From Jackalopes to Jesus: Retail Theater and Religious Panic

If you’ve never heard of Wall Drug, you’ve clearly never driven through South Dakota with a bladder full of gas station coffee and a car full of cranky relatives. Wall Drug is the roadside Shangri-La of the West—a sprawling cowboy-themed empire of free ice water, 5¢ coffee, animatronic dinosaurs, and enough souvenir shops to make your wallet cry uncle.

It all started in 1931, when pharmacist Ted Hustead bought a tiny drugstore in Wall, South Dakota—a town so remote it made tumbleweeds look crowded. Business was slow until his wife Dorothy had a stroke of genius: offer free ice water to parched travelers heading to the newly opened Mount Rushmore. They painted signs along the highway, and boom—Wall Drug became a must-stop oasis for road-weary pilgrims. By the time I showed up in 1976, it was already a full-blown tourist trap with a cult following and a gift shop for every mood swing.

How I Got There (And Why I Stayed)

I answered an ad in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch looking for summer help. Having visited Wall Drug as a kid—where I once mistook a jackalope for a real animal and a cowboy mannequin for my uncle—I figured, why not? I was assigned to a shop selling boots, moccasins, and jackalope memorabilia, which is basically the Holy Trinity of South Dakota retail.

I quickly learned the art of boot salesmanship. If the boots were loose: “Oh, that’s what I like to hear. A little slippage means they’re about to fit you like a glove.” If they were tight: “Perfect. They’ll stretch just enough to become the most comfortable thing you’ve ever worn—right around the time you get to Yellowstone.”

I was shameless. I was good. I was the Snake Oil Whisperer of Moccasins.

The Jackalope Incident

One day, a deaf couple came in, utterly enchanted by a jackalope—a taxidermied fever dream pieced together by a local guy with antlers, rabbit fur, and possibly pheasant feathers. They handed me a note:

“Is this real?”

And shame on me—I wrote back: “Yes.”

Not just yes. I went full folklore—writing as quickly as I could on their notepad. I told them jackalopes only mate during thunderstorms. I explained that their milk, which we sold in cans (with fake labels slapped over evaporated milk), was rumored to be an aphrodisiac. Not FDA-approved, but allegedly potent enough to make prairie dogs blush.

They paid $125 for this Frankenbunny. As they walked out, I felt the kind of guilt usually reserved for televangelists and used car salesmen. I told my boss, Della. She congratulated me on the sale. I sprinted to the parking lot like I was chasing absolution.

I found them. I wrote another note:

“You do know I was kidding?”

They were upset. I invited them back in and gave them a full refund. My boss was not amused. Apparently, ethics weren’t part of the employee handbook—just slippage and plausible deniability.

Rocks, Gems, and the Gospel According to Connie

Just when I thought Wall Drug couldn’t get any weirder, I met Connie—the high priestess of the Rock and Gem Shop. We chatted often at work, usually about customers, quartz, and the metaphysical properties of retail fatigue.

One afternoon, she invited me to dinner with her husband. I was flattered. Connie had the kind of energy that made you feel like you’d been chosen for something—possibly enlightenment, possibly casserole. But when I told my boss, Della, about the invitation, she shrieked like I’d announced I was marrying into a polygamist cult.

“She’s a Mormon,” Della hissed, clutching her clipboard like a crucifix. “She just wants to get you into her house and fill your brain with a bunch of bullshit. Before you know it, you’ll be on a bicycle in black pants and a short sleeve white shirt, peddling their crap at Mount Rushmore. And besides, you do know that Mormon men have more than one wife. Lord knows who you’d meet in that house.”

I blinked. Della was many things—efficient, terrifying, possibly clairvoyant—but subtle was not one of them.

Naturally, I ignored her loving prophecy and went anyway.

I wanted to bring a gift, so I splurged on a bottle of Mogan David Blackberry wine. Not Boone’s Farm—I had standards. Connie greeted me at the door, smiled sweetly, and said, “Oh, we don’t drink alcohol in this house. Just bring it in and we’ll pour it down the drain.”

I panicked. “I’ll just put it back in my car and pour it out when I get home,” I offered.

Wrong.

Her husband was a delight—warm, funny, and refreshingly monogamous. No sister wives lurking in the pantry. No pamphlets. No theological ambush. Just a cozy evening and a pair of Cornish hens that slid around my plate like they were auditioning for a poultry ballet.

At one point, mine launched off the plate and skidded across the tablecloth like a greasy comet. Connie laughed. Her husband laughed. I laughed. And then we all ditched the silverware and ate with our hands like civilized cave people.

It was one of the most memorable dinners of the summer. Connie and her husband became treasured friends. Meanwhile, Della kept praying for my soul and checking daily to make sure I still had my Ford Pinto and hadn’t traded it for a ten-speed and a testimony.

Friday Nights and Burlap Redemption

Every Friday, my co-workers and I would pile into my Ford Pinto, which rattled like a tambourine in a windstorm, and head to Rapid City for their world-famous Passion Play. We had small parts—townspeople chanting “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” as Jesus walked by with the cross. We did this about a dozen times, then peeled off our burlap costumes and were rewarded with a case of beer.

We’d drive back through the Badlands, sipping warm beer and dodging rattlesnake dens like it was a spiritual scavenger hunt. It was biblical, ridiculous, and somehow perfect.

Final Thoughts from the Boot Bench

That summer was a masterclass in retail theater, moral dilemmas, and prairie absurdity. I learned that tourists will believe anything if it’s mounted and priced right. I learned that guilt travels faster than a Pinto with a cracked muffler. And I learned that shouting “Crucify Him!” in exchange for beer is a uniquely South Dakotan rite of passage.

Wall Drug may be a tourist trap, but for me, it was a summer of jackalopes, Jesus, Cornish hens, and just enough slippage to keep things interesting.