Charlie's Potato Incarnation


Charlie was a couch potato all puffed up and voluminous. Women loved him. Especially women who loved sour cream and chives. He was dotted with green sprinkles. And his complexion was like a shiny pearl although he had some stubble and long threads of hair on his back and arms.

Women from the neighborhood visited Charlie often. When the women didn't put Charlie in their Palm Pilot date book, Charlie entertained himself. He loved the taste of his russet knobby skin. He admired his roundness and the indentations where he sagged. Generational scars. He was proud of the genetics of his family. He pondered his tactile self. Every part of him was an erogenous zone.

Charlie remembered his mother who was plump and his brother who was drawn and narrow. He was glad he was as he was. He had been told to loose weight but disagreed with the opinion.

Marge Miller came to visit on  Mondays ( her husband was often out of town at a frozen food convention). She asked, "May I, Charlie?" and Charlie said, "Sure." He sat up straight on the camel back couch. Marge licked the white cream off his arm. Her tongue went lower. Mrs. Miller was in ecstasy. Her husband was not only distant but also uncooperative, "More butter, please?" she said.

"Schmear it on," said Charlie with his eyes closed. He liked lubrication. She sprinkled, she licked Charlie where his buds used to be.

On Wednesdays Charlie added cayenne pepper and chilies to his pulp for Mrs. Ruth. Starling. She brought hot sauce and corn chips to go with Charlie. Mrs. Starling cooled him after an hour-long Mexican jellybean fan dance with some yogurt cucumber dip.

On Friday Charlie got up from the couch. He slipped into a bowl of fish chowder for Marylyn O'Brady who was a traditional Catholic.  Mrs. O'Brady loved to sip him in the plastic kiddy swimming pool.  She sent her children to the movies although they had seen it all before on TV.

"Was it good for you?"  she said.

"Of course," said Charlie looking flaky and dehydrated and ready for the sleep that comes form doing the best job a man without buds could do.