Every kingdom starts with a taste for something sweet.
“Thus do men swallow the honeyed poison of the mouth.”
— Lucretius, On The Nature of Things, Book IV
“So long as man remains free, he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find someone to worship.”
— Ivan Karamazov, The Brothers Karamazov
Ivan The Parable Speaks:
“Spit it out,” I told him. “That’s gross.”
The youngest in our cap-gun gang, he never even had money for his own caps—or for gum.
We did sometimes, when our sticky fingers found a little change lying on a coffee table next to an ashtray. But he never did. And aside from a few coins we could scrounge from the return slots of Pepsi machines or public telephones, all we had were long days, scabbed knees, and a world still waiting for a Nintendo.
“Spit it out, I said.”
He shook his head.
Too little to do chores, or even tie his own shoes, he didn’t get an allowance.
“Dude. That’s sick!” my buddy said. “We didn’t buy that.”
“Yah-huh.”
The only candy we bought came from the Corner Store, paid for with the little pile of dimes we’d scraped together by trading in Coke bottles we found in the rocks, down by the river.
We all knew our inventory.
It wasn’t the stuff kids with a pile of quarters could afford—the candy cigarettes, the Big League Chew that came in pouches like the pros used, or even the Jerky Stuff that came in little plastic tins that looked just like real dip. That was the high-end gear for the boys who already practiced spitting like their dads.
No, we could only afford little dime boxes of candy. And between us, all we had was a half box of Alexander the Grapes, a quarter box of Hot Tamales, and a nearly full box of Johnny Apple Treats.
No gum.
“Where’d you get that? Spit it out!”
The kid pleaded the Fifth, then raised his cap gun, leveled it at me, and pulled the trigger.
Pap!
He was my buddy’s little brother, a tagalong. His mom always made us take him on our Saturday adventures, and sometimes after Sunday school, where we learned all about floods and gardens and snakes and drove Mrs. Maria—our Sunday-school teacher—half mad.
To tell the truth, we didn’t mind having the kid along. It was better with him—more bad guys to chase, and someone to tie up to a tree.
“I said, spit it out. You got it off the sidewalk.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Yes, you did. Like the last time.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Look—right there. Same color. I can see where you peeled it off.”
“Duuuuude! I’m gonna tell your mom.”
Somewhere in the distance, a cloud passed before the Sun, and cast a cold shadow. Thunder rolled.
And then, reluctantly, he spat it into the dust, and we got back to business: a friendly game of Capture The Flag.
I lost count of how many times I caught him doing it. He seemed to have a sixth sense for it—like a bloodhound on a Double Bubble trail. Not even a red herring could throw him off. Somehow he could spot a pink or purple wad from twenty yards away—under a picnic table, in the park grass—a little moist, still sticky-sweet, and just soft enough to chew and blow bubbles.
Ah, the wonder years.
Of course, it was only a phase. He grew out of it—or seemed to.
But some habits are stickier. They don’t disappear. Like gum spat out on a summer sidewalk, they just change shape—and wait there, patient as a spider, for the next sneaker to wander by.
Now, decades later, when I see his posts drift like a cloud through my feed, I catch myself whispering the same words: spit it out.
Only this time, it isn’t gum.
It’s the sweet, sticky certainty he’s picked up from the digital sidewalk—pre-chewed by profit-driven strangers, scraped from the tread of their designer shoes, and wrapped up again to look prettier than any pack of Juicy Fruit or Hubba Bubba, and more addictive than a Kings candy cigarette.
These days, the wads he sniffs out aren’t pink or purple but bright red and blue—the brand colors of Fox News, Newsmax, and OAN—the artificial colors of the post-Fairness Doctrine generation, raised on outrage and crowned by certainty.
And what draws him in now isn’t so much the sugar or the promise of bubbles, but the long-legged, short-skirted confidence of a blond hostess in high heels—her toenails painted, a small gold cross resting on her breast. She sits prim and proper between two middle-aged men who nod as she speaks, then tell her, patiently, how to tie a villain up to a tree.
Somewhere along the way, the kid lost that bloodhound knack—the one that once kept him from swallowing the red herring. He used to hate fish more than his Sunday school lessons. Now he gulps them down whole—head to tail, scales, slime, bones—and pledges his appetite to Christian Nationalism for all.
Worse still, many of my old buddies—the guys who once rode shotgun on those cap-gun Saturdays—have developed the same taste. I can picture them on fishing trips, out on the lake, a six-pack in, radio on, unable to resist singing the old song:
“Chewy, chewy, chewy, chewy, chewy bubble gum—I love it! I love it!”
These are the boys I grew up with—the ones I played wizards and warriors with in the forest, trying to save the princess; the ones I chased cows through the meadows with, who ran beside me when the bull finally decided it’d had enough.
From those mountain meadows we could see Lassen, blue and distant, snow-capped even in August, and silent, like a promise or a warning we were too young to understand.
They were my football buddies—The Volcanoes—the guys I practiced with, won with, lost with, drank with, smoked bowls with, jumped cars with, got stupid with, double-dated with, graduated with.
Then we moved on and faded like smoke into our own worlds. Some married. Others didn’t. Some had kids, some divorced.
Many of us don’t talk these days. Some have unfriended each other. We don’t all trust—or even like—each other anymore. We don’t meet to fish and drink beer.
We’ve been divided, as if by design—caught up in an insidious game of Capture the Flag.
Some are tied to trees, and don’t even know it.
Most of us refuse to spit out our favorite flavors, or risk disappointing the pretty blonde girl with long legs, painted toenails, high heels, and a gold cross glittering against her wholesome breast.
🌈 If you missed Field Note 3¾ — The Rainbow Connection: Don’t Believe Everything You Think, click here.
🫥 If you missed Field Note 3.1 — The Phantom Pronoun: The Fog of ‘They’: Macbeth, Propaganda, and the Aftermath of Charlie Kirk’s Murder, click here.
🎧 Prefer to listen to this piece? Click here.
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