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This morning I stopped at a gas station to fill up before heading to work. While I was pumping gas, I glanced around and saw a man sitting by his car. He was an older man, wearing a mask, and he had a small table set up with canisters on top. He waved, and we exchanged pleasantries, and while gas flowed briskly into my tank at nearly 3 dollars a gallon, I walked over to chat with him and see what his wares were. He had seasoning, mild and spicy, and cleaned catfish. I told him I was heading into work and didn't need to buy anything frozen, but he insisted I see the catfish. It was pretty, he said. He popped the trunk of his car and opened a grimy cooler. Inside were zippered bags of frozen catfish. I ooohed and ahhed admiringly. It was, indeed, pretty catfish, and the price was very reasonable. I told him again, though, that I was heading away from home, so I couldn't get anything that needed refrigeration. We are in the middle of Southern summer, after all. I asked when he would be back at the station. Being unsure of his schedule, he told me he would give me his number. He reached into a small plastic sandwich container and pulled out what I thought would be a business card. Instead, it turned out to be a neatly handwritten note on a piece of precisely trimmed copy paper. It contained his name, number, and the fact that he also sold sweet potatoes. Now it was time for the seasoning. The man sprinkled some of the stuff in my hand so that I could taste it. Both kinds. If I had been watching this scene on television, I would have yelled at the tv, telling the character not to do it. "You don't know what is in that!" I would say. "He may be trying to knock you out and put you in the trunk with the catfish!" I would scream at the tv. But, face to masked face with the gentleman, I, of course, tasted both the mild and the spicy seasoning and ended up buying one container of each.
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