I Joined the Milk Club at a Gas Station and Now My Life Has Structure

A few nights ago I was driving to Vermont. It was around 10 PM when I stopped at a Stewart’s in Whitehall, New York, right near the Vermont border.

I’d been driving for hours. I was tired. I was about 45 minutes from where I was staying, and I just wanted to buy some milk and get back on the road.

The cashier rang me up, looked at me, and asked a question.

I wasn’t sure if I was delirious from driving or if she had just said:

“Would you like to join the Milk Club?”

I asked her to repeat it.

“The Milk Club.”

Now I’m awake.

Because there are certain things you expect a convenience-store cashier to ask you at 10 o’clock at night.

“Do you need a bag?”

“Do you want your receipt?”

“Would you like to join the Milk Club?” is how you wake up three days later in a barn.

Naturally, I said yes.

I didn’t ask what Milk Club was. I didn’t ask who else was in it. I didn’t ask what my responsibilities would be.

I just joined.

And I have to say, the admissions process was surprisingly efficient.

Augusta National? You have to be invited.

Mensa? You have to score in the top two percent.

Milk Club?

No application. No references. No interview.

Nobody even asked me the obvious questions.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Hopefully still lactose tolerant.”

Milk Club’s actual entrance exam was considerably easier:

“You buying that milk?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in.”

Finally, an organization willing to recognize my potential.

Groucho Marx said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”

I’ve always liked that line.

But Milk Club didn’t just have me.

They actively recruited me at a gas station at 10 o’clock at night.

And now I’m a card-carrying member. Literally. It’s in my wallet.

Capital One has spent years asking me, “What’s in your wallet?”

Well, Capital One, now you know.

Milk Club.

Please stop asking.

The card is surprisingly official-looking. On the back there’s even a line that says YOUR NAME.

You fill that part in yourself.

So apparently Milk Club has not devoted a tremendous amount of resources to identity verification.

I’m still trying to determine exactly what privileges come with the card.

Is it REAL Milk ID compliant?

Actually, I assume mine is a REAL Whole ID.

They probably offer a 2% version, but with fewer privileges.

Does it get me through TSA PreCheck?

Does it count toward the six points at the DMV?

And what happens when I cross an international border?

Do I need to stop at AAA first and get an International Milk Club Permit?

If someone steals my card and starts accumulating punches overseas, at what point does Interpol get involved?

These are legitimate questions Stewart’s made absolutely no attempt to address during orientation.

I also assume the first rule of Milk Club is:

You do not talk about Milk Club.

Which conflicts somewhat with the second rule:

Carry a card in your wallet that says MILK CLUB in enormous letters and present it to strangers.

They’re not great at secret societies.

I’m also unclear how you leave the club.

As far as I can tell, there is no exit. You can check out any time you like, but you can’t leave. It’s like Hotel California but with stronger bones.

The really strange part though is there’s actual family history behind all of this.

My grandfather served in the Navy during World War II as a radio man aboard a destroyer in the Atlantic, escorting ships and hunting German submarines with depth charges.

He came home and spent the rest of his working life as a traveling representative for the American Dairy Association.

Flash forward to 2011, not long after Tyler was born, through a sequence of events I still don’t completely understand, I somehow found myself at a La Leche League meeting with my wife.

So apparently this isn’t even my first milk-based organization.

My grandfather dropped depth charges on U-boats in the North Atlantic.

I have to remember to bring my Milk Club card in from the car.

Every generation hopes to make life a little easier for the next.

We may have overshot.

Still, maybe this was inevitable.

Maybe dairy is simply in my blood.

Although medically, I believe that’s a very different problem.

Anyway, I’m in now.

And after ten punches, I receive the ultimate benefit of Milk Club membership:

A free half gallon of milk.

Or a half-price gallon.

I haven’t decided which.

Please respect my family’s privacy while we consider our options.

I currently have one punch.

But here’s where Milk Club gets inside your head.

A half gallon earns one punch.

A gallon earns two.

Which means I can get to my free milk considerably faster if I start buying twice as much milk.

And that’s when I realized Milk Club had won.

I used to buy milk when I needed milk.

Now I need milk because I’m trying to win milk.

There’s just one thing still bothering me.

Why me?

Of all the people passing through Whitehall that night, why was I selected for membership?

Then I remembered where this happened.

Whitehall, New York.

Bigfoot country.

And suddenly the admissions process made a lot more sense.

You may not believe in Bigfoot.

But Bigfoot believes in you.

And apparently he’s Chairman of the Stewart’s Milk Club Admissions Committee.

I got his vote.