The Last Potato

“You’re better than this,” Peter thought as his weakening eyes struggled to remain locked onto his prey. “It’s the last one. You can do this”.

 Sat in the centre of a greasy ceramic dish, littered by the crumbs of his fallen comrades, a lone roast potato continued to steam away into the air untouched by the rest of the occupants around the dinner table. From below, where the action took place, out of the view of his two kids and partner who was spending a considerably long time in the bathroom; Peter’s belly extended beyond the confides of his jeans at the unbuckling of his belt and knew it was game over.

 In fact, the whole scene had morphed into disaster. The table was littered with mountains of dishes and serving trays that now needed to be washed by people too full to stand up. The candles had devoured themselves beyond their holders and were now dripping onto the unfortunately placed condiments below. The TV began the night originally playing a YouTube video titled ‘4 hours of the best thanksgiving playlist’ for some authentic atmosphere. This finished moments prior to the meal’s end and the auto play had queued a DIY video – ‘How to fix a pedal bin’ – from Peter’s recommended list which was now blaring unbearable whizzing of tools from the speaker. The kids looked fed up as did the pitch black night that was blocked out by the thick layer of condensation coated on every window conjured by moisture that racked up by the many bodies and cooked items failing to escape the overly warm apartment space. Peter’s fourteen year old Jack Russell, Wiggum, laid flat and wide on his warn down pillow. The dog was too busy panting with exhaustion over its own existence to concern himself with scraps. The cherry on top was the fact that the individual this whole night was in aid of had been hiding in the bathroom for so long it had become a painfully sore subject that no one wated to address.

 Most weekends, Melissa would be consistently attentive and present. She knew that Peter’s kids were hard work like he described but would never let these verbal obstacles deter her from trying to get along with everyone. She loved Peter after all. No matter how many snide comments and complete acts of ignorance Melissa endured, her bright smile and uncanny delightfulness melted effortlessly through the frozen callousness that would try and penetrate her composure. Without a single sound from the bathroom to confirm whether she was in a positive state or not, Peter was becoming increasingly anxious.

 “Why is she taking so long?” He nervously gulped, trying his best to ignore the temptation to run over to the door for minutes on end. He was desperately tempted to knock and ask if Melissa was okay, but he’d done that twice already and wanted to keep up the appearance of the confident English gentlemen he originally sold himself as in her eyes. “No, I’ll give her time”.

 For weak comic relief, Wiggum, excreted a long soundless gust of air from his backside. His watery melancholy eyes glistened sadly and never broke contact with their owner.

 “Jesus Christ, Wiggy!” The young lad, Ian, gasped.

 “Daaaad” Maisie, his daughter whined, like it was Peter’s fault the dog had constipation.

 “Has he had his poo powder?” Peter smirked.

 Everyone was too aware of Wiggum’s age. Giving his medication a rather silly name gave an immature relief to his condition, it distracted the realisation that the family dog was aging beyond their control.

 “Gross,” Maisie sneered.

 “Well? Has he, had it?”

 Both children straightened up like they had been vacuum-packed into themselves, exchanged quick accusation brimmed glances at one another before the daughter finally confirmed, “Yeah, Ian gave him his laxative earlier”.

 Maisie was seventeen. She had no time for ridiculous terminology. Learning to drive eluded her into a false sense of adulthood.

 Peter nodded and considered his pet’s misfortune, which only refuelled his motivation to carry out the task that had been taunting him for the last ten minutes.

 He awkwardly shuffled his newly gained weight back in the wooden dining chair void of cushions and straightened his back in an attempt to become more formal and therefore capable of consuming the last item of his mock-thanksgiving meal. Peter leaned forward, clamping what he’d already consumed between his chest and thighs just as an aching groan rippled through his torso, the bodily scream of ‘You’ve eaten too much dammit’. The delicately gripped fork retracted as did his determination.

 Slumped back, Peter gave a rather sympathetic look towards the last potato. He did not feel sorry for it at all, more so that he saw a reflection of himself staring back from the dish ahead. This potato was larger than the rest and didn’t quite meet the quoter to be snatched up apparently. Too small to chop in half and too big to cook thoroughly. It was generously fluffy on the inside – too much potato one would say! The sort of potato that’s an absolute gravy hog. Peter debated lubrication but knew that his son had promptly evacuated the gravy boat on the basis that he would only consume vegetables if they were drowning in a tsunami of salty beef granules.

 Due to its size, the roast potato conveyed a paler complexion than his smaller greasier brothers. The ones with delicious crisp edges were scooped up first by his children. Melissa’s portion went unnoticed by Peter. Only he battled with the big boys.

 “Last of the bunch” Peter mused sadly, “this is definitely Peter the potato”.

 He huffed a small nod of amusement when realising the isolated tuft of thyme seasoning on top of it mirrored the wispy patch of hair left over on his otherwise bald receded hair line.

 Ultimately, Peter could leave the potato, he was under no obligation to finish it at all but felt morally compelled to. It was his idea to cook this meal and consuming the last potato would be a testament to the night’s validity. In his doughy eyes surrounded by the sweat of too much intake leaking from his pores, Peter blinked with acceptance. He had failed.

 A new and desperate thought waved over him.

 “Any of you want this last roastie?” Peter casually asked, pointing at it as if he’d only just noticed its presence.

 “Courteous!” He internally congratulated himself. “A true gentlemen. A good father”. In an ulterior sense, Peter pathetically believed that if his children were interested in the meagre scrap of food, it would distract them enough for him to be able to sneak off and check in on Melissa.

 Maisie paused from relentlessly tapping on the screen of her smart phone. Her eyes darted towards the offering and in that brief moment judged the potato to horrifically low standards before returning to her device and continuing to tap away before simply stating, “No”. She was appalled by the offer. The rejection was made while concentrating on another task. Brutal.

 Ian, engaging in nothing but smouldering with a hint of irritation at the pocket on his pullover spoke physically with his long fringe curtaining his moody eyes. His thin locks swayed back and forth with denial, and he said with a squeaky infliction, “Nah, thanks”.

 A solemn nod bounced off Peter’s unsure shoulders as his tongue explored the forgotten regions of is gums for flecks of food he could shovel out and swallow undetected. The feeling of a disagreement was on the horizon and if it ended as it usually would when trying to communicate with his family; the last thing he would want is a strand of turkey flying out of his mouth when shouting. Not only would it be gross, but it would also humiliate his position as the authoritative parent taking charge.

 “So,” He said with false optimism. “What did you think?”

 “Of what?” Ian droned.

 Peter’s eyes widened – stupefied that he apparently needed to be clearer and responded calmly, “The thanksgiving dinner?”

 Both of his children rolled their eyes disapprovingly.

 “You mean the roast dinner?” Ian snarled and cocked his head with a sadistic smirk.

 “It was alright,” Maisie robotically chimed in. she was acutely aware that phones were forbidden at the table. She resorted to her endearing autopilot to prevent any negative repercussions upon herself.

 “Just alright?” Peter asked offended and ignoring what he considered Ian’s smartarse comment.

 “It was nice dad,” Maisie confirmed with a huff. She believed the first compliment was sufficient enough.

 Peter paused, pouted his lips. He considered sarcastically asking ‘what would your mum be making if you were at home?’. But this was petty and futile. Sandra was confident enough in her own culinary skills to never consider whatever he was up to. Alas, this mental temptation already highlighted his childishness towards the split after all this time. Instead, he swallowed the nothingness before lamely stating, “Well, I thought it was nice”.

 “You cooked it!” Ian huffed.

 “Not all of it,” Peter whined defensively, “Mel helped too”.

 “Dad, it’s just a roast dinner. We have one every bloody Sunday. It makes no difference”.

 “We had McDonald’s last weekend, Actually,” Maisie interjected not missing a single opportunity to get a rise out of someone that could not punish her.

 “Shut up,” Ian spouted.

 “You shut up!” Maisie immediately snapped back.

 “See,” Peter exclaimed, assuming Maisie was on his side. “Didn’t have one last weekend?”.

 “Yeah, because you burnt everything last weekend,” Ian backhanded.

 Peter deflated and then rose again to say, “But this is a thanksgiving roast dinner.

Besides I saw you nosing around the kitchen earlier”.

 Flushed with unwarranted embarrassment and rage, Ian groaned louder than before, “you keep saying that like it means something to us! We’re British! This holiday means bugger all! For god’s sake we already jumped on the Halloween bandwagon when that’s a yank holiday”.

 “Oi,” Peter cut in abruptly. “DO NOT call them yanks,” He hissed behind his clenched teeth, his finger jabbing at the air to the shrinking lad. “Melissa is only in the Bathroom over there, and I won’t have you bad mouthing her”.

 “I wonder what’s wrong with her?” Maisie fails not to giggle still firmly locked onto the screen before her.

 At the mention of his girlfriend, Peter’s angry eyes pinged between the bathroom door and Ian. Gradually, they softened as only now he realised the length of time she was truly taking to re-emerge from the bathroom. He needed her right now. He could handle the teenage attitude of his kids no problem; he just liked having her by his side. It eased him tremendously.

 “Anyway, you don’t mind Halloween when you’re sat there munching away on free sweets from strangers”.

 “Yeah, when I was a kid!” Ian tried saying in a deep voice. He was fourteen and stopped trick or treating when he was thirteen.

 Silence.

 Peter confided once more in the potato’s gaze. The steam had ceased which added a somewhat upsetting quality to it now. Not only had the potato purposefully been ignored, but it has also now lost its heat. A cold useless potato. Peter absorbed what he believed to be the potato’s energy, taking back that piece of himself he saw in its appearance and became whole again at the very time a faint slither of steam began escaping the stress lines on his forehead.

 “Mel’s usually with her family this time of year,” He said calmly. “This is

 her first thanksgiving in England, and I wanted to do something special for

 her”.

 “You should’ve got her a Chinese,” Maisie suggested thoughtfully.

 “Should’ve got her tickets to go back,” Ian blurted out before immediately

 realising he’d gone too far.

 “What’s your problem?” Peter snapped. “No, seriously. Why must I have

to go out of my to defend my own partner from such childish behaviour?

Huh?”

 “There you go,” Ian cuts in, “There you go again,” He sings with a

mixture of anger and delight.

 “Ian. I’ve done everything I can for you,” He states bluntly.

 Peter’s stern stare was broken by the sound of an iPhone clicking at full

volume and snatched it from his Daughter’s grip. “I’ve done all I can for

both of you”. As he declares this, Maisie’s phone is held high in the air. It

was his way of letting her know that he will not be lenient if he won’t be

respected. “I’m sorry that this is the way things are but after everything

that’s happened between your mum and I, I think I’m entitled to a little bit

of happiness, don’t you?”

 “I know,” but Peter said. “But why her? you could’ve got with anyone”.

 “Mel makes me happy and if you gave her a bloody chance, you’d find

she could make you smile for once too, you miserable sod!”

 “Ugh! But she’s such a cliché, Dad”.

 “HOW!? How is she a cliché?”

Ian frantically began scanning around the room as if there was some kind

of evidence to aid his point before blurting out, “She is, she’s all happy and

bubbly and American ‘n’ stuff”.

 “Don’t feel threatened by his words dad. Mop-head over there only picks

 up new words from the people online he parrots the opinions of”.

 “No, I don’t. I knew what cliché was before”.

 “Rub-bish!” Maisie sang.

 “Here’s one I definitely know, You’re a Bitch!”

 “Ian!” Peter shouted.

 “Piss off you greasy scab!” Maisie returned with.

 “Maisie!” Peter loudly named another one of his kids, not realising it was

an ineffective way to end their bickering.

 Ian took three fingers and scooped them across the puddle of cold gravy

left over on his plate. As a single drip fell from the tip of his index onto the

cream carpet, Maisie’s forehead was coated in leftover dinner juice.

 “Hush, Simba,” Ian mockingly whispered as his sister shrank into her own neck

in shock. Meanwhile, Wiggum glanced at the newly stained carpet, unwilling

to investigate and grateful that he was not the cause of any messy floor for once.

 “You little shit!” Maisie screams.

 “What?” Ian chuckles. “it was the lion king?”

 Those were his last words before a pair of fists disguised as cardigan sleeves

began pummelling him.

 During their fight Peter’s semi-shiny cranium was cradled in the confides

of his trembling hands. He pulled his hands as tightly against his head as

possible while lifting his face creating an ugly stretch of the bags under his pale

blues to fall once more on the last potato.

 Between his ungrateful kids and his absent girlfriend, how dare that last potato

sit their consequence free.

 “This is your fault,” He hissed at the inanimate object. “Why’d do you

have to still be sat there? Why are you so fat… and useless”.

 The potato appropriately said nothing in return.

 As if catching a spider on the run, Peter’s hand slammed down on the

potato, slightly mushing the base it balanced on. Shaking with rage, the

mashed potato – formally known as a roast was crammed non-majestically.

past his snarling gob and swallowed it down in one.

 Triumphant, Peter raised both arms into the air as he stood above the chaos

of his feuding children.

 “I did it!” He cried.

 Both children, heavily dishevelled and both about to engage with a punch

in each other’s face snapped their heads towards their father. Grips on their

respective released rapidly at the sight of skew mashed crumbs around Peter’s

chops.

 Realising their sudden and panicked attention he asked nearly petrified,

“What?”

 Ian refused to answer at first and would’ve continued to keep quiet

provided Maisie did not dive into the hoodie pocket he’d been

anxiously glaring at earlier. Out came the famous ‘poo-powder’ sachet Peter.

believed they had given to Wiggum. Ironically looking very familiar to that thyme

seasoning.

 as if dead on queue, Peter’s stomach let out a single cry of pain.

 “We’re sorry,” Maisie uselessly smiles.

A single knuckle clacked against the white wooden door. Anything heavier could pose a threat to the delicacy In which Peter knew he had to approach Melissa with. A knock too hard might collapse his intentions of finding out what was wrong with her and gaining access to the toilet he desperately needed.

 “Mel,” He called out to let her know it was specifically him and not the insensitivity from Ian and Maisie. He was tiptoeing on the spot.

 “Just a second!” Came Melissa’s voice. It sounded stressed but ultimately masked with natural cheerfulness.

 “Darling,” He squeezed out awkwardly. He was tensing muscles below he never knew existed.

 “I’m not sure you wanna see me right now, sweetheart”.

 “It’s not you I wanna see right now if I’m being honest,” He mimicked in her optimistic tone. “But while we’re on the subject,” He continued with a painful dance each second closer to ruining his brand new Levi’s. “Did you have any of the roast potatoes?”

 “No?” she called out. Peter’s bowels rippled with anguish and jealousy.

 “Then… why,” He clenched, “Are you taking so long?”

 “Maybe this is something we can discuss later, honey?” she nervously suggested.

 “I don’t think it can,” he elongated with strained joy.

 Peter had now reverted to child-like grips of his aching pelvis.

 “I just don’t think this is the right time,” she said.

 This was it. Now or never. Peter stood up straight and dropped his false English lord persona for his East-midland angry Shout-at-someone-in-traffic type slang. “For god sake Mel, Just come out of the fucking bathroom! I did this for you and you’ve hid the whole time! What could be so fucking important?”

 The sound of metal unfolding. The door creaked open.

 Peter fixated on the on a small plastic device that slowly exited the crack between two autumn leaf designed nails.

 The sight of Two lines echoed through his mind as excrement erupted through his jeans.

 “I’m pregnant”.

 “I’ve shit myself”.