Mr. Potato Head Goes on Tour with the Vegetables
In the small university town where Mr. Potato Head graduated from, but was unlucky finding a professional job after he was fired from the data collection laboratory he used to work for, after his bosses from the lab had realized that all his “breaks” were due to his giving ten dollar haircuts with the styling kit he maintained inside his butt, he joined a punk rock band with three other potato heads he met after posting an ad on the local Craigslist’s Miscellaneous Romance section that read: “I’m a Potato Head looking to create with at least three other Potato Heads. My hobbies include drinking Caribbean rum, politics, fashion, and the Ramones. I wear sneakers even to the beach.”
On the post, he had uploaded a picture of himself wearing his mustache, the Pastor Potato Head’s hat, and his formal-events slacks; his collared shirt, he had left inside his butt. In the picture, a colored emblem of a broken home was visible on the middle of his belly. The emblem had been painted on with a permanent marker.
Two weeks later, he had received three responses; they all agreed to meet at the downtown plaza.
Spud, skinny with tall, dark hair was there waiting when Mr. Potato Head arrived. Then Craterface, tall, with short curly, red hair arrived. Then Spud, with dead black hair drove past them in a van, yelling, “Yo, guys! Here I am.”
And Craterface yelled, “You have a van! Fuck yeah.”
Soon, they were a band called the Vegetables. At first, they were strictly a Ramones cover band, but their chemistry had so developed that during practice sessions, when they’d take a break from learning a new Ramones song, inspiration would strike either Spud, the bassist, or Craterface, the guitarist, and they’d begin to play a three-chord riff, and then Chips, the drummer, would keep the beat, and Mr. Potato Head was hopping around the practice space, singing along random thoughts he’d formed into rhymes.
Soon, they were playing shows in the local D.I.Y. scene in the university town they resided in, but their music didn’t fit in. What was popular at the time in the scene of this town was sludgy, metal-influenced, post-grunge shit, and the Vegetables loved the Ramones. But they didn’t let down, and once a week for a while, they drank Caribbean rum, and played punk rock for whomever showed. Eventually, they had a following, though not in the town they lived in, but in a nearby city. They’d drive down in Spud’s van, and they’d play with other cool bands. In that nearby city, they met the Dicers, a cool punk band, and both bands began playing more shows together. Soon, the bands had planned a tour of the east coast.
The Vegetables were so sick of the university town that they didn’t play a kick-off show there, and the first show of the tour was in the next town to the north. It was a southern town with a historic district as the town’s center. They played at a punk house, inside its living room. The floor of the living room was covered with beer after the bands had finished playing. People had sat on the rail which led to the second floor of the house to see the bands play.
During the tour, they played the capital city of the country, and that night, New Orleans was playing in the Superbowl, and the punk rock girl who had set up the show for them worked in a bar which was having a Superbowl party. There was free beer, liquor, and food. They got fucked up, and after New Orleans won the game, they walked to the show, carrying their instruments.
Everyone in the capital city was happy that New Orleans had won, because New Orleans deserved to win. There was a parade in the streets, and the Vegetables and the Dicers jumped onto a platform on which many people were dancing. The platform was pulled forward by a car. Everyone on it yelled the catchphrase which was associated with the New Orleans team.
At the show, they drank more. While the Dicers played, Mr. Potato Head pogoed with a chubby girl. He got close to her, and wrapped his arms around her, and then jumped up and down, still with her in his arms. If she enjoyed this or not was not taken into consideration.
During the Vegetables’ set, Mr. Potato Head blacked-out, and fell into the crowd.
That night, they slept in the home of a friend of Craterface’s, who was living with an aunt in the suburbs of the capital city.
The next morning, Mr. Potato Head awoke hung-over at about nine AM. The rest of the Vegetables, and the Dicers, were sleeping still, and from the experience so far on tour, Mr. Potato Head knew they wouldn’t wake up till at least noon. He knew, probably around two PM.
So, he lay on his sleeping bag, and then went to the bathroom. Inside of the bathroom, from his butt, he pulled out his beauty pack, which contained his toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, floss, and mouthwash. He prepared himself. He entered back into the living room they were sleeping in. He went to the body of Craterface. He snuck his hands into Craterface’s sleeping bag, and pulled out the cigarette-looking one-hitter, along with the bands’ weed stash. He packed a hit, and smoked it. He packed another hit, and smoked it. He finished getting high, and placed the one-hitter into his butt. He lay on his sleeping bag on the floor.
When the rest of them awoke, they were hungry. Two members of the Dicers were vegan; the members of the Vegetables were vegetarians. They had to find a place that served meatless cuisine.
They went to a vegan restaurant that was part of the first-story of a high-rise condominium in the downtown of the capital city. There were tables outside, shaded by different colored tops. They sat outside. It was a chilly, nonclouded day.
Mr. Potato Head ordered a soy chicken, chili wrap. Craterface had a basil, tomato, pepper sandwich; Spud, a soy turkey club; Chips, a rice wrap. President Obama was there as well, and he had a mozzarella, peppers, cucumber, onion, tomato, and basil wrap. The Dicers had either soy chicken or beef, peppers, spinach, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, or vegan burgers. They all ate fried mandoo with their meals.
After they ate, Obama invited the bands to follow him. They walked south east, towards a park named Farragut Square.
Obama took out a blunt, lit it, took three deep puffs, held in, and passed it. He still held his breathe when he pressured out the word, “Chicago.”
They passed the blunt around in a circle, each holding in his breathe until the blunt had arrived again to his finger. They felt uncomfortable, smoking a blunt in a public park, with the president. Obama sensed this.
He said, “Don’t worry about it, kids. It’s on its way. The next step.” He continued, “You know in Mexico, personal quantities of heroin and cocaine have been legalized so that the officers begin to actually focus on the problem, the drugdealers and lords, not on the consequence, the victims, the addicts.”
“I can’t live there,” said Chips.
“Na, me either,” said Obama.
Each person standing in the circle confirmed to each other the thought, “Me neither.”
They finished their blunt, and Obama walked out of the circle they had formed, looking towards the center of the square, at the statue of Admiral Farragut. He stood, stretching himself upwards, he extended his arms, his hands made into fists, he created a Y-form with his limbs and body.
“I’m feeling pretty, fucking good right now,” he said.
His body was alighted by the sun’s rays.
Mr. Potato Head said, “You have a strong face.”
Obama’s face was framed in their visions by the sun.
“I wasn’t meant to be alive,” Obama said. “But I’m president.”
Obama laughed. He said, “Who that going to beat them saints?”
The members of both bands yelled, “Who that?”
He smiled at them, and said, “You know, I bet there were six less murders today because New Orleans won. The country needed that victory.”
He left, saying he had some meetings to attend to.
It had been early on the tour when they played the capital city. After that they continued north, and played cities with many large, brick warehouses. Some of these buildings were occupied by students, a group of artist-friends taking up half or an entire floor of the building. In one of these cities, one of these student-artists was a friend of a member of the Dicers. They went to meet her before the show.
Baked, the drummer of the Dicers called his friend.
“Hello?” he said. “Yeah, we’re down here. What’s that you said? Oh, to the left. Yeah, we’re walking that way. We’re on 16th. Oh, we’ve gone too far, you say? Let me see.”
Holding his cellular phone against his ear, he turned the top of his body to the rest of the members of the bands while walking forward, and said, “So, any of you saw Rosewood Place? Supposedly we passed it.”
And then back to the cell, walking with his body completely facing forward, he said, “Yeah, I think you’re just going to have to come down here. All these buildings look the same.”
She came down, and they followed her upstairs. She had to close three doors so that they could use the manual elevator of the building. First, she closed the outside door, which was heavy and painted dark red. Then, she closed the elevator door, which was less heavy and green, and was made of two half-doors which joined at hip-level. Then, she jumped up to grab a gate, and she let her weight bring it down, so that she could close it. Then she pressed a button, and held down another button for the entire way up. Upstairs, she had to open all three doors of the elevator again, and they walked out of the elevator and through a bare hallway to the door which led to her and her friends’ home.
There were half or unused canvases, skeleton-frames made of modeling wire, skateboards, and strange-looking furniture which formed out the communal space of the floor. There were no rooms if they weren’t built by the students themselves, using hollow paneled walls. The communal space had a TV.
Two girls lived in the space, and two boys. Baked’s friend had blond, curly hair, and wore glasses. The other girl who hung out with them was skinny, tall, and had sharp red hair. One of the boys was Asian, and wore baggy shorts. The other boy was white, with curlish, brown hair.
The white boy had a ferret, and the two girls had a guinea pig each. Mr. Potato Head played with the pets.
After the show, the girls invited them to the roof of the building, and up there, they smoked marijuana cigarettes. Graffities were tagged on the sides or roofs of the other tall buildings. Some buildings’ roofs had visible areas where people hung out at, with furniture and toys.
Up on the building, high on marijuana, looking out to the other buildings in the dark, the buildings looking hungry, sickly, Mr. Potato Head felt lonely. The image of him and Mrs. Potato Head holding hands on a roof of a building a long time ago entered his head, and he missed her.
This wasn’t the first time he had felt lonely on tour. During a show earlier on tour, after Mr. Potato Head had gotten drunk, his desires for sexual relations increased. He made more notice of the females in the room. He eventually spoke to one girl. He pulled things from out of his butt, and she laughed. They spent more time together through the night, and he kept on drinking. He felt looser, and tried to touch her. After this, she walked away from him, and no longer gave him eye contact. That night, that girl ended up sleeping with a member of the Dicers.
Each night, Mr. Potato Head felt was kind of like that night. He’d drink a lot to make sure he passed out, and then the next morning, when the alcohol had been processed by his body, he woke up, hung-over and alone; the band sleeping, some with girls, and he’d feel lonelier.
On the roof of the brick warehouse in the city, he thought about Nancy O’Neill, his town’s elected mayor, about the time they met in person.
She was walking her dog, a golden retriever, and he saw her, and he said, “Hi, Miss Nancy O’Neill, how are you this fine morning?”
She looked at him, and smiled, and he saw all her teeth, and they shined, and her short, black hair waved from one side of her face to the other; and her lips looked full because of her lip-gloss.
She lifted her right hand into the air, and placed her left hand on her chest, and said, “Thank you for voting. I appreciate all your support.”
Mr. Potato Head thought, then, that she knew who he was, and that he had voted for her, and that she appreciated his existence. He felt happy.
In the city, Mr. Potato Head wanted to feel like that again, happy. He wanted to shoot up some opiates.
Much before he had ever graduated, before he had met Mrs. Potato Head, before he had become a hair-stylist, Mr. Potato Head was a drunk. It was why Mama Potato Head was so supportive of him. It seemed to her like he wasn’t fucking up.
For a long time, all he did was drink. When he moved out of his mother’s home the first time, in the north east, he had a job bar-prepping and doing dishes in a restaurant. First, he got probation at that job for being too drunk while working. Then, he got fired for arriving too drunk to work. At his first home away from his parents, he was able to avoid his landlord for three months, but eventually the landlord called the police, and Mr. Potato Head was forcefully evicted.
Mr. Potato Head did not want to tell his mother what had occurred. He felt like a failure, so he continued drinking, homelessly. He would visit his mother on the mock incentive of having dinner with her. When she was not paying attention, he’d sneak into her room and steal jewelry to pawn.
Eventually, as a vagabond, Mr. Potato Head was arrested. He was found in a public park. He was covered with blankets, and slept on an inflatable mattress he usually kept inside his butt. He was jailed for vagrancy and public drunkenness. He was offered probation pending his completion of rehab. He went to rehab, then to a half-way house.
While living at the half-way house, he worked a job as a bagger in a grocery, where he met Mrs. Potato Head, a cashier. Then, he moved out of the half-way house and into an apartment with Mrs. Potato Head.
In rehab, during his first week there, Santos, a young, new patient from Venezuela, had arrived. He had tanned skin, a shaved head, piercings on his lips, and a few tattoos on his arms. Santos had snuck in heroin and works into the rehab by hiding them inside his asshole. He ended up being Mr. Potato Head’s roommate. The first night he stayed at rehab, Santos introduced Mr. Potato Head to IV drug-use.
Tonight, in the city, on tour, Mr. Potato Head wanted to shoot up heroin. He remembered that on the drive through the city, to Baked’s friend’s home, and to the show, they had driven past neighborhood housing projects. The next morning, instead of waiting for the other members of the bands to wake up to figure out what place they could all eat at, he would go cop junk.
Andy Riverbed is the author of Damaged (Coatlism Press, 2008), Afternoon Drinking is Okay (EveryDayYeah, 2009), and Missed Connections (read some words, 2009).
