The Potato Man by Leigh-Anne Burley

Through thick, black-rimmed glasses, Irvington Hayes stared at three starlings perched on a telephone wire outside Birch and Birch, the accounting firm where he had spent his working life for the past 20 years. Each day, Irv occupied the same worn wooden bench, eating the same predictable lunch: a bologna-and-cheese sandwich on Wonder Bread, a carrot, and a Macintosh apple, washed down with a carton of Borden’s milk. He saw no need for change. Punctual to the second, Irv brushed crumbs off his ill-fitting brown suit and re-entered the gray, three-story office building for another routine day.

As he shuffled past the curious stares and sneers of his coworkers on the way to his cramped cubicle, he felt the weight of their whispers. They called him “Potato Man” behind his back because of his round head and body, along with a brown mole on his right cheek that resembled a potato eye.

Each evening, solace awaited him from his cat, Sally. Years earlier, he had discovered a shivering gray kitten abandoned in an alley by metal garbage cans near his older, six-story apartment building. He named her Sally after his third-grade teacher, Miss Sally Henderson, the first person to show him genuine kindness.

Days flowed into monotonous weeks until one Monday morning, disaster struck: Irv’s alarm clock failed to ring, leaving him late and without time to pack his lunch. Red-faced and agitated, he hurried past the startled starlings and his surprised colleagues, sliding into his seat and wishing his boss hadn’t seen him. Despite working through lunch, he struggled to catch up on his tasks; the errant numbers danced between columns, forcing him to check and recheck every figure.

By midday, Irv made his way to the water cooler to settle his nerves. There, under Lenny Walinsky’s piercing gaze, memories of school bullies flooded back, cornering him into an alley after school. In a blind rush of anger, Irv punched Lenny on the nose, sending him reeling against the cooler, which toppled sideways with a loud crash. Blood spattered across Lenny’s pale face and starched white shirt as the office erupted in shock. Overwhelmed, Irv fled the building, dodging three scowling starlings.

A week later, a letter from Birch and Birch informed him of his dismissal, and Lenny decided not to press charges but demanded compensation for his medical expenses. Haunted by regret, Irv spent days on the couch with Sally, grappling with the surreal violence that had erupted from him. A short time later, his beloved cat passed away in her sleep, and the remaining fragments of Irv’s broken spirit splintered into shards piercing his heart. The comfortless man saw no reason to carry on and longed for death.

Just as despair tightened its grip, the phone rang. A young man named Michael, with a clear, confident voice, claimed to be his son. Irv dismissed the call as a prank call, but when Michael mentioned that his birth mother, Barbara Jenkins, had recently died in a tragic head-on car accident caused by a drunk driver, Irv’s heart sank. He remembered dating a Barbara Jenkins in college, but she said nothing about being pregnant.

“I think you are mistaken,” Irv stammered, dismissing the claim.

“The adoption agency’s records of my birth certificate list both of your names,” Michael replied, his tone unwavering.

“Perhaps there are two men with the same name. It’s a common enough name,” Irv countered.

“You are my father,” the young man asserted.

Feeling faint, Irv managed a feeble “Oh.”

“I’m home from college for Thanksgiving break, and I would like to meet you. Shall we meet at the Humber Cafe at noon?”

Irv mustered an okay even though he didn’t mean it.

As the walls closed in around him, Irv fell back onto the couch. He wanted to cancel the meeting, but didn’t have the strength. Instead, he prayed his son was nothing like him. At the cafe, named for the Humber River’s rocky bed, Michael sat by a window, scanning the parking lot for the father who would never show.

That night, under the light of a full moon, Irvington Hayes, clad in his rumpled, baggy brown suit, heaved his lumpy body like a sack of potatoes over the cold rail of the Humber Bridge and stood on the narrow cement ledge. Thinking of nothing, he stared at the gurgling rocky river below and fell to his death.

Dry-eyed Michael, who bore no resemblance to his father, arranged a private funeral.

Leigh-Anne Burley