The Potato Way

Roger dipped the paddles into the water and inexpertly rowed the boat away from the dock. As soon as he was satisfied the propellor was well-clear of any hazards, he pulled in the paddles and set them down under the seats. He looked at Tom and nodded.

"Okay!" Tom said as he leaned over to the motor. He pulled the rope and the motor chugged once. Then silence. He let the rope slack and pulled again. And again. The fourth time he pulled with all his considerable strength on it and the motor roared to life.

"Success!" Tom yelled over top of the dull throb of the outboard motor. "Successful like a horny dog!"

Roger scowled at Tom. "Excuse me?"

He almost never understood what Tom was talking about.

"Ya keep trying and trying 'til ya got it right! Haw-haw-haw!"

`Good God' Roger thought. "Yeh, funny . . ." he yelled out loud.

Roger carefully settled onto the middle of the forward seat, facing the rear of the boat. He was cautious not to get his new pair of white running shoes dirty from the scum floating around in the water at the bottom of the boat. He rested his well-manicured hands on the knees of his designer-label jeans (new for this occasion) and fretted that his short blonde hair, combed fashionably to one side in a neat part, would become windswept and wet. Roger was slight, almost delicate, and although he was clumsy today, most people who knew him considered him to move with grace. He stared at Tom, searching for anything he could appreciate--or at least understand.

Tom looked back at Roger as he steered the small boat around Raccoon Island and up the inlet.

Tom wore a brown parka-like flotation coat overtop his dirty grey sweater. His old work-jeans (spattered with a rainbow myriad of paint-splotches) were torn at both knees and revealed long-johns underneath. His hands were rough and his feet were in steel-toed, steel-heeled work boots. Tom's clothing, although bulky and formless, could not hide his large, strong frame and natural powerful physical stature. His long black straggly hair fluttered in the wind and framed a round face and wide grin.

"First time out this year. You?" he called to Roger.

"I beg your pardon?"

"First time I've been fishing this year. Your first this year for you too?"

"Yes," Roger called back. "It is."

While strictly true, it was hardly the whole story. Roger hadn't gone fishing at all last year--or the year before for that matter. In fact, the last fishing trip for Roger had been fifteen years ago when he was a teenager: before the smell of sweaty lifejackets, rotting seaweed and slimy fish had become so bothersome as to be nearly intolerable.

But this was a special trip--one that Roger felt he absolutely had to take. Tom was going to be family soon, and Roger felt he had to know him better--something Roger had failed to do so far.

They'd first met over drinks at the club. Nancy brought Tom by three months before to show him off to Roger and the guys. It had been a minor scandal. Tom had made one tasteless joke after another, guffawed loudly several times, and goosed both Nancy and a waitress.

Roger had found himself taking an instant disliking to Tom, yet . . . there had also been a curiosity. Something about the man. His interest led him to invite Tom to his West Vancouver house. It had been an embarrassing and interminable ordeal that had been particularly disastrous for his marriage, which was foundering quite nicely by itself. And, particularly frustrating to Roger, Tom remained a curiosity.

Roger invited Tom to lunch one afternoon, but their meeting (to which Tom had shown up late) was destined to be nothing but a piss-up for Tom. It had led to an expensive liquor bill which Roger paid after listening to Tom rant and rave about classic cars for over an hour.

Roger's life had become complicated by Tom. Charles, the manager, still looked disapprovingly whenever Roger went down to the country club for a round of golf or a set of tennis. His boss had openly reprimanded him for conducting a month-end meeting with alcohol on his breath. And his wife had found something new to complain about, whining bitterly that he had brought "such a bohemian" home for supper. He reasoned to himself that he couldn't sit by and let Tom take over his sister's life, but trying to learn the man's family, character and disposition was taking a toll on his own.

Finally, he presented his problem to his wife one night as they lay in bed, she reading and he listening to the roar of the maid's small economy car fade in the distance.

"It's not that I like him or don't like him, really, it's just that I need to know if I will like him or not."

"Why does it matter?" she asked. "Are you afraid he's going to take advantage of her?"

`Perhaps that's precisely what I'm afraid of,' he thought to himself. `Maybe I'm afraid he's going to marry her for her money--and there's a lot. He might cheat on her, ruin her name and her reputation and then divorce her for a nice fat settlement. I think I'm afraid he's going to destroy her.'

"Well?" his wife said.

"Well," he replied. "I'm not afraid of anything per se, but I would like to get to know him better, and without destroying my life in the process."

"I see . . ." she murmered.

"Like it or not, I can't afford to be seen with him. You know that."

"Yes, yes. I know." She thought for a few moments, then looked directly at Roger and said, "You're going about it the wrong way."

"How's that?"

"You're going to country clubs and nice big homes. He obviously isn't comfortable in places like that. What you should be doing is finding out what he does. Bring him into his natural element. You'll be able to observe him better, first of all, and it'll be far enough out of the way so that he won't cause any more embarrassing scenes."

Roger thought about it for a moment. She was reading her book again when he spoke.

"I think I'll do that."

"Good."

"I'll find out from Nancy just what it is that he likes to do."

"You do that. But one thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't even think of bringing him here again!"


Phoning Nancy was a rare occasion for Roger. She explained to him that Tom loved to go fishing and ended the call by telling Roger how much she appreciated his efforts to get along with Tom. She sounded embarrassed.

`I doubt I could get along with him for more than ten seconds at a time,' he thought.

Nevertheless, the following day Roger phoned Tom and they made plans to rent a small boat out of Deep Cove and ride up Indian Arm to go fishing. Roger had picked Tom up from his small Burnaby apartment and they had set off at 7:00 am on a cold, dampish Sunday morning.


The coast on either side of them was dotted with dozens of tiny coves, and it was into one such cove that Tom eventually steered the boat. He cut the ignition and the engine stopped, then he shut off the fuel line and set the steering handle up so that it would be out of the way. It was clear to Roger that he had done this hundreds of times before.

"Well," Tom said, "not just another day at the orifice, eh? Haw-haw-haw!"

Roger tried not to wince.

"Get it?" Tom continued. "Sperm Cove this place is called. Orifice. Get it?"

"Oh, yes. I get it now. Funny."

"Naw, yer just saying that to be nice. I appreciate it, though."

"Right. Please pass me that tackle box."

Roger pulled out his fishing rod and took the tackle box from Tom. He opened the box, moved the large scaling knife out of the way and collected a spool, a large hook and three red balls for bait, putting what he'd read the day before into practice. He began putting his rod and line together while Tom sat across from him and did exactly the same with his own fishing rod. Soon they both had lines in the water.

`I hate fishing!' Roger thought. `And here I am in this tiny boat with this big stupid, insane oaf, and I'm fishing. This had better be worth the effort. No man should have to endure this kind of misery. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.' He repeated it until it had become a chant.

Finally, as if in utter despair, and at some kind of breaking point, Roger stopped thinking about his unhappiness, and tried to think of other things--things that would not make him any more depressed.

And so there was a great silence while Roger contemplated the fine weather, the safety of the boat, Tom's body odour and the overall absurdity of two men fishing when they could easily drive to the nearest market and buy as much fish as they wanted--and considering the cost of the boat rental, gas and time involved, probably for much cheaper as well. The only true advantage was the company, if one appreciated that. Finding out more about his present company was exactly what Roger wanted to do.

He cleared his throat.

"So Tom."

"Yeh, Rog."

Roger hated being called `Rog.'

"How long now until the big day?"

"The big . . . oh! Nancy! Lemmesee . . . two months and counting--but who's counting? Haw-haw-haw!"

"Well, I was just curious. I thought maybe you were starting to get nervous."

"Shit! Nothing to be nervous about."

`What the hell does he mean by that?' Roger wondered.

"Sure, Tom, I know what you mean, but there's so much to consider. Think about you and Nancy. You'll be together an awful lot more. It'll just be you and her. Take it from me: I've been married for seven years, now. One part of your life ends and another begins."

Tom lit a cigarette and looked at Roger for a moment with a very interested look. "Do you always think things through like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, shit. You've only gotten married. It's not like you blew your head off with a shotgun."

"Umm, no, that's true. But it is a big change. You must have some worries."

"Nope."

"I see. Well, then. That's good."

"Uh-huh . . ."

They both sat silently tending their fishing lines for several minutes. Tom finished his cigarette and threw the smouldering butt into the inlet. Roger drew his fishing line all the way back in, checked his lure, and slowly let it back down into the water.

Tom watched him the whole time and then said, "Not too deep."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The hook. Don't put it too deep."

"Oh, right." Roger wound the line in a few meters.

They sat still and silent for a few more minutes. A bird started to chirp. Tom moved slightly, causing the boat to rock slowly for perhaps half a minute. A helicopter flew down Indian Arm, directly over top of them, and continued towards the oil refineries in Port Coquitlam.

Roger started thinking over and over in his head, `I hate fishing, I hate fishing' and kept it up until he actually realised what he was doing. At this point his curiosity got the better of him and he started to wonder why: `Why do I hate fishing? Why do I hate fishing?' And he continued this for several minutes, until the question faded in his mind and he looked up at Tom.

"Are your parents coming to the wedding?" Roger asked.

"Of course."

"Oh, that's good. What do they do?"

"Whadya mean?"

"I mean, what jobs do they have?"

"Well, they're retired." Tom stopped. Roger opened his mouth to inquire further, but Tom cut him off before he could speak. "But before that my mom was a registered nurse, and my dad was a card player."

"A card player."

"Uh-huh. Made his living playing poker, blackjack, baccarat--that sort of thing."

"You're kidding!"

"Why would I do that?"

"Uh, did he make a lot of money?"

"Sometimes. Other times he lost a lot."

Roger thought about this for a minute. "My dad was an accountant," he suddenly blurted out.

"Yup. I know. Holy shit, Rog. You got one!"

As Tom said this, Roger felt his fishing rod trying to wrestle itself out of his hands. He started to reel in the line.

"Not so fast, Rog. Here."

Tom leaned over and grabbed the fishing rod at the very end. He gently lifted the rod up and said, "Wind" as he let the rod down towards the water again. Roger slowly reeled in the line. They repeated these motions and pretty soon Roger was doing it by himself. Once the fish was on a short tether of maybe three feet, Tom said, "Okay, reach out and grab it and pull it into the boat."

Roger reluctantly leaned out towards the fish and hesitated. `This is going to be absolutely awful,' he thought. He grabbed the fish and a thrill of horror went through his body as he lifted it out of the water and into the boat. He set it in the bottom.

"Nice feeling, huh?" Tom said.

"Lovely."

"Haw-haw-haw! Some guys love the slimy things in life. Haw-HAW! Here, I'll get the hook for ya."

Tom duly removed the hook from the fish's mouth with the scaling knife and tossed the hook and the line back into the water.

"Looks like a eight or nine pounder salmon ya got. Nice."

"Yes," Roger agreed sarcastically, "beautiful."

"I suppose next time we could use the net to bring the fish in, huh?"

Roger said nothing, but gritted his teeth.

They settled back to their same positions in the boat and Roger lowered his hook back into the water--deeper this time, in hopes of avoiding the disgusting ordeal of catching another fish. Time passed. Very little changed inside or outside the boat, save the passing of the scattered clouds and the drawn-out death-dance of the fish in the boat, the latter, Roger felt, taking altogether too much time.

`I'm not sure, now, why I hate fishing so much,' Roger thought. `It's not just the horrible smells and the slime and the boredom. It's something else--but what? What do I hate about fishing--or at least the thought of fishing?

`I know today is different. I don't have to like it. I also don't have to like this buffoon that's sitting right here. And I dont. I just have to know more, that's all.'

"So," Roger said a few minutes later, "you were telling me about your dad."

"Thought I was saved by the fish I did. Haw! As I recall you were telling me about your daddy the accountant."

"I was just saying it to-"

"You were saying it to show me just how much frigging better he was than mine."

"No."

"Yeh."

"Tom, do you think what your dad did has any bearing on your life now?"

"Yeh, Rog, I do. And so do you."

"Look-"

"No, you look!" and he stopped.

"I like fishing, but I prefer it alone. Let's just pretend we're both alone in the boat, okay?"

Roger sighed. "Alright."

And so they fished. They fished for perhaps an hour. Tom caught two fish, Roger none. All the while each avoided the other's eyes, and eventually became so lost in their own thoughts that finally they forgot the other was there at all.

Roger began to feel the same disgust and hate for fishing. He asked himself why, again, and wondered if he could reason it out.

`Fishing,' he thought, `is a sport that relies on the stupidity and gullibility of one party, the fish, and the patience and maybe the cunning of some other party, in this case, the fisherman--me. So here I am, bored practically to tears, with a deep hook that is definitely not going to tempt any fish, stupid or otherwise. I'm not a good fisherman. But that can't be why I hate it so much.'

Then there was a connection in Roger's mind as a thought blazed blindingly through his mind like a bolt of lightening. He stiffened suddenly and thought, `Christ! If I'm not a fisherman, then I must be the damned fish! Isn't that a bloody miserable idea? But then who is the fisherman?'

Roger was startled when Tom spoke, breaking the long silence that had descended on them.

"You ain't a bit like your sister."

"Is that a fact."

"Yup. For one thing you're smarter. You ain't a genius, but you're smarter than her. Another thing: you've forgotten where your money comes from. She hasn't."

Roger bristled. "I work for a living!"

"Yeh, doesn't everyone? You can thank your daddy and mommy. Thing is, country clubs and fancy West Van houses don't come from nowhere. You inherited a ton and so did Nancy."

"I know that's what you're after."

"You don't know jack. These little `are you prepared for marriage' and `what did your daddy do' questions are an insult. How fucking stupid do you think I am?"

"How fucking stupid are you, Tom?"

"Haw-haw-haw! That's great! A real frigging gem! Hold on a second."

Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a tie pin. It was gold and had a large diamond set in the center. Roger knew the pin very well. It was a wedding present from his best man.

"Look familiar?" Tom asked.

"You cheap little thief!" Roger exclaimed. "Give that back!"

"Sure thing." Tom tossed it at Roger. The pin went through Roger's hands, over his head and into the water. There was a slight "ploop" sound as it hit the water, and Roger spun around in the boat. He couldn't even see it as it sank to the bottom of the inlet. He turned back around to face Tom's grin.

"You stinking bastard!" he yelled. "What else did you steal from my home?"

"Just that--and not to pawn off, either."

"What . . . why?"

"Just to have a little piece of you. I already got all of Nancy."

Roger very nearly lunged at Tom, but he stopped before he even tensed, knowing he was no match for Tom's strength.

Tom began reeling in his line.

"I think that's enough fish for today. Whatcha think?"

Roger couldn't say anything, but drew in his line as well.

Tom primed and started the motor and, once it was going, steered the boat back towards Deep Cove. The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, so Roger yelled out over the noise, "Stop! Stop the motor!"

Tom cut the engine and said, "Jesus Christ, Rog, hurry up and wait, huh? Haw-haw!"

"How much do you want?" Roger asked.

Tom looked at him for a moment.

"More than you've got, good buddy," he said.

"I'm serious!"

"So am I."

"Look, I can get you a hundred grand tomorrow and maybe another hundred grand in about a week. Ten days at the most."

"I don't want your money. I don't exactly want anything you got--'cept maybe that snazzy pair of new shoes, but I'll buy 'em in my own size. Haw-haw-haw!"

"Then what do you want? What makes Nancy's money better than mine?"

"Nancy's money is Nancy's money. That's what. But I don't think you get it, Rog. You see, I don't want her money, either."

"Then just why do you want to marry her?"

Tom fumbled for a cigarette, found one and lit it. Smoke blew away from the boat, and towards the craggy rocks about 100 meters away.

"Why do you care, buddy? Whatsit to you, anyway?"

"Because I . . . uh . . . because Nancy's my only sister and I care about what happens to her. That's why."

"That's bullshit. You've talked to her twice in three months? Once when we all had drinks at your stupid little country club, and the other last Tuesday. I think you don't really care about her at all. I think you care about you."

Again Roger had to suppress the urge to jump at Tom and choke him.

`There's the retirement money, and the down payment for the summer cottage,' he thought.

"I could get you a total of three hundred and fifty thousand in two weeks. Just call off the wedding and it's yours."

"You know why little boys piss in the back yard? 'Cause it's easier than going all the way into the house to piss in the toilet. Haw-haw-haw!"

"What?"

"`What?' he says. Buddy, you just don't get it."

"Then tell me, Tom. Just what don't I get?"

"Well," Tom said. "Lemmesee . . ." His mouth twitched back and forth for a few moments. "I call it, `The Potato Way.'"

Roger sat dumbfounded and stared at Tom.

"You see, there are all kinds of veggies in this life. Big long ones, small round ones, red, green, purple and brown ones. But of all of them, the one everybody thinks of first when you say vegetable is `potato.' Think about it: taters, spuds, apples of the Earth--the potato is king, and it's the everyday plain old vegetable everyone eats. We boil 'em, fry 'em, bake 'em, broil 'em, and some people eat them raw. Ever eaten a raw potato, Rog?"

"N-no."

"How about roasted in a campfire? No? Well, lots of people have, you know. Jesus Christ, Rog, people even make potato salad out of them. What I'm trying to say is life would be different if there was no potatoes. Well, pal, I'm a potato. And maybe you can serve me up like french fries with a burger and a shake, but I'd rather be a baked potato beside a steak."

Roger couldn't believe what he was hearing, and couldn't look at Tom, either. So he turned his head away toward the shore and saw the rocky wall descend into sharp jagged boulders only about 50 meters away.

"Tom-"

"Roger, would I make a great baked potato or what? Haw-Haw-haw!"

"I think we'd better get out of here."

"Well? Whadya think? Me a baked potato and Nancy my steak?"

"Tom!"

"Answer me, you stupid fuck!" Tom bellowed.

"I don't know!" Roger yelled back. "I think you've gone totally mad! I think I'll buy you a hundred sacks of potatoes so you can eat them for the rest of your life if you want! Honestly, I have no damned idea what you're talking about!"

Tom leaped at Roger so quickly that Roger had no time to react at all. In an instant Tom was on top of Roger with the scaling knife at his throat.

The boat washed closer and closer to the shore.

Tom half-smiled--only in the lower part of his face--and quietly, grimly said, "Then I'll just have to explain it again. Don't look at the shore, just watch me, and listen carefully.

"I didn't even want to marry your stupid little rich bitch sister. I just wanted to get into her pants. I was thinking the whole time that she was too rich for my blood, and a damned bore in the sack. The engagement was bullshit. We woulda never gotten married--and I wasn't gonna hit you up for a ton of money, either.

"But then I met you at the country club that day. Your little questions and probing and gossipy ideas changed my mind. You were the one I was marrying. 'Cause if you were good enough to have money and power and stuff, then sure-as-shit so was I! Maybe I'm the potato, but you're the asparagus. Pretty to look at, but you taste like shit. I live by the Potato Way and, like a spud, things just sort of happen to me. The wind blows and I get to go to your country club. It blows again and I eat gourmet meals and get drunk--all free--and pretty soon I marry your sister. I wanna say nothing personal but that's not true now, it only started out that way. Haw-"

CRUNCH! The boat nosed straight into an outcrop of rocks at the shore. Roger flinched from the vibration and sound, and in doing so propelled Tom over his head and face-first into the rock cliff. Tom fell onto the rocks beneath the prow of the boat. The scaling knife clattered off the rocks and into the water beside him.

Roger stood up in the boat, surprised and ashamed to find the crotch of his pants warm and wet, and turned to see Tom lying face-up in the water, about a meter away, dazed and semi-conscious. His right arm was clearly broken, and his face was bleeding from several places.

Roger grabbed a paddle and pushed the boat away from the rocks. He sat down and rowed the boat first on the left side and then on the right until he was about 10 meters from the rocks. He stopped rowing, except to maintain a safe distance. The boat was damaged, but not seriously enough to put Roger in immediate peril. `Lucky we went into it head-first,' he thought.

He considered his situation carefully as he sat and observed Tom bobbing up and down with the waves.

Then Tom spoke. "Rog?"

"Yes, Tom."

"I can't see you. What're you doing?"

"I'm trying to see if I can think of a plausible-enough story for leaving you here."

"Hey, buddy, you can't do that."

"Why not?" Roger asked.

"It'd be murder!"

"Oh. Well, about that: what were you going to do with the knife?"

"Nothing! I was just trying to get you to listen!"

"Well, I listened, Spud Boy. And now it looks as though you were correct. Things really do just happen to you."

"Oh shit!" Tom said, "I can't hurt you now. What're you going to tell people?"

"Hmmm," mused Roger. "I guess I'll just say that you steered the boat into those rocks there, and drowned before I could fish you out."

"But I got a flotation coat on!"

"I guess I'll have to take it off."

"Over my dead body, pal!"

"Right! That's the idea."

Tom didn't say anything for a moment. He just bobbed up and down in the water. Finally he said, "If you've barely got the guts to grab a fish, I don't see how you're going to kill me or pull a coat off a dead man. You haven't got the balls, buddy."

Roger sagged. Tom was right, and they both knew it.

"And besides," Tom continued, "what will you do with the coat? The guy at the dock saw us both--and I was wearing it then."

Roger began considering other ideas, each one more fantastic than the previous one. It seemed there was nothing he could do, except wait for several hours until Tom had died of exposure. That was risky, he knew. Anybody could ride by in a boat and come to their `rescue' at any time. He looked at his watch: 9:25 am. It would take Tom the better part of the day to freeze to death. Roger had told his wife he'd be back in the afternoon.

"Rog? Are you still there?" Tom called out.

`Damn! He sounds stronger!' Roger thought.

"Yes, I'm still here."

"You know, there's another way."

"I think you should stay out of this."

"There's the Potato Way."

"You're really not helping your situation, you know."

"Just let it happen, come on back and help me--that's the only way you'll be safe. And Rog? That's the only way I'll live. The Potato Way."

It suddenly occurred to Roger that Tom had a point. He called back to Tom, "By your logic, I have something you want, and you've got something I want back."

"Nancy?" Tom asked.

"Nancy," Roger replied.

There was a brief pause, then Tom said, "Okay, you can have that, but I seem to remember you talking about some money."

"By the rules of the Potato Way, that offer is no longer valid."

"C'mon," Tom said, "ya gotta give me something for my troubles."

"Five thousand."

"Ten, and you forget the business about the tie pin."

"Okay, it's a deal," Roger said.

Roger rowed the boat slowly back toward the rocks. With a fair bit of exertion on his part, and a great deal of pain on Tom's, they were both back safely in the boat and moving towards Deep Cove. Tom was shivering but refused to take off his floatation coat.

Roger was pleased with the outcome of the fishing trip. There'd be some trouble from Nancy, no doubt, but that would pass. He might hate Tom, but he had to admit that the man, crazy as he may be, had at least one good idea.

As the boat swung around Raccoon Island and Deep Cove came back into view, both men breathed a sigh of relief. Roger smiled. And Tom let the scaling knife he had retrieved from the water slide out of his flotation coat and fall to the bottom of the boat.


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