Chew That Butylated Hydroxytoluene

Softball. The recreational men’s-style softball where bellies far outnumber granite biceps. Not the most demanding of sports, but the dry Colorado air is merciless. Even climbing the bleachers as a spectator can turn your saliva into taffy.

I sprinted around the bases several times in our 17-7 victory (domination), and I desperately needed to wash my cheeks of their cotton lining. The community Miller Lite sufficed for others; biceps deflating before my eyes.

A left onto 26th and I whipped an immediate right into glowing 7-Eleven.

My default since mowing lawns as a young teen was Gatorade, the Fierce Grape variety. Only Fierce Grape.

Second in the checkout line, I held the purple stuff in my hand. Then I saw a gal juggling three Arizona iced teas in her arms. Twenty-three ounces for a slim 99 cents. I stared at her torso for too long; she likely mistook it for a boob gaze. Her economics convinced me.

“That’s brilliant,” I said to her, though I didn’t mean her jugs.

I forfeited my spot, retrieved an Arizona Southern-Style Sweet and hopped back in the line, which hadn’t moved.

The gentleman at the front wanted three packs of specially-priced cigarettes, but the sale wasn’t ringing up to his liking. A dollar came off the first pack, not the second. The cashier said that’s not how it worked.

Try it again Black Lungs demanded.

Again it failed. The smoker, irritated, continued to push the matter. The gas station had turned into a bazaar, and this dude was essentially bargaining to make his death more affordable.

As the two clawed at their impasse, I sighed and began scanning the eat-me-while-you-wait-for-douchebags-to-checkout items next to the register.

Hot dogs sweated and rolled. The tips of neglected taquitos charred. The cheese of two remaining slices of pizza resembled congealed tapioca pudding.

And before I could reach the stacks of candy, there was the motherload: nine varieties of beef jerky. You lift the plastic cover and use tongs to retrieve the various salt sticks. Stay with the original flavor or leave your comfort zone for pepper, teriyaki, and so on.

The sign should have read Don’t forget your diarrhea – trigger it nine ways!

My last-second grabs at stores never include dried meats. More common is a pack of Extra spearmint, which I suppose could extinguish jerky death breath.

The gum has a pleasant kick and, according to the packaging, helps fight cavities. It yields bubbles, and bubbles are simple, awesome entertainment. A decent $1 spent at the final moment. But ultimately gum is fleeting. The flavor drops like an anvil and you’re left chewing on this little joyous nugget of the past. You thought it would accompany you longer, be more steadfast.

During the final weeks of college, mysterious forces tweaked my path so it collided with a handful of unexplored friendships. I might have known names, but the characters were only notions. Suddenly I held the paints for the canvases, and I crafted more complete pictures of these people. My assumptions were both confirmed and disproved, all in enjoyable manners.

I had my existing pocket of pals; these new drafts – or maybe they picked me – warped that familiar circle. The oblong shape was quite refreshing.

I learned to cook new meals, cataloged workout ideas from a beast (who I nicknamed Brisket for his bull-like chest), exchanged many gigabytes of music, snagged a free (and good) haircut, and couldn’t turn down a LeBomb James shot at the bar:

“The 'LeBomb James' requires a shot of Crown Royal (for King James), some Red Bull and three packs of Splenda. Drop the shot of Crown in the Red Bull, chug it, dump Splenda in your hands, and 'baby powder throw' it into the air like LBJ.”

And just maybe these folks filed a slim insight or two from me. Possibly a smile or a “knowledge bomb” as my former roommate proclaimed with an exploding fist. To have enough value to even be a thread in that fine cloth is flattering.

But alas, the growing goodwill was cauterized days after graduation, an untimely cap upon that which was nowhere close to overflowing. I had to move west, had to take out that shiny foil and regretfully crumple up that delicious gum. I’d like to say I only clipped it to the edge of my cup, waiting to chomp once more after a few sips of something else. But I haven’t a clue when I’ll again see those charmers. Would a reunion even have the duration for it all to re-flourish?

I’ll stay in touch with some, lose it with others; that two-way street that can be tough to navigate. Still, those relationships aren’t as dispensable as they seem framed here. Not at all. They enlightened, among other things, my rolodex of food, exercise, humor and tunes – the fundamental gears that propel me.

I suppose the LeBomb James is the oil that keeps them rotating smoothly. Whiskey isn’t atop my list, though. I’ll chase it with a stick of Extra.