SANDWICHES

"Mom, is this all the peanut butter you have?"

"You're taking all my peanut butter? Why?"

"I'm making a bunch of sandwiches for a family sitting on the corner of the intersection at Pioneer Parkway. They're holding signs that say, "hungry."

I was on winter break, home from college for a few weeks. I didn't have much cash but I had time and a big heart.

I drove and parked my car at a shopping center nearby. I got out and walked across the busy intersection until I approaced the family, clutching my brown paper bags filled with food. "They are going to be so relieved and grateful when they see all this food," I thought to myself. "They've probably been sitting here all day, and who knows if anyone has brought them anything to eat yet."

"Whatcha got there?" asked the man with the sign as I handed him the bags.

"Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," I replied, looking over and smiling at his family.

"God damn peanut butter and jelly. That's all we ever get! Don't you people think we'd ever like something else?" He continued to mutter several expletives, shocking my much too young, much too naive senses, not with his words, but with his ungrateful attitude. Altruism aside, I guess I did expect a "thank you."

I walked back to my car, seething. Didn't they realize that I used up my mom's lunch supplies for them? She works two jobs and barely has time to feed herself, but she always has a peanut butter sandwich. And I went and used up all her bread, all her peanut butter, all her jam. I felt awful. She was the generous one, not me.

And how was I supposed to know that homeless famlies were overwhelmed with pb and j's? I've been holed up in a small liberal arts compound for the last couple of years. I know everything there is to know about everything. Guess I missed the class on "What to Feed Your Cranky Neighborhood Homeless Guy." But seriously, are homeless families really buried under the weight of these soggy-sugary-fruit-and-nut-spread children's lunch box staples? Why don't they just build houses out of them if they receive so many?

"Bitter much?" I asked myself.

Actually, this was a new flavor for me. Growing up with an abusive, alcoholic father had given me a taste of anger. Well, more than a taste. It was force-fed and shoveled down my throat. Anger, disappointment, sadness..these were gut-level responses that I'd become accustomed to. Like air. Like breathing. But bitterness? I felt awash in a weird sensation. An intense antagonism overcame me. I felt stiff.

I was mad at the man who cussed me out. I was mad at myself for not being more educated on the sandwich preferences of the homeless. I was mad at the world for allowing such a societal problem to occur. I was mad at peanut butter for existing in such abundance.

"Fuck it."

I got in my car and drove home.