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Potato
So I call up Sveta on my pretty, blue, sparkly cell phone with the cute Hello Kitty screensaver, and the retarded picture she took of herself at Wal-Mart flashes on the screen. And I say, “Hey.”
And she says, “Yo. Make this quick, I’m at work.”
So I say, “What if God has a really bad sense of humor? What if he is one of those dumb, loud, annoying guys with that obnoxious laugh? You know, like that loud guy at Sherri’s that Jessie always wants to kick his ass, and says ‘I could take him.’ But Jessie never gets up from the table; he just glares in the direction of their booth.”
“Well, then you and I are fucked.”
“I knew it.”
“Are you on a break?”
“No, I was washing potatoes.”
“I’m glad I don’t work there anymore; I hate fast food.”
“But Russians love potatoes.”
“Yes, we do.”
“I’ll take a picture of them for you.”
And Sveta says, “That would be awesome.” She pauses, “No, no, you don’t have to.”
“All right. Well, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I run out in front, and Nichole’s sitting there on the counter beating her green DC shoes against the cabinets, the ones with the green cameo laces on the left shoe and the bright green Nintendo laces on the right shoe, kicking as she swings them back and forth. When she notices me, she informs me, “I think I got a piece of onion in my shoe.”
So I say, “Did it get in through that little hole?”
Her shoes have been rampaged by the hours spent here at the store, and she has a hole about half the size of a penny near her big toe on her right shoe.
She says, “No. I think it came in through the top.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have jumped on the onions. That was a perfectly good moo cow I made for you.”
Earlier that day, we were taking big chunks of onions and throwing them on the floor, and I would yell, “This is what I think of you, Nichole!” And I’d jump on it, and if it didn’t smash, I’d pick it up and throw it at the wall.
I had found an onion, and when I initially peeled the bulk of the outer layer off, there was a splotchy cow design left on the onion. And I told Nichole it was a present for her, and she told me that she was going to clone it. And then she destroyed it.
“No, wait, Nichole! You’re distracting me! I have a very serious, all-important question I need to ask you.”
She’s already distracted herself, and tries to ignore that I’m talking, beginning to tell me about her prom dress, “I’m going on Friday to get my prom dress, and I have to get the halter top altered.”
And I say, “No! Listen! All-important question! What if God has a really bad sense of humor?”
Only halfway there, she mutters out an answer, “That would be cool. If he’s that dumb, we could get stoned, and drunk whenever we wanted to! And we wouldn’t have to pay for the consequences.”
Eddie Vedder’s voice screams out from the phone, “She lies, and says she’s in love with him. Can’t find a better man. She dreams in colors, she dreams in red. Can’t find a better man,” signaling that Sveta is calling me back.
I pick up the phone, “Yo.”
She replies, “Or he would want to fuck up because we attract idiot guys like that.”
I gasp for breath, laughing. “Excellent!” I say.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I go back to washing potatoes. Several of the potatoes have rotted through the middle from gashes cut into them. The insides have turned gray. I’m throwing them away. Some are landing on the floor. Nichole comes into the back, and starts cleaning out a drain with her thick rubber gloves and a nasty smelling cleaner. She tells me, “I have to wear these gloves. When I was cleaning the front drain, I was pulling out a nasty, oozing discharge.”
In my most commanding voice, I tell her, “That’s disgusting. Go up front.”
Rebelliously, she exclaims, “I don’t want to go up front. There might be customers up there.”
So in my softest, consoling voice, I tell her, “I don’t care.”
She sneers at me angrily, picks up a rotten potato off the floor, and says, “Well, this is what I think of you.” She raises it above her head, and smashes it on the blue-gray tile. The potato is now mashed into the grouting. She sweeps up the mess, and laughs uncontrollably as she walks up to the front of the store.
Moments later, she calls me up the front to run the register. A lady with dark naturally black hair and a pale face comes up and tells me that she has to get a sandwich with just cheese and lettuce and tomatoes because she can’t get one with meat. So I tell her we have a vegetarian sandwich, and she says, “No, I like the vegetables. That’s what I want. I’m splitting it with my daughter, and she’s a vegetarian, and she doesn’t like the vegetables.”
I leave the front as soon as I can after that. I walk into the back, and immediately start scrubbing away at the starch that’s collected on my arms from handling two hundred or so potatoes. My cell phone rings again.
Sveta begins talking first, and says, “Hey, what’s your schedule for the next couple of days?”
“I don’t have to work till four tomorrow,” I say, “and I have Friday and Saturday off. We can hang out tomorrow before work.”
“No, that’s no good. I work one to seven tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m decorating the empty office where my crazy grandma was staying. My dad’s going to buy me a desk – one of those nice, large, office style ones. And we’re going out to lunch.”
“So, do you want to hang out after that?”
“Definitely.”
“I can help you decorate.”
“That would be great.”
“Bring me a picture of a potato.”
“I’m already done, maybe next week.”
“All right.”
“Bye”
“I’ll see you.”
“Yup.”
“Bye.”
I hear the beeping of the register, and Nichole yelling for help. So I head back up front, leaving my safe haven behind to face the bright lights, and the neon signs glittering at me from the inside of the Food Court.
