Baked Potato

“What is that?”

If my mind is a room, those words are a basketball that’s broken the laws of physics to reach a state of perpetual motion. It bounces constantly.

Thud.

Thud.

The thuds reverberate off the walls, each one a possibility. A branch in time and space, of what could have been.

“What is that?”

It’s the spark that lead to this raging fire. One that could have been snuffed out immediately. Instead, one that will end in an inferno that will consume me soon enough.

Thud.

“What do you mean? It’s a baked potato.”

”A poh-tay-toe? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Is it some kind of fruit?”

It was meant to be a lighthearted joke. My fiancee’s parents lived a few states away, so when they had invited us to spend Christmas dinner with them, it was my first time meeting them. I figured I’d get a quick laugh, and it would break the tension of this important dinner. Her father’s face twisted into a resentful, questioning appearance.

”Are you being stupid?” He asked, gruffly.

”No, I’ve just never seen one.” I said meekly, planting my fork in a potato from the serving dish, and moving it to my plate.

Thud.

As I saw the situation, I couldn’t perceive of an opportunity to turn it around. It was a much more stupid joke than I had anticipated. If I admitted to it now then it would not make for a good first impression. There must be some regions where potatoes are uncommon. Some families must shy away from them. I figured it wouldn’t be much of a point of contention to keep up the pretense.

”Dan, what are you doing? Stop pretending that you’ve never eaten a potato,” my fiancee pleaded, as an expression of confusion and worry spread across her face.

Thud.

I could’ve stopped right then. It wasn’t too late.

I scooped a bit of the baked potato onto my fork. I put it in my mouth and chewed. I really needed to sell this. I needed them to believe that this was my very first time trying a potato. If I could do that then all the contention could be reversed.

”Mmm, tastes... strange!” I said, trying to look like this was all a new experience for me.

”You goddamn well know that this isn’t your first time trying a potato. Admit it you foolish bastard!” my fiancee’s father yelled, rising from his chair.

Thud.

Admit it. Just admit it was a bad joke. You’ll look a bit foolish, but everything will be fine. I couldn’t. I had gone too far.

I looked nervously at my fiancee, but her face was now twisted in a mixture of disgust and introspection. It was as if he was asking herself how she’d come this far with me. How she’d ever agreed to marry me. All of this, over a potato? I was scared at this point. Scared about the wedding. How could this happen over a potato?

”If there’s one thing this family won’t tolerate it’s liars. Now get out of my fucking house!”

Thud.

I looked at my fiancee.

”I... I really... have never seen one of these things before. Where do they come from?” ”Dan, just leave,” my fiancee sighed, looking down, refusing to make eye contact.

I got up from the table. Made my way to the door.

Thud.

Just admit to your stupidity. You’re risking everything. It’s gone far enough.

”You know, I really don’t know what a potato is. And I don’t know why you’re all being so rude to me,” I said, walking out the door.

The snow falling from the sky was lit up by the streetlights, and it made for a pretty night. This was my only solace. As I walked across their driveway, I heard the front door open behind me. I turned, expecting my fiancee, but instead I was met by the grim, stony stare of her father as he walked towards me. He came intimately close, and started poking me in the chest as he spoke.

Thud.

This is your last chance. Just confess about your dumb joke. Show humility. Maybe they’ll invite you back in and all of this will blow over.

”I don’t know what you were trying to pull in there.” *POKE* “All I know is that you’re a goddamn liar,” *POKE* ”and while it’s still my daughter’s choice whether to keep seeing you-” *POKE*

His last poke came in strong, and as it happened I was standing on a patch of ice at the time. I started to slip backwards. I grabbed onto him for support, but being that we both stood on the same patch of ice, we fell down together.

He struck his head on the pavement. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I ran into the house. The ambulance didn’t take long to arrive, but by morning it was all over. He was dead. Her family didn’t believe me about what had happened. Not after the potato incident.

It was a mistake, but I kept up the ruse. I’d gone too far. Character witnesses came forward to defend me. Unfortunately, under cross-examination they told the truth about having seen me eat potatoes before. Nobody understood. They pleaded with me, begging me to stop the charade. I felt the whole case hinged on the one fact that I had never seen a potato before that night. So I sit here, in my prison cell. Waiting for my time to run out. Waiting for my final meal. My favorite meal. Mashed potatoes and gravy.

Note: Inspired by a story I heard about on the radio.