South African Spices

I wake up with the smokey taste of South Africa in my mouth. This is why you always floss before you go to sleep. Bits of food, they get caught in your teeth and then they sit there and rot. That's what with all the bad breath, people. It's rotting food. It's a mouthful of rotting food. Think about that the next time someone's breath hits you wrong. You need to floss. Me, I have these potato chips in there. Covered in quote-unquote Authentic South African Spices. I don't really know what that means. Tasted like barbecue to me.

I get the floss out—waxed mint, the cheap stuff, but it gets the job done—and get to work. And it gets the job done. That side of me, and we all have it, gets the better of me again like it tends to do and I sniff the floss. I get mint, and I get rotting South African barbecue potatoes. This must be what the country smells like when old meat gets thrown out. I assume they put this spice on everything, I don't know. If it's named after the entire country itself it makes sense, right?

There's a lot in there, there's a lot to get out, and it takes me a second to remember that I polished off that whole bag. The guy at the checkout, he told me they'd be unremarkable at first, but that they'd grow on me. Guess the empty bag's all you need for proof of that statement.

It wasn't my intention, you know? To eat the entire bag. A couple guys from work—friends, I was hoping—were gonna come over and watch a game, crack some beers, chow down on some snacks. It was going to be one of those nights that guys have together. Well, they ended up not coming over. Some vague reason about something, I don't remember, whatever it was it was not worth remembering. It's not a big deal, I guess, it wasn't going to be a night to remember or anything like that. Just a regular fun night is what I was hoping for. Thought maybe we could start something out of the office, you know. Maybe not. Anyway, it's not like it's a big deal. I guess. But it did get me going. And it got me to that bag of potato chips. And, well.

I've heard things around the office. Not big, not a lot, but some small things, a few. Which doesn't make them any easier to hear. I guess I can relate to those Authentic South African Spices. They might be nothing special at first, OK, but give them time, keep taking 'em in and taking 'em in. Sooner or later the whole bag'll be gone. Then again, maybe some people just want barbecue.

I throw the floss away and see there's little stranded bits of chip on my finger, leavings from the unwinding. I flick at the trash, I flick and I flick, but there's something about this little speck of rotting food. It just doesn't want to get thrown away.