Peanut Butter

Virtually a senior citizen, the wizened student can be seen off in a corner rummaging through his bag, pulling out his after thought version of lunch. He had a new shot at life, this early millennial, this late gen x-er, who liked to identify himself with the portmanteau, x-ennial. Too embarrassed to carry the mantel of the despised, soft millennial and a smidge too young to be a real gen x-er, he aimed his identifying generation as this weird mix of the toughened gen x-er with the tech savvy Millennial. This new chapter in life saw him shed the skin he had most recently outgrown, that of the technician, and now sees him enter this new chrysalis, that of an academic student. Nervously, not externally mind you, just a creeping internal dread, he pulled from his weathered backpack several fruit, one now too bruised to eat, a can of generic cola, a container of mixed seeds and legumes, and his one source of normalcy, a PB&J.

He exemplified the new model of the midlife crisis; one of health and self improvement. Unlike his forefathers this man was not going to find a young, gullible, large breasted and tiny brained piece arm candy, nor buy a V8 convertible with flames on the sides and a too loud muffler, supped up with the most bass of stereos. He, falling in line with the rest of his generation, had made a series of wise lifestyle changes that would help him to age more gently and provide him the ease of living denied to his more machismo ancestors. One of those changes was the dreaded veganism, well not really, he still liked honey, maybe whole foods/plant based diet. Well, if you ignore the fake meats he habitually consumed, which were in no way whole, but at least plant based. He placed the items of his lunch on the little coffee table in front of him. The dread mentioned earlier ebbed and flowed gently, deep inside, just out of view of his conscience, but he knew it was there. He looked around the room and then back at his bachelor style lunch.

He had raised several kids by this point and was quite sure some of his children’s friends attended this fine institution. From this experience, he knew without doubt, that peanut butter was forbidden. Akin to the unholy serin gas, it kills within minutes. He knew that there were some Darwinian exceptions that, upon a mere whiff of that savoury and all too common legume, would cause some peoples throats to go stage eleven, Brazilian Ju Jitsu choke hold, no tap, anaphylactic. Their only hope would be a deftly administered epi-pen and a metric fuck-ton of Benadryl, or some other prescribed antihistamine. However, he himself was not fresh out of high school. He had been in the adult work force for more than a generation. There, people ate what they wanted, signs would be put up if you needed to avoid a sensitive location where a survivor of the allergy frenzy resided, but there were no signs present here, that he had seen at least.

What to do. The sandwich was simple. A couple pieces of corporate artisanal whole wheat bread, the kind sold in the normal bread isle that hinted at ancient wholesomeness on the breads label, and was encrusted with various seeds and oats. Then a simple smearing of pure, natural peanut butter, the kind that separates if not refrigerated. The other slice was smeared, just as well, in jam that looked healthy, but he knew to have a glycemic index that would send a diabetic hard over into insulin shock. It was so simple, yet how could he eat it. The dread welled up again. He lifted his gaze and floated it around the room. It was filled with youthful faces, some animatedly talking about god knows what, some deep into studies as they bent over a laptop while shoveling their varied lunches into their studious faces. He knew he only belonged here on paper. He knew these adult children only accepted him as long as he didn’t say or do anything out of line with there gen Z codes and edicts. This was the source of that pulsating dread. It was like being at high school all over again. Between those experiences and the many foot-in-mouth experiences he had had raising his own children, this environment would best be described as very triggering for him and his anxiety.

There were still no signs prohibiting peanut butter that he could see. Logically, he knew, these students didn’t care one bit about his presence. Maybe he should eat outside. His gaze went to the window, which told him that yes, it was still raining akin to the deluge described in Fat Joe and Lil Wayne’s song about their behavior at strip clubs. He looked back at the student body and it dawned on him. There was a lot of multiculturalism here. Surely, there would be signs, at least for the Thai students at minimum. He had an utmost appreciation of the use of peanuts in there foods. There would be signs if peanuts were bad. Should he ask. No. He was being a panic-stricken idiot.

He pulled out the mildly smooshed PB&J, took one last glance around and took a bite. Things were fine, he was worrying way too much. This is what nerves will do to you, he admonished himself. He placed the partially eaten sandwich down on the zip-lock bag he brought it in and peeled his banana, the mix of flavors would be, and normally is satisfying. Then he heard a commotion.

“Linda, Linda what’s wrong. Oh my God, are you chocking!?!?”

He spun around and the young woman directly behind him, was indeed choking.

“Oh my God, Linda!”, her friend began vigorously patting ‘Linda’ on the back. “Help! Help! She’s choking, Oh my God!”

He stepped forward, surely that first aid training he took as a much younger man could come back to him, help him save this young lady.

The friend looked up at him. “Is that Peanut Butter? What the fuck!? Get away!”

Apparently, he had leaked some of his, now room temperature and therefore liquified, peanut butter into his beard. He wiped at it as he exclaimed. “But, I’m trying to help?”

“She’s allergic to peanut butter, you fucking asshole! Get the fuck away!” She screamed, still patting at her friends back. “Help! this asshole just gave my friend peanuts!”

He stood there in shock. “I am so sorry, here I’ll call an ambulance.” He fumbled for his phone.

“Just get the fuck away! Help!”

A throng of students had now crowded around to spectate, and murmur their incredulity at this boomer tyrant who actually brought peanut butter into school. Their phones out and recording the whole calamity. Just then a couple of sharply uniformed, overweight and out of breath, medic-types shouldered through the crowd of gawkers.

“Out of the way miss,” the woman medic with short, tightly curled blond hair pushed the frantic friend to the side. “Does she have an epi-pen!” she demanded from the stricken girl.

“Um, she..she used,” the medic cut her off, an exaggerated eye roll and a dramatic head turn as she focused on her medical duffle bag and the victim, cursing in a frustrated tone, “Teenagers.”

The medic violently ripped open the bag and pulled out a fistful of epi-pens. “What happened?” She demanded.

“That man,” one of the kids pointed at him with their free hand, “he had a peanut butter sandwich!” Recoding the whole interaction, his dumbfounded expression, and the condemning looks of the gaggle that stood all around him.

He stood there frozen, this calamity was so surreal that he had lost all grip on his outward ability to interact with the world. “I…I…”, he stammered.

The angry blond woman knelt over the asphyxiated girl. “I hope you enjoyed it, sir.” She spat, fierce blue eyes rimmed red with passion and rage. She stared at him as she slammed an epi-pen into the girls leg. She held the implement there as well as her fiery gaze, for what felt like minutes, then an audible click came from the device. The medic, who looked like she’d moonlit as a bouncer at dive bar, kept her gaze locked on him as she deftly tossed the used auto-injector haphazardly into the crowd and took another of the anaphylaxis fighting devices from her partner and stabbed it in the leg of the girl for a second time. The crowd was silent, save for the odd “Oh my God”. The rageful gaze of the medic remained, again another click, and another sequence. Toss, stab, stare, click.

After the third dose, a wheeze rose from the prone girls mouth. Her eyes flitted open. “You’re alright now, missy. Glenda’s got you.” The bouncer-esque medic said gently to the casualty. “Stan, go prepare the stretcher. This ones gonna need a hospital stat.” She barked at her slow looking colleague. The fierce eyes scanned the crowd. “Break it up kids, nothing more to see here.” She began taking the victims vitals in an authoritative manner. “You’ll be fine kid. I know, this type of things happens every year. You’d really think they’d put signs up or something.”