He was thirty five. Clean shaven. Dressed in business casual. When he pulled it out, he had been digging for a while. But he never really consciously acknowledged his prize. He just let it sit on finger and absentmindedly played with it.
It was one of those long sticky ones. The kind that reach way up into the sinuses and have tendrils that cling to the base of your eyeball. When he pulled it out, I knew he felt it because his mouth opened in that silent, pseudo-orgasmic exhale that sometimes accompanies intense physical sensation. It isn’t pain. It isn’t pleasure. It’s an unnamed pressure wave that leaves a profound sense of relief when it’s gone.
Once it was free he rolled it around between his thumb and forefinger for a while. It changed color from bright yellow to a dull grey and it got less sticky the more he played with it. Like when a band-aid you keep opening and closing to check to the wound finally loses all it’s glue.
When the stick was gone, he squeezed it, folded it over, and squeezed it again. He just kept playing with it. For minutes. While his other hand was busy holding a iPhone with some video playing on it.
And then….
And then….
As it started to stiffen up and be less fun to squeeze….
He ate it.
I witnessed this on a plane from Chicago to Houston December 2, 2015.