Fatigued and overwhelmed after a trying day of work at his chosen profession, young John Libby turns for some semblance of peace to the only place that makes sense to him any more: a half-eaten bag of Bachman's Jax. He contentedly munches away at these delightful nuggets of cheese and corn as he discusses his day with his lovely wife, who, as usual, is mesmerized by his clever accounts of his working life. John remembers the sheer joy that is Jax from his childhood. Life was simpler then, consisting mainly of, well, Jax.
As he shovels load after load of corny, cheesy wonder into his mouth, he meditates on the origins of the name Jax. Do they call it that because it rhymes with snacks? Because the cheese curls resemble the jumbled pieces of the game of jacks? Is there any meaning at all to this name, or was it a random assemblage of letters meant to elicit still more random pondering. John wonders. But he moves on.
Placing his work clothes on the appropriate hangers, John changes into a comfortable pair of Arizona jeans. Most of his clothes come from JC Penney these days, and he wonders what this says about him and the current state of his life. Very little, he decides.
John sleeps the sleep of the dead that evening. Rest has always been something he's good at.
He awakens the next day. The work week is much like any other. Time passes. He celebrates being home with his wife and child, savoring the time with his three month old baby. Until she begins crying.
The following Monday, John awakens and dresses in the mirrorless bedroom, as is his habit. What could be wrong about dressing in a room without mirrors, he thinks. Everybody wins.
John keeps notes for work in the front pocket of his shirt where they are easily accessible. It is a good plan, he knows. At midday, he removes the notes from his pocket and prepares his lunch. As he does so, he glances down at his shirt and sees an unnaturally orange ball in his pocket. As he looks closer, he realizes that this is a tiny morsel of cheese puff. I don't even remember eating cheese puffs, he thinks. It is then that he fondly hearkens back to the delightful Jax scarfing post-work episode of the previous week.
Amused and appalled, John realizes that the baked corn and cheese snack crumb has leaked through his pocket, leaving a gruesome smear of light orange and the telltale permanently moist look of the grease stain.
John now knows that he is not only wearing a shirt that has not been laundered in a week but one that also has a dirty, stale cheesy passenger on board. What does this say about him? What does this say about his life?
Not a lot, he decides. He moves on.
