When I was about eleven-years-old my friend John had a plug of cherry flavored chewing tobacco, only he called it chaw. He swiped it from his brother Joseph when he was passed out drunk. We sunk behind my grandmother’s garage one Sunday and both took a huge hunk of it. I remember it had the consistency of like a thick taffy, but it smelled like sweet earth; like decomposing leaves. It stung my tongue, but not bad, like the bubbles in a softdrink. I thought it would be a hip thing to do. We sat there for what seemed to be about five minuets, when in actuality it was only about thirty seconds. John lost his lunch all over my brown leather church shoes. His face was real pale. I swallowed some juices as I began to laugh at him, and I became overwhelmed by the aroma of Sunday morning breakfast and sweet tobacco candy. It was enough to make a person sick. So I got sick. We never touched Joseph’s tobacco again.