Altoids by the Fistful
Published September 21, 2025
“Wh— what did you say?”
It’s close to six o’clock on a weekday afternoon and the bar is starting to get noisy with the after-work crowd. It’s entirely possible I misheard that last part.
“Altoids! I find the spearmint works a little better overall, but recently I’ve started switching flavors depending on the situation.”
I’ve worked with James—“Jim” as everyone on the team knows him—for a little over two years and I’m used to this dance now. He gets a kind of tunnel vision in his excitement about whatever shiny new thing has captured his attention. It’s usually pretty easy to shake him out of it.
“No, Jim, the part before that.”
He looks at me for a moment, inquisitive, before pushing his beer aside. “Here, let me show you.” He reaches underneath the table and produces his beige-on-brown Timbuk2 messenger bag. There is a small wet spot left behind from his drink, and the bag plops right onto it. I watch as one of his stubby hands unbuckles the outermost pouch while the other one pulls out a small green and white tin. I am obviously intended to see this as clearly as possible, evidenced by the way he places it front and center between us.
“Regular everyday Altoids, right? You take about four of them, maybe five.” He flips the lid open and traps the requisite number of small white mints between his fingertips, which he then pops into his mouth. “This is the trick; you gotta half-chew it first.” At least two tiny shards fly in my direction as he speaks these words. It is like listening to a slow K-turn executed on a road covered in gravel and seashells. Three more slow and deliberate chomps, then his bite eases. “Mmm.” The communication style switches to mime: an index finger raised in a “one moment” gesture, followed by an exaggerated point downwards while unzipping the main pouch of the bag. It takes a few seconds of rooting around before the star of this particular show is found.
My eyes barely have enough time to resolve the object under the dismal light at this end of the bar before it’s in his mouth. He’s chewing the full concoction now—mouth closed, thank God. The crunching softens, then fades into the din from a nearby table of sales bros laughing at their sales bro anecdote. Jim is looking at me with a kind of confident smugness I haven’t seen since I bet my buddy at Guitar Center that he couldn’t spontaneously play “Everlong” from memory. A bet I lost, I might add.
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