How the Potters Met
How the Potters Met
By Jay Carleton
By the second course, he had decided he would be with her. Her sweet voice put him in a warm trance. This girl, on paper, seemed perfect, and now, after finally meeting, he knew. Her presence softened his innocent heart. The tone of her voice stimulated him in a new way, a strange new titillation.
She, too, was a true believer. It was their minister who finally got them to meet. He would thank him. He would ask him to perform the ceremony.
She would be a stunning bride. Her sandy hair, maybe in an updo under a lacy veil: Her pale skin filtering through the white lace: Her smile. Her thin, red lips mouthing, "I do". He knew. She will be the one. She will be his first. They will name their first-born after the lord.
"Are you even listening to me?" she asked, with a small, wet ball of carmelized apples and foie gras, rolling around in her sensual mouth, like wet swim trunks in a front loader.
"Yea, yes, of course. How's the Foie Gras?"
“I was just saying that it's ok, I mean, I've had better. You know they're gonna ban this in California? It’s prepared kinda inhumanely. You know, they literally force-feed the ducks with corn, to artificially fatten their livers. I mean, yea, it's inhumane, but it tastes so good! It's totally just like veal, though. I hear they raise the veal calves in a tiny pen so they stay fat, and their muscles stay deliciously atrophied." She flipped her sandy blond hair over her shoulder and cocked her head. "You know?"
"Yea," he said. Smiling. Enraptured. He remembered signing petitions at the PETA rally to ban foie gras and veal, but she was right. It was delicious. She really knows. She really knows what she likes.
"My best friend, Josie, said that she had a best friend, Marcy, who went to a farm that was raising parrots to be fattened and eaten. She said it was a real delicacy. She said it simply melted in her mouth! Mmmm, I would love to try that. Wouldn't you? I just love to try new things. Don’t you?"
"I...I guess." He had a ring neck parakeet at home, named Winston. He hadn't really imagined eating Winston before. I mean, he seemed sort of boney. But maybe if he force-fed him, he might be darn right delicious. He imagined small, greasy, hot wings. He wondered if parrot meat would be green.
"I would totally eat parrot,” she said,”Maybe with a fresh mango-mint chutney." She swallowed and closed her eyes. He watched the bite slide down her sinewy neck. "Mmmmmm! Marcy said it was slathered in butter and garlic, but everything tastes good with butter and garlic. It's like cheating to prepare it like that, might as well deep-fry it. Deep-fry is the literally fricassee of the poor. You know?"
He nodded. He agreed. Then, he thought about it. He didn't understand it. For a moment he was confused. He smiled. “Yea.”
"We should have ordered the twice-baked yam foam. My best friend, Missy, says that it’s the B-O-M!! Right?"
Then, with confidence, without prejudice, without spell check, he said,"Yea.” She flipped her hair, cocked her head and smiled.
"You know you are so nice. That's why I love dating Christian boys. They are all so sweet and so cute. There's a boy at my school, named David, who says that Jews are the best lovers"
"Jews?!!"
"Yea, of course he's Jewish, but I didn't think he was any better than the Christian boys. I mean, what religion you are doesn't really make a difference as to how good of a lover you are. I mean, you don't hear Muslims bragging about how well endowed they are, now do you?" She flipped her hair and blinked her baby blues.
"Ummm, well not to me they don't." he quipped. He thought that was a good one.
The waiter arrived with their entrees. His: Salmone, Grilled filet of salmon in white wine, garlic and lemon sauce served with rice and vegetables, which she said he would totally love. Hers: Orecchiette Aragosta. Orecchiette pasta in a creamy light brown sauce with roasted cauliflower, shitake mushrooms and braised lobster meat, that her best friend, Veronica said was so delish.
"Anything else I can get for you," the waiter asked. He felt the waiter looked Muslim.
"No, this looks fine to me, thanks". He felt the portions looked rather small, but this was her favorite place. He wanted her to be happy. She was so exquisitely gorgeous, so vivacious.
"I would love to have another one of these, please." She shook the empty wine glass between her dainty fingers, and let out an adorable snorting laugh. “Snort ! That totally rhymed!” He loved the sound of her laugh. It reminded him of a delivery truck backing up to deliver thoughtful gifts to needy people.
"Sure, sweetheart," the Muslim waiter replied, "Be right back." The waiter smiled and nodded his head a bit toward her. She coyly blushed away. He looked up at the waiter, who hadn't left, then back at her, peering up at the waiter. He cleared his throat.
"Ummm, hello? The wine?"
"Ha ha," the waiter laughed, slowly and smoothly. "Right away," he said and swooped toward the kitchen.
"He's a good waiter.” she said, ”There’s such a huge difference between a fine-dining waiter and a regular waiter. It’s totally like night and day. He was so on with the pairing. Just totally spot on." She grabbed her fork and stabbed into the noodles. She spun her fork. "I came here twice last week with David Westberg and David Philbrick. I think the waiter recognized me."
"Do you only go out with guys named David?" asked David Potter.
"Well, it's sort of my thing." she replied.
"I'm glad I fit the criteria!" he said. Zing! Another good one. He was on fire, and thank God his parents chose to name him after that great Israelite. He is truly blessed, he thought. Wait, what did she say?
"Did you notice the waiter’s name tag?" Another David! Can you imagine!" She put a huge swirled fork of pasta past her outstretched lips. He hadn’t noticed the waiter’s name.
"They are totally all around me! I am literally surrounded by Davids!” she said, from behind a mouthful of noodles. “Once, I went to a psychic that my best friend, Pam, told me about. She was so good, and she said I would meet a man named David, and he would totally, literally, so sweep me off my feet. The way I see it, I'm just doing my part. Sometimes, you totally have to give fate a helping hand! You know?"
"Umm, yea. Totally." He now agreed that this was the new, true definition of fate. It had to be helped, maybe even forced sometimes. He loved the way her mind worked. She was so sharp, and passionate. He wished he had passion in his life, besides his passion for the lord, of course.
"I've dated 5 Davids this month. "
"it's only the Fourth!" he blurted out, nearly choking on his last bite of Salmone. She paused a beat.
"What are you trying to say?" she asked, squinting, still chewing. Her nostrils flared seductively. He swallowed.
"Oh, well, nothing of course, I mean, I was just making an observation, I was, well, you are just, you're achieving aren't you? Not over-achieving, but, I mean, you are active!". He hoped he hadn't blown it. His heart pounded. He began to perspire a bit.
She flipped her hair and looked him straight in the eye. "Are you trying to say I sleep around?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, no, I mean, what do I know? You can do what you like. I’m a modern, enlightened man. You're a free woman."
"I'll have you know, David Potter, I'm a...” she leaned in, “ Virgin!"
"Ok," he put his finger to his lips. "Shhh, ok, me too. I’ve never really done anything."
She sat back. Paused. Swallowed. "Really?" She flipped her hair, cocked her head and jammed her fork back into the noodle pile. The dim light sparkled off her spinning fork, like a lighthouse beacon. "Not even...”, she leaned in again, “A blowie?"
"A what? A blowie? Wow, no, no way," he was shocked, he looked around, people may know him here. "No, nothing, of course not, that's against the Lord."
"No, it's so not,” she said. “In fact, it's literally not even sex. It says it in the bible. God doesn't want anything in your pinky petals, that's totally only for procreation. But everything else is perfectly Christian. "
He was stunned. "Pinky petals? What... I mean, I don't remember seeing pinky anything in the bible." He tried to catch his breath. His heart raced. He needed to keep cool. She needed to know he was cool. "Is this the King James Version?" he asked, coolly.
She smacked her lips and moved the half-masticated noodle wad to her cheek,"It's just the way I see it. Only sex is sex, everything else is just everything else. You know?" she gnashed the wad, "Have you even kissed a girl, David?"
He had, once, a peck, 15 years ago at bible camp. It was with girl named Nicki, who was from Canada.
"Of course I have," he replied, cocksure. "Many times. Well, not many, but some, a few, a coupla times, but not too many... the proper amount of lip work I suppose." He winced, did he really say lip work? Uncool. “Yea, I kissed a girl.”
She leaned in, the corners of her mouth turned up, her thick eyebrow raised, "So have I." It took a second for this to register, then his blood began to heat, he could feel moisture under his arm pits. Then she asked, "How many?"
"Alright, here's the wine!" David the Muslim waiter interrupted, " It's an Arneis. It'll be a nice change from the Chateau Doisy-Védrines Barsac. " he opined, a little too heavy on the Francais. David Potter began to feel warmer, a little bit dizzy, a little bit tingly. The waiter poured and smiled down at her, she smiled back.
"How do you know so much about wine?" she asked, batting her delicately placed false eyelashes.
"Yea, I thought Muslims weren't allowed to drink alcohol?" David Potter was forced to interject.
The waiter, without turning his head, smoothly replied, "They can’t, but, thank God, I'm not Muslim." He deftly lifted the bottle. "Enjoy!" he said. Nodding, winking and smiling at her, all in one cool move, then he swooped back toward the kitchen.
"Hmmm," she sipped. "Hmmm, I thought he was totally Muslim. Didn’t you? You think he's a Christian? He literally looks so Muslim."
David Potter began to get angry. He set his fork down and took a sip of his water. He looked down at the remaining half of his half-meal. His pale, freckled face began to redden. He was filled with hate/ love and lust/violence. He put his hands on his lap and clenched his fists around the napkin, pulling it taut.
"I sure hope he's Christian." she chirped, “Wouldn’t that be something?”
"Why, so you could do a Christian blowie on him?!" he whisper-yelled. It was too much. He decided, right there, that he would not, could not, marry this girl. He stared, eyebrows raised, stunned, and mortified.
She stared back at him, motionless. She slowly reached for her wine glass, pinching the stem between her French manicured fingers. She brought the rim of the glass to her thin, red lips and began loudly sipping, slurping, then tilting the base up to the ceiling for the last drop, which landed on the tip of her outstretched, pointy tongue. She slowly set the glass down and licked her lips. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. She leaned in.
"Yes, David Potter," she hissed, "Oh, yes, I would so literally ‘Do a Christian blowie on him". She smiled, evil, slow and deliberate. Then, through her tiny, round, wine-stained teeth she added, "And I totally would make you watch."
Many years later, they would tell the story of their first date to their sons, Jesus and David, jr. They would both tell a different story. Neither would tell this story. They would make sweet, wet, dirty, carnal, lustful Christian love, often. David Potter was happy, though, inside, to himself, he felt the frequency of the blowies faded over time.
