New Creative Non-Fiction

A version of this essay can be found in the Spring 2009 edition of the Literary Review.

Randolph Watson
Drop the Potato and Let the Little Boy Go

Grandpa’s in the living room watching Stalag 17 again. Grandma’s sitting hunched over staring at nothing. I used to love visiting her. Now it seems like she is giving up on life.

“I called your Mom yesterday. Did she tell you she’s getting married in three weeks?”

“I’m not surprised. She’s the type who needs a warm body.”

I notice that since she’s lost her eyesight her expression doesn’t change much. “I hope someday you can be friends.”

I don’t laugh, even though I want to. “Not likely.”

“I know she’s made some mistakes. Do you think you can ever forgive her?”

“ I look at her the same way an employer would look at a shitty employee. After you screw up enough, the boss has to let you go.”

“I can still hope.”

I love my Grandma so much that I feel like I’m letting her down by not granting her request. That’s asking me to swallow twenty-something years of uncomfortable situations.

In Grandma’s newfound stupor, she has taken to not speaking unless spoken to. It gives me a chance to reflect on good old Mom.

I’m four again. I’m the sheepish little boy with red hair and He-Man shirt. Mom has dropped me off at school; it’s located inside a local church that’s still in town.
I sit down at the cafeteria table alone. The dark blue plastic chairs are freezing. I try to choke down a rice cake.

Class begins. I color outside the lines with a fat crayon. I listen to a Berenstein Bears reading.

Lunchtime. I don’t recall what the main course was, but they had fried potatoes as a side. I didn’t eat them because they looked like a mushy blob. One by one the kids get done with their food and get ready to go back to class. Mrs. Belcher looked at me as I stood up.

“Where are you going young man?”

I’m silent. Nobody at school ever talks to me.

“You’re not finished. Sit down and eat your potatoes.”

I sit back down and eat a spoonful.

“That’s right--keep going.” I know she’s looking down on me, but I keep my eyes on my sand-colored lunch tray.

I take another bite.“ I don’t wanna eat anymore.”

“I don’t care what you want. You will finish.”

The more I chew, the more I notice the lump in my throat. I’m trying not to cry. The lump keeps getting bigger as I struggle to swallow the food. Tears start to crawl down my face.

“Don’t be such a baby. Do you want me to tell your Mommy how bad you are?”

Through a mouthful of fried potatoes I mutter, “No.”

I didn’t feel the vomit coming, but it was on the floor and I knew it was mine. The
potato-vomit looks like as bad as it did before I ate it.

“You disgusting boy!”

I try to catch my breath between sobs. I’m so embarrassed, but at least the kids have all gone back to class already.

I’m escorted back to class and try not to cry for the rest of the day.

When I get home I’m quiet. Grandma gives me a strange look. “Everything okay sweetie?” I start to cry and tell Mom and Grandma what happened at school. Grandma gets mad. Mom sits there.

The next day Mom took me to school; this time it’s different. She doesn’t drop me off. We walk into Mrs. Belcher’s office and sit. Mrs. Belcher comes in and Mom explains what “he said happened.” Mrs. Belcher looks calm. “That never happened. Randolph, why did you lie to your Mom?”

My heart jumped. I can’t speak because I’m afraid. Why is she lying?

Mom looks from me to Mrs. Belcher apologetically. “I’m so sorry. There must have been some kind of misunderstanding.”

Mrs. Belcher accepts her apology and I’m sent back to class. A short time later I see my Grandma storm past the door with my Mom bumbling behind.

The principal comes to the door and asks my teacher to fetch me and come into the hall. Standing there with four adults, I pull my imaginary shade down so they can’t see me. Grandma is mad again.

“What you did to that baby isn’t right, and you’re lying about it! You didn’t see
how upset he was yesterday! He wouldn’t act like that if nothing happened!” The principal keeps trying to butt into the conversation, but no go. Grandma continues,

“I’ll have this place shut down! I’m taking him out of this school!”

I wonder if she can really do that. I look at my Mom. She has tears in her eyes and her chin is quivering and full of little dimples…it looks like one of Grandpa’s golf balls.

My Grandma puts her hand out to me. I grab it and we leave with Mom following us. I never went back to school there.

I had an admiration for my Grandma after that, but I kept asking myself why Mom hadn’t done it instead. I asked myself why the teacher had lied. Why did she make me eat when I didn’t want to? I had spent what I remember of my first few years believing that people don’t lie. It’s not what a good person does. I was also taught to respect my elders and believe that they had my best interest in mind.

The lesson I learned: people lie. I learned: adults you’re supposed to trust need to earn it; sometimes they don’t deserve it. I learned: the parents you’re born with don’t always look out for their kids like they should…

I still can’t eat any kind of sliced potato.

I snap out of my thoughts and hear Stalag 17 again. William Holden’s voice…as well as disappointment, are things that were synonymous with childhood. I look at my Grandma, remembering the strong person she used to be.

“Do you know that I love you?”

…I’ll miss you when you’re gone.