Payday

A Payday is an ode to anachronistic legibility, a time when things made sense. Its brand radiates blue-collar pride, frankness, and muscle. It is a battle flag for honest work, the trade of sweat and strain for a fistful of cash. And despite inflation, computers, and the increasing abstraction of labor and life, Payday's flag still waves. Humility has served it well. While 100 Grand and Millionaires are bygone relics, relegated to the lower shelves of nostalgic candy shops, Payday has persisted.

Why? It's not because it's good. It doesn't need to be. Payday isn't here to be eaten. It's here to provide assurance. Payday is an all-caps declaration to yourself and to the world that you will not go hungry. Even if you miss a meal, even if there's no time to sit and eat properly, you've got a pile of peanuts sugar-glue together so dense you could wolf it down in a minute or less. No one starves with provisions like that. Payday's assurance extends beyond the practical: It's too large to fit in a pocket, and that's by design.  It's made to conspicuously shuttle from coat to backpack to toolbag, its knobbly weight assuring you it's still there, always there, until you need it. In all these ways, a Payday provides security. Whether you eat it or not, you're going to make it to tomorrow.

But will you eat it? A king size Payday in particular is too much. Opening one is like walking into a casino with a wad of fresh bills. Sure, it sounds fun, but you know deep down that once you start, you're not stopping until it's all gone. So it's best to wait as long as you can.

Still, a Payday held garners no interest. The moment inevitably comes where you are hungry or weak or just riding high on the hog, and you tear open that wrapper to get yourself a fix.

Here reality sets in. Denuded of its white, orange, and blue wrapper (a visual nod to baseball—and perhaps to its chocolatey cousin, Baby Ruth) a Payday is ugly. It could have been conceived and assembled by a five year old. It is caramel, roasted peanuts, and nothing more. All the nuts are on the outside, an embarrassing overshare. The caramel is shameless and uncouth, spilling out from every crack, its wide cross section visible at either end of the bar. You can see the a clean cut from the factory knives that separate each bar from the next, scars from the confectionary accountant that measures and chops each ration from an endless pipeline of nut-smothered caramel.

All that uncomfortable honesty suddenly makes sense the moment your tongue touches the bar. The salt is bracingly beautiful. It's invisible and satisfying, a bright, major-chord theme song for the sweet and fat that follows. And the salt sticks to your lips, a wakeful reminder when next you lick them that you had a Payday today. As you take your first bite, the toasty aroma of peanuts intensifies. Nuts crack and caramel tears as your teeth opens them up to breathe with you for the first time. The roasted peanuts are already soft,  but the milky caramel cushion behind them makes them feel softer, a shock absorber for your teeth, your cue to tear off each bite to chew.

As the caramel cranks up your blood sugar, the peanuts are a welcome drag, slowing and satiating. You know you should stop here for a breather, and the peanuts are your ally in that respect. They are the chilly greeting of fathers everywhere on the day sons and daughters bring home their very first paychecks. They are the stern paternal finger pointing to the envelope as he tells you, "Save this." 

This is the turning point. This is the casino moment. Leave now and it's still fun.

But you can't help yourself.

You continue inhaling the rest of the candy bar. It's candy, you're hungry, and your father is not here to intervene. Each new bite lands harder than the last. The sugar feels worse and worse. It burns feebly while the pile of peanuts grows cold and hard inside you, a nutritive lump the sugar can't burn hot enough to light. You feel full, but not nourished. Your stomach has something in it, something better than emptiness, but you lost something along the way. You've lost your appetite for anything healthy, anything real.

When you stop, it's not out of discipline. It's a visceral response. At some point your body despairs. This is the moment to claim what's left, rewrap it, and ask yourself: if this is what getting fed feels like, is this the assurance you want to keep in your pocket? Is this really the life you want for yourself?

And so you do. The all-caps flag is lowered and forgotten. You wait in dull fullness, working off your gut until your appetite returns. Hungry again, you dream not of your next Payday, not of what it might buy you, but of how next time it’ll go different. You’ll be different. Next time, you’ll win.