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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.
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