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| Smokeless Satisfaction from the Ladies' Tees |
It was chilly and
raining. The sky over Nowhere, Oklahoma was a sagging gunmetal
blanket. I was alone, driving, on the clock. I was running an errand for
the company I worked for while in school. Running parts around town was
one of my various duties, but this was the best. No trailer, no load to
secure. I was deadheading, having dropped off a package of documents some
ninety minutes away from the office. The thermostat was perfect, and the
rain, windshield wipers, and radio comprised a semi-rhythmic symphony. If
all went as planned, I’d return just in time to park the truck, hang the keys
in the office, and head home for the evening.
The drive was boring. Gray highway met gray sky. Traffic was almost nonexistent. My assignment had taken me deep into the sticks, and the road back was most certainly one less traveled. So far from modern civilization that I was delivering documents. The recipient didn’t have a fax machine.
I took a drink from my bottle of Pepsi and ran through the radio stations in search of something I liked. When my ears detected Toad the Wet Sprocket, my hunting ceased. A track from Dulcinea. “Something’s Always Wrong,” I believe. I pondered how I might spend the evening. It should’ve been homework, but would end up with video game hockey until well after midnight.
On that day, I was fortunate enough to be driving the best of the company vehicles. It was a low bar, but the cabernet red F-150 was still new enough to be spared the abuse the other company vehicles endured. As such, it was far and away the most attractive–and reliable–vehicle in the fleet, though its time would inevitably come. The interior smelled like dirt and cigarettes. It reminded me of my grandfather’s recliner.
As I continued along the largely empty highway, I examined my immediate surroundings. The truck had just returned from several weeks in the field and had amassed souvenirs from the road. This usually included empty soda bottles, snuff cans, and cigarette packs. There were always a few sales receipts for items that couldn’t be expensed. Trucker’s speed, skin mags, losing lottery tickets, 24-ounce tallboy cans.
Tucked against the passenger seat, my roving hand found a can of Skoal Bandits. Skoal Bandits is a form of dipping tobacco. Instead of being packaged loose, these come in tiny fermentation bags. This keeps the particles from sloshing around the user’s mouth. Seasoned dippers think the stuff is for pussies. Akin to hitting from the ladies’ tees.
I had never used smokeless tobacco. Like smoking tobacco, I thought of it as a nasty, unhealthy habit. None of it ever interested me. I’d seen enough photos of lips with holes burned through and faultline gums to know better. And, I’d seen my father.
* * * *
Prior to the Tobacco Settlement Endowment Trust, things were a little looser when it came to tobacco. Using it, for instance. Also, distribution. With my mother as she bought groceries, we came across an endcap with a half-barrel full of cigarettes.
It was a new brand, Eli Cutter, and sample packs were free for the taking. It was named for a fabricated frontiersman-like guy who resembled Levon Helm in his memoir cover photo. The packs–and later I would find, ads, were inscribed with motivational slogans, designed as quotes attributed to the titular briquet-lunged stalwart. “I’d sooner cut my own trails than follow someone else's," read the package. Another one announced, “Phlegm is weakness leaving the body.” And of course, the smoker’s credo, “That’s why the good Lord gave me two lungs.” My mom pitched a pack into the cart for my dad.
I’ve said before that visiting the annual state fair was one of the few things my family did together. It sounds kind of pathetic, but we had a great time. Twenty dollars for a full afternoon of making fun of people, exhibits, and wares was invariably a tremendous bargain in entertainment. We’d see everything, laugh our asses off, and stop at Whataburger on the way home.
One year at the fair, we were greeted by Sonny Smokeless, Squire of Snuff, who was passing out free samples of chewing tobacco and snuff. As there wasn’t a vice my dad wasn’t opposed to at least negotiating with, he took one of each. In a caricature-like expression of manhood, he shoved a huge wad of longcut into his jaw and started chomping. My sister and I agreed that he looked delightfully moronic with his bulging cheek. Our mother tried to leave us behind.
I was looking at the exhibits when I lost track of my father. He’d simply disappeared. I knew something was wrong because he’d skipped the Native American bonecraft and replica Rolex exhibits without cracking a joke. We split up, with me walking to the end of the building and out the overhead door. Outside, I saw my dad, doubled over a garbage barrel hacking and trying to clear the tobacco from his mouth.
He raised his head for air. His face was contorted and a sickly shade of green. The approximate color of the water in the log ride across the midway.
“How’s that chaw, Big’un?” I laughed, slapping him across the back
There were times when my dad and I reversed roles. He was the kid who made questionable decisions, and I was the more logical one. In fact, it happened much more often than it should have and somehow managed to get worse as we grew older. That afternoon, I should have taken him out to the midway and watched him chew the entire pouch. My mom and sister caught up to us as my dad was clearing the remnants of his ill-conceived experiment.
“I think you can buy
engraved spittoons back there,” my mother piled on. “It’s the man
with the ponytail and the ‘I Love Squirters’ t-shirt.
“Both of you can
shut the hell up,” he snapped. He was still picking remnants of Levi
Garrett out of his mouth.
“Are you going to be
alright, Daddy?” asked my sister.
“Oh yes,”
interjected my mother again. “Your father just made another in a long
line of questionable decisions.”
Yes indeed, those trips to the fair brought out the best in all of us.
As I mentioned, I’d
never been remotely interested in smokeless tobacco. That, although I’d spent most of
my life around baseball fields. Now, driving and bored, I was beckoned by
curiosity. Besides, I was in college, the time for experimentation.
I opened the can, pulled out a pouch, and examined it.
“So people really get pleasure from this?” I said to myself.
I inserted the pouch between my cheek and gum and checked myself as instructed. I looked at my lip in the rearview mirror. Not exactly a fatty boom batty, but a noticeable protrusion. Stylish first baseman look. Soon, the taste began to exert itself. My initial impression was rancid A1 steak sauce and wintergreen Tic Tac.
Moments later, my vessels contracted, and the supply of blood to my head slowed. I was light-headed and slightly dizzy. My lower lip began filling like a flooding basement.
“Oh ssit!” I’d failed to consider the expectoration aspect of my experiment.
I knew that under no circumstance could I swallow even a drop of the burgeoning reservoir of juice. Frantic, I rolled down my window, destroying my optimal cab temperature. Cold rain also blew in as I tried to discharge the snuff juice. The first attempt was caught by the wind and sent back at me, landing on the seat back and my shoulder.
Rookie mistake. Seasoned dippers have this down, though it’s not a savory scene. The Styrofoam cup with a napkin folded and tucked into the bottom to prevent backsplash. For whatever reason, I’m just not good at spitting. My wife will attest to this. She frequently scolds me for the mess I make while brushing my teeth.
Still, I’d bought some time to prepare for my next attempt. As the mint-flavored ass juice pooled again in my mouth, my stomach turned as if to warn me to not let a drop get down my throat, or it couldn’t be responsible for what would happen. I rolled the window back down about a quarter of the way. I then cut loose again. This time, the spit was blown back on the window, leaving it looking like carpet a dog had dragged its ass across. I’d already determined that my first dip would be my last. It was now a matter of cutting bait and extracting myself without making a bigger mess or getting sick. The choice was obvious. Navigating my escape plan promised to be more difficult.
When I was in eighth-grade math, I sat in the back with a couple of guys who were experimenting with snuff. They, too, had forgotten the juice had to go somewhere, and that dipping can quickly become a messy enterprise. I watched in mild disgust as they spat on the carpet and rubbed it in with the soles of their shoes. After a few days, that side of the classroom began to smell like a spittoon. As this was an affluent suburban school, the boys combated the odor by splashing Polo cologne on the spots.
We all wore Polo green in those days. Three-quarters of the male population at my school appeared to have endorsement deals with Ralph Lauren. Even my dad wore Polo green. A favorite related story is the time he stopped at the mall for a new bottle during lunch only to have it explode inside his car, succumbing to the afternoon Houston heat.
“That’s why I don’t shop,” he said afterward. Once the intensity receded, his car smelled good though.
I didn’t have a bottle of cologne with me, but I realized given the travels of the vehicle, spitting on the floorboards wouldn’t be the end of the world. It’s not something I would usually consider, but by my rubric, this qualified as an emergency. They weren’t carpeted and could easily be cleaned with a little soap and water. I just needed to keep it under control, though spitting for accuracy was not in my skill set.
I hit the floor and rubbed it in with my shoe, making a mental note to do a better job upon arrival back at work. At that point, I wanted to end my experiment. Copenhagen, a brand of snuff, used the tag line, “It Satisfies.” I wasn’t sure what exactly it satisfied.
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| Yeah, about that... |
Before another
reservoir of juice could well up in my lip, I pulled the pouch out of my mouth and
set it on the passenger’s seat. “Gross,” I said aloud. I took a
large gulp of Pepsi, trying to chase the foul taste from my mouth. I then
rolled down the window and flung the pouch from the vehicle, rubbing my fingers
together to dry them.
“So people really get pleasure out of this?” I repeated, shaking my dizzy head.
