Solanum Tuberosum

I refrigerated a bag of new potatoes. But potatoes last longer in warmer temperatures. I did not know this. After a week, the potatoes turned into a fetid poss. I threw them out and called my girlfriend, Deb. Deb, I said, how’s it going? I’m okay, she said. What do you want? I asked if she wanted to hang out or go for a bite to eat, I knew a new Mexican joint on the Danforth, El Sol. The owners hailed from Guadalajara and made the real article, none of that Tex-Mex crap. It always bloats me like a buffalo. Not the real stuff, though. You eat and eat—no small portions there—and walk out feeling as light as you were when you entered. I’m in the middle of something, my girlfriend said, and disconnected. I looked at my cellphone with disbelief. Third time she had hung up on me that week. What gives? I thought. I made myself coffee and drank it by the bay window. Black squirrels leaped from the branches of the tall maple in front of my house. I did not find them adorable. And yet I let them be. Life is so funny, I thought. To be laughed at, yes. But also funny as in odd. Life is odd. Why am I here? What’s the reason for it? Surely I was engendered for a reason, though it strains me to think of one that would satisfy my ontological longings. Perhaps the reason for my existence will yet be revealed. That said, I continued making so many mistakes I doubted how useful I would be for any purpose. Deb had been distant, and this sat in the back of my head like a tiny man in a black suit. Would I be tearing out my hair soon, or weeping in the streets? Did I love Deb that much? It was difficult to say. A knock at my door made me jump and spill some coffee on the carpet. Who the fuck is it? I cried. Just your mother, said a voice. My mother? My mother never dropped by unexpectedly. What was her deal? Ma, I said, funny to see you. Funny? she said. What’s funny? Help me with these bags. Come on. Don’t be so bloody useless. I helped her with her lumpy brown bags, wondering what they contained. Fruit, she said. Bought a bunch of melons and grapefruits. They were marked down at Ziggy’s. Why didn’t you call me? I asked, but she waved a hand. I asked if she wanted a coffee, I had just made some. I’m tired, she said. I can’t do this anymore. You should’ve called, I said. And you should be married with kids right now, she said, not living like a monk. What’s the matter with you? Is this how I raised you? I’ve been here two minutes and I’m already choking on the dust. Do you want a cantaloupe? Or grapefruit? I think I got more than I can eat before they go bad. Take a cantaloupe. Ma, I said, I don’t want a cantaloupe. You know I don’t like them. She knew I didn’t like cantaloupe or grapefruit. Had she offered me any other fruit I would have wrung her hands with gratitude. How about that coffee? I said. She nodded and I fixed her a cup in the kitchen. She only took sugar, and insisted on three teaspoons full or she wouldn’t drink it. She joined me in the kitchen, took the cup, and blew on it before she sipped. She wore a black knit sweater over her black dress. She had been wearing black since my father passed away ten years ago. She had stopped dying her hair and it had turned a smoky grey that made her look like an old woman, even though she’s just turned sixty-five. Did you happen to grab some potatoes? I asked and she looked at me blankly. I had bought some, I said, but I put them in the fridge and they went bad. What? she said. They went bad in the fridge. You’re a chooch, she said. I know, I said.

My mother finished her coffee and told me she had to get going. I hadn’t driven since my D.U.I. last Christmas, so I asked if she wanted me to call her a cab, even though she only lived a couple blocks away. I can walk, she said, I’m not done in yet. I don’t feel great, but I still have some fight, son. Don’t you forget it. I won’t, I said. What about all the fruit? You’re going to carry it? That’s why I was hoping you at least take a cantaloupe, or a honeydew. I only picked up one honeydew but you can have it. At last I took the honeydew, which I could tolerate if not too ripe, and walked her to the door. I kissed her cheeks and she patted my chest. Keep an eye on that heart of yours, she said. I was going to ask her what she meant by that but thought better of it. I quickly called Deb back. Hey, I said I forgot to tell you. Look, she said, you have to stop calling me. We talked about this last week. You said you’d give me some space. You’re not giving me much space by calling me every fifteen minutes. I experienced some kind of seizure of the lungs at that moment and burst into a cold sweat. Deb had already hung up on me; I dropped the cellphone to the floor. I staggered to the sofa and threw myself down, panting and sweating like a beast. Of course, I thought, I haven’t been listening to her. I haven’t been listening to her at all. I hadn’t respected her request for space. Had I respected her wishes, perhaps this knife wound in my heart would not exist. But I had proved annoying, even creepy, and I had to live with it now, the realization that no matter what I did, I would never win back Deb’s favours, that I would forever be that guy, that guy who would not leave her alone, who even after she told him to cease and desist he persisted without a moment’s consideration for her feelings. I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water. I looked at myself and realized that I had grown nauseatingly ugly in a matter of a few weeks. My eyes bulged; my cheeks were florid and blemished, my nose pocked and distended, and my lips like a scabby slit in my face. My hair tufted out from the sides of my hair like a mad scientist’s. I hadn’t shaved in weeks and as my beard was scant, sparse whiskers added to my deranged and dissolute appearance. For a moment I considered plucking out my eyes like Saint Lucia and putting them on a platter as she did, though I didn’t suffer from untenable and uncontainable lust. My libido had long ago boarded a bus to the county of Abstinence. Another knock at my door took me by even greater surprise than the first. This time I answered prepared to scold whomever it was, for disrupting my self-wallowing, which can be soothing if you let it. Ma, I said upon seeing standing there again, bearing lumpy brown bags. What’s this? I said. I went home and dropped off the fruit then I went back to the grocery store and bought you some potatoes. Don’t put them in the fridge this time. Store them in your pantry, and keep them in the paper bags so they don’t get eyes. See how smooth these are? I don’t think I’ve seen such perfect potatoes. They were nice, I thought. You didn’t have to do that, Ma, I said. I know, she said, I know. She set the bags down and plucked a large potato from one of them. Look how gorgeous it is, she said, holding up the potato and turning it this way and that. It’s a Yukon Gold, I said. Is that what it is? she said, her eyes shining in the glow of the beautiful tuber.