Peanut Butter

         “Hey Lady! Hellooooo Laaady!!!”

I hear the rumbling of the old beater behind me. The voice bellowing above its sputtering. I’m startled at first. Who’s hollering at me now? I quicken my step, having turned off Roosevelt onto 30^th Street toward Barrett. But the car follows me. Makes the turn too.

            It idles in the middle of the street, its owner hanging out the window, cigarette smoke blasting out the open window. I don’t know him, of course. But that never stops anyone, esp. Strange Men, from hailing me. What does this guy want? I try to ignore him, but it’s impossible as he leans out the window, grinning at me, a dirty beanie on his head, a delighted twinkle in his eye.

            “I’m looking for peanut butter!” he hollers at me.

            What???? He can’t have said that, right? I mean, peanut butter? Why would he be looking for that? And more importantly, why would he tell me or ask me? It’s not like I’m rolling a peanut butter cart down the street. “Get your peanut butter now! Fresh outta the Jiffy Jar!”

            My father loved peanut butter. He’d pile Saltines high into a tower, slathered in peanut butter to make little square sandwiches. I remember his unabashed delight at these little peanut butter squares. When I went to visit him at his sad little apartment in the Valley, during his separation from my mother, this is the first thing he offered. A Saltine peanut butter sandwich appetizer before the main course of spaghetti and Ragu sauce from a jar.

            This guy obviously likes peanut butter too. But, why tell me? I could tell him to continue down 30^th street, make a left-hand turn, head down Barrett till 37^th. He’ll see Val Mar on the corner. I’m sure they have peanut butter there. Though maybe not. It’s mostly a liquor store with a nice ice cream section. The owners know their neighborhood clientele.

            Peanut Butter Man continues to grin at me. No mask, of course. I can’t help but grin behind my mask at his request. But don’t offer him the directions to Val Mar. I try not to engage with these strange men on my Pandemic Pacings, but they always seem to find me. I keep thinking my Weirdo Magnet will die out as I age, but frankly, it seems worse. What is it about me that sparks an invitation to engage? It’s not like I’m asking for it. These men just see me, follow me, and then ask me weird questions.

            Like, I’m looking for peanut butter? Or was it I’m looking for peanut butter. Just an assertion, letting me know what his day’s purpose was.

            Who knows? I still can’t really believe that this is what he said. But what else could it have been? I’m looking for people butter? I’m looking for peanut water?

            He’s still grinning at me, then starts to move away slowly, his old beater car chugging out exhaust. “It’s a beautiful day!” he calls out.

            “Yes, it is,” I agree.

            “You have a blessed one!” He waves goodbye.

            “Thanks, you too,” I say, hoping he finds the peanut butter he’s looking for. After all, he may just be in search of protein. A good thing that we all could use.

            As I watch his old car sputter away, I notice his license plate. The number written indecipherably in red crayon. Is he on the lam? Is the quest for peanut butter some clandestine enterprise?

            A group of masked neighbors are milling about in front of one of their houses, socially distanced and chatting seriously. None of them look at me. None of them watch Peanut Butter Man drive away.

            I shrug and walk on. The pink flowers are blooming on the fruit trees, the clouds puffy against the grey blue sky. I turn the corner and head up Barrett. No Peanut Butter here, but the day is young.