Tater Tarver won't be exposing himself anymore. Everyone thought Tater was hoarding his urine in plastic jugs beneath his bed at the Rest Well Nursing Home in Bradley. The nurses' aids let him be so long as mothballs masked the smell.
Turns out it was highly flammable gasoline Tater had been siphoning from the grounds' crew and employee parking.
His kids, who knows how many there are, collectively are known as the Tater Tots. They're all grown, grandparents themselves, but still called after their Daddy.
As in, "Are you one of the Tater Tots?" Not to be confused with the Russet Spuds across the river.
His lovely wife Doyce met her Maker several springs back. Tater wasn't the same after, but some things never changed.
Tater had that one propensity, wagging his tallywacker. It was nothing folks around here hadn't seen, even eliciting polite applause on occasion in the cereal aisle at the U-Save.
I hear tell it started in high school. Tater played varsity, lettered in all the sports Mercer County offered. Coaches retired his jerseys, still pictures of him in uniform in one of the trophy cases.
More than one local matron attests it all started on movie dates with shared popcorn. Tater was popular and dated all the girls. Tater cut a round hole with his pocketknife in the bottom of the popcorn box. That's how he and Doyce met, rest her soul. She was head cheerleader.
Doyce retained her weakness for hot buttered popcorn 'til the day she died.
Once committed to the rest home, the handicap of attracting audiences that gave a hoot increased exponentially for Tater and frustrations set in.
Little known fact: Nursing home residents are rationed two Viagra tablets per month. But Tater was cut off. He squandered his allotment of Vitamin V for show-and-tell.
Personal note: Every time one of those "E. D." ads comes on TV, the announcer earnestly intoning, "If you have an erection lasting longer than four hours, call your doctor immediately."
My better half Duck takes a swig of his Yuengling and toasts the set, "And, if you have one longer than twelve inches, call me!"
I know he's joshing, but it fuels my inadequacies.
Ms. Idella, another patient at the home, was the only witness to Tater's immolation. She has a little Alzheimer's, so her testimony may not be valid. But in a moment of lucidity, Idella stated, "Tater was naked as a jaybird yelling, 'I'm gon' take out ever' last son-a-bitch! Blast 'em to Kingdom Come!' Then he pooted and like-to knocked my teeth clean to Kentucky!"
As of mid-afternoon, the nurses' aids had not located Ms. Idella's dentures.
As luck would have it, Tater was the sole fatality. Sprinklers limited damage largely to his room. The explosion smashed windows and busted the ceiling tiles, but the adjoining room had a firewall, and the other backed up on the chapel. Jesus was knocked off his pedestal, but merely cracked and can be saved.
The stained-glass windows turned out to be plastic, so warped, but no worse for wear.
The visitation is tomorrow night. Duck & I never miss one, get our fill of red velvet cake, lemon squares and, for Tater's, hot buttered popcorn.
The body was too badly burned for open casket, but the boy Tater Tots, not sure how many of them there are, in honor of their Daddy will show up pant-less. Their Mama Doyce would be proud, and their grandchildren will be mortified.
Yesterday around midnight, Tater Tarver marched up to Heaven's Pearly Gate in nothing St. Peter hadn't seen before.
RIP - Donald Miles "Bunkie" Johnson (1924 - 2010)
Up next in the Heart of Jawja:
“Squash Casserole,” Queen Tush makes dinner for husband, not her own. (Go!)
© Phil Comer
Disclaimer: Although loosely based on reality, characters and events are none you or I know.
Text is copyright material of the author. Photo by Gary Cutrell, model anonymous. Unless stated otherwise, photos and links are for information and not the property of the author.
Text is copyright material of the author. Photo by Gary Cutrell, model anonymous. Unless stated otherwise, photos and links are for information and not the property of the author.
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