Skoal, Sweat, and a Side of No Thank You

In East Texas, we started everything early. Driving tractors, making biscuits and gravy, and yes, dating. I was just 14 when I went on my first “official” date. Sure, it sounds wild now, but in East Texas, if you could giggle and shift gears, someone was picking you up at six.

He was a country boy through and through, pressed Wranglers so starched they could stand up on their own, a belt buckle bigger than my head, and a drawl that could stretch a two-syllable word into five.

He’d been hanging around the Sonic a little too long for my mama’s liking, but he was polite and offered dinner and a movie. For a girl who’d been eating boxed mac ‘n cheese and watching rented VHS tapes, this felt like a full-on red carpet event.

Then came the pickup truck. The second I opened that door, a gust of pure death smacked me in the face. It was a hot blend of musty sweat, motor oil, and something...earthy. My eyes watered. I tried to play it cool, but then I saw it: a dark, muddy clump tucked into his bottom lip. The dreaded skoal, now if you don’t know what Skoal is, bless your city heart. It’s a powdery tobacco dip that East Texas boys scoop up and shove into their lips like it’s protein powder.

Then they spit. And spit. Into anything available, cans, cups, bottles, sometimes the floorboards. His truck had all of the above. And friends, it smelled like the truck had been living off that spit for a decade.

I climbed in like I was stepping into a crime scene. He smiled big. “You like George Strait?” he asked, turning the radio up. I nodded politely, even though the smell of Skoal and exhaust fumes had me teetering on the edge of nausea. I spent the ride to the restaurant with the window down and my nose halfway out like a basset hound trying to survive.

Dinner was fine. Hamburger steak and mashed potatoes, East Texas romance cuisine. He talked a lot about fishing and hunting and the time he killed a water moccasin with a golf club. I nodded and smiled while sipping sweet tea and praying my nose would go numb.

Then came the movie. He picked something loud and action-packed, think explosions, helicopters, and bad 90s one-liners. I was just getting settled when he stretched his arm around my shoulders like he was auditioning for Grease. That’s when I got a whiff of the other problem.

Underarm funk. Strong. Pungent. Unapologetic.

I suddenly became a coughing mess. Light cough. Strong cough. Throat rub. I whispered, “Oh no, I think I’m coming down with a cold...”

He grinned. “Me too. Sore throat and all.

”Well, shoot.

Desperate, I said, “Yeah, when I get sick, I have terrible breath. Like, stay-10-feet-away breath.”

He shrugged. “That’s why I dip. Covers it right up.”

My stomach lurched. I spent the rest of the movie glued to my seat, calculating escape plans and plotting how to get dropped off without a parking lot kiss situation. I tried to act progressively sicker as we neared my house. Coughing. Sniffling. Gurgling. If I had Dramamine, I would’ve faked a seizure.

He pulled into the driveway. I was seconds from freedom when he did the unthinkable: turned off the ignition. 

Oh no. Truck off meant time to talk. Maybe... smooch.

I reached for the door, chirped a chipper “Thanks for the night!” and grabbed the handle, but his hand caught my arm. “Hold on now,” he said, smirking. “A kiss might make that steak and movie worth it.”

My brain screamed. Every instinct in my body yelled Nooooooo!

So I blurted the only thing I could, in a frantic stream that came out like a foreign language:

“IHatetheSmellofSkoalYouNeedDeodorantAndPleaseShowerBeforeYouTakeAGirlOut!”

He blinked. “What?”

Help me.

I took a breath and tried again: “No kiss. Ever. Not with that... stuff in your lip.”

I tried to scoot out of the truck but kicked something on the floor. A loud clink. Then a slosh. Oh no. I looked down. I had just knocked over one of twenty dip spit containers.

He saw it too, and I swear on Momma’s banana pudding, he laughed.

“Good luck,” he said with a wink. “’Round here, every real man dips.”

I jumped out like the seat was on fire, slammed the door, and hollered over my shoulder:

“Then I guess I’m holdin’ out for a unicorn, cowboy!”

I took off up the walkway like my boots were on fire, heart pounding, stomach flipping, but I swear, behind me, I heard it.

That deep, country hee-haw laugh echoing through the night like a coonhound on a scent. And just as I reached the front door, I could’ve sworn I heard him mutter through his chuckles, “What a woman!”