On my desk, encrusted in the hardened residue of last night's ill-advised French vanilla cappuccino binge, sits my little red ticket to consumer bliss. On one side, the card reads, "QT … Guaranteed Gasoline … Guaranteed Everything." On the other side, in equally poor English, "Free Refills This Store 90 Days."
Unlike inferior advertising campaigns, where the consumer pays a stiff premium to gain free-refill access, this durable cup (part of a promotion) didn't cost me a bloody cent.
Last night, my friends and I rolled over to QT for the fourth night in a row. We never actually intend on going there, but the left hand turn arrow into the QT parking lot is just so persuasive that we can't resist.
Half of the parking lot belongs to the largest gas-letting extravaganza since the Exxon Valdez. The other half of the lot is where you park for the convenience-store division of QT.
At least 15 kids swarm around this entrance at all times, all of them holding red mugs. Some are double-fisting, and the majority seem to have arrived in the only other car in the parking lot — a lowered hatchback Honda Civic sitting on 18-inch rims with half of its paint rusted out. Very classy.
We march straight to the back and I marvel at QT's efficient layout. To my left are coffee and cappuccino machines. Dead ahead are four or five flavors of slushies. Directly to my right is easily the most intense soda machine in the Western world.
Silver stickers proudly proclaim that both soda and ice are made with only 100 percent filtered water. Said ice is available in both cubed and crushed form from two different spouts. The beverage selection includes all the popular classics, along with tantalizing choices not usually found in fountain form such as Gatorade and a generic energy drink called Energy Blast.
QT management also had the foresight to offer vanilla and cherry flavoring that can be added to any drink. These products were once in the exclusive domain of Sonic, which sits, suspiciously, next to QT.
We stood around, lustily quenching our thirsts. I kept waiting for management to kick us out, but then I kept remembering that all this was free and would stay that way well into the foreseeable future.
Then, a grotesquely obese man walked in and after learning that QT no longer was issuing free cups, attempted to pry a metallic cone off the wall and fill it with soda. Eventually he was cajoled into purchasing a refillable 52-ounce tureen for $3.99.
The man then enlightened both the cashier and the customers that his mug was "at least six times bigger" than the ones we were packing and therefore worth shelling out for.
Once his obnoxious tone broke our trance, I used some plain coffee to wash the limeade out of my mug before filling it with a French vanilla cappuccino. (I had already pre-gamed with several helpings of a generic energy drink.)
Unfortunately, my eyes then fixated on a massive banner advertising Coors Light 30-packs for $15.99. Until this point, we weren't even cognizant of the products that QT was trying to sell.
Now, the scheme became clear. Krispy Kreme donuts, 22-ounce tallboys of exotic King Cobra malt liquor, huge frosted Cinnamon rolls on a buy-one-get-one-free special.
Leaving, I remarked to my friend, "Coming here every night is a terrible idea because when it's 3 a.m. and I need my fix, you'll know where I'll be."
The corporate whores infiltrated my friends and I with nothing more than a few thousand ounces of caffeine-laden beverages. It was worth it.
Solomon Rotstein is a humanities sophomore. Reach him at solomon.rotstein@asu.edu.
