'Gummies of Death'
I remember.
I remember the look of the field, the tan dirt flying in the air, drifting back into the green grass of the outfield. My dad stood, stoic in his posture, waiting in his jersey and cleats. It was a night game at Riverside Park.
I remember the old, faded-red stands, now gone to maybe a lumber mill, or recycled into a dumpster far away from here. My mother sat to my left, or maybe the right. I squirmed around as I chewed, careful enough not to get a splinter from my seat. I grabbed another handful of gummy worms from the paper bag that rested on the wooden seat next to me.
I chewed. I took another hand full of gummies.
I chewed. And then I didn’t.
If you thought this was going to be a heartfelt story about how I love gummy worms, think again.
I can’t remember what it felt like to choke in that moment. I assume it felt a lot like when you eat a mozzarella stick and the cheese gets caught in your throat. That happened at Olive Garden a couple of years later. In that moment, I thought I was going to die, so I think it’s fine that we assume the same emotions for the gummy worm incident.
I felt like I was going to die.
My mom took her hand and fished them out. I’m not proud of that one, but hey, I was like four. Give me a break.
Fast forward 14 or 15 years and here we are. My mother no longer cuts up my food for me and I occasionally tie my own shoes. And here’s a hint for you: I very rarely eat gummy worms now.
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My dad and I were driving south on Michigan Avenue past the hospital.
He turned to me, very seriously, and said, “you ask too many questions.”
I sat for a moment, nodded my head, and agreed. He’s right. I do ask questions, probably more than a 20-year-old should. But hey, that’s who I am, all questions and no answers. What a lovely life it is.
So if there are no answers, where do we go from here? Our options are:
Drop out now and forget that I ever tried to do this, change my name to Diablo Fuego and run a sketchy taco shop out of the back of a van, or…
I could do my best to start answering the tough questions that we face each day, like the threat of nuclear warfare or whether or not you should buy a Chia Pet.
I’ve got my big boy pants on, so here we go.
Sour gummy worms are better than regular gummy worms.
I understand this may come as a shock to you. I know, a straight shooter like me, taking a dance on the wild side with sour gummies. It might even be devastating to hear that I’ve eaten gummy worms since that fateful day at Riverside.
Or, maybe it didn’t come as a shock to you. In that case, you’re one of us. Welcome to the Sour Club. Hopefully most of the world is with us.
The gummies that I half ingested that night at the park, before my mom saved the day (Which, by the way, thank you. I don’t ever recall actually thanking you for that, and I don’t think I’d be the same person today if, you know, the gummies continued to block my trachea.) were not sour.
The gummies that chocked me were just regular, run of the mill, bland worms.
So here I stand today, actually sitting, and I answer the fateful question, the question that has divided people and mannequins alike: Sweet or Sour Gummy Worms? My answers stand solid, and will continue to do so.
Take a dance on the wild side and choose sour. Answer questions boldly. Tell people what they mean to you more often. Enjoy life. And no matter what you do, please, don’t eat more than two at a time.
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Also, if you’ve made it this far and you were still wondering about the two questions from earlier not related to this piece:
No to nuclear warfare.
Yes to the Chia Pet.
