had to be one of the first times I’d been to a Buc-ee’s. Which means it was one of the first times I’d set out on the road. And after four years of relentless traveling, it all starts to bleed together…
It had to be back in ‘22, during the midterm elections. Was it that Charlie Crist event at the union hall in Jacksonville? DNC head Jamie Harrison rolled in on a charter bus with a plan to keep the Democrat’s thin majority in the House. It was supposed to be one of those “come together” moments after a tense primary.
Crist, who’d been forced out of his cozy US House seat representing the Tampa area, was the state’s former party-hopping governor. He’d won a bitter Democratic primary by trumpeting a message of compromise. His main opponent in that primary, the progressive Agriculture Commissioner Nikki Fried, ran on confronting DeSantis, MAGA extremists and Tallahassee’s new corporate-friendly culture. Fried had to introduced Crist that day.
My notes that day say, “tense.”
Could it have been a Val Demings’ event? She hoped like hell to flip Marco Rubio’s Senate seat. She was all over the airwaves with ads and interviews. Demings even led a GOTV golf cart parade to an early voting site in that miserable meat locker, “The Villages.”
Crist and his pick for lieutenant governor, Karla Hernandez-Mats, a teacher and union leader, held whistle-stop campaign events in small communities across the state. They were doing the kind of grip’n grin events where locals had a chance to talk one-on-one. Old-fashioned retail politicking that, in a normal world, wins votes.
Polls showed DeSantis with a clear lead heading into the election. He’d cultivated the image of a smarmy, tough-talking little asshole, and spent much of the campaign running his mouth on the C-blocks of friendly, right-wing primetime cable news. During the only debate, DeSantis dodged even basic softball questions in order to hurl insults and culture war buzzwords, riling up a friendly audience in Fort Pierce. The campaign only held a handful of choreographed events, so most (if any) attention to the race came from DC pundits musing about a 2024 White House run. That lack of attention helped avoid real scrutiny for his migrant flight(s) scandal.
It was pivotal year for Republicans, particularly in Florida. The GOP-led state legislature had gerrymandered districts up and and down the ballot, packing and cracking historically Democratic strongholds. Back then, the DNC thought it was a good idea to throw money at Trump-backed candidates in GOP primaries in the hopes of having an easy run through the general election.
While it wasn’t the “red wave” pollsters had called for, election night in Florida was a bloodbath for many Democrats.
Crist was trounced by Ron DeSantis. Demings was buried by Rubio. Rep. Al Lawson lost his seat to Neil Dunn (earlier this year, Trump earlier blurted out that Dunn “would be dead by June,” due to a heart condition, and Dunn has since announced he won’t year stand for reelection in ‘26).
On election night, the party’s jovial atmosphere faded quickly. There was an almost certain assumption among some of the press that Crist was going to lose, but Crist’s staffers and supporters were holding out hope. Once the returns rolled in, it didn’t take long before the race was called for DeSantis. Crist lost by almost 10 points, gave a tearful concession speech. Most of the media had cleared out of the hotel the campaign had rented out for the party by 10pm.
I spent the rest of the night in the hotel bar. Some chipper union boss was buying me drinks, singing the praises of journalists and assuring me that everything was going to be OK. Eventually I dragged myself to the back of my truck where I slept in the sprawling parking lot of some nondescript office complex.
Four years later, standing at this Texas testament to America’s car culture, there’s a giant sign next to a ridiculous cartoon beaver marveling at the price of gas. Today, a gallon of 87 Octane is almost four dollars. And, after sinking almost $100 into the tank of the smallest U-Haul, the only thing that seemed hopeful was my new apartment would be close to train lines.
OK, here’s your cute critter video!
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