I set down the beer and held Potato up in arms. “Speak, Potato. C’mon.” Potato was silent. I shook him a bit. He whimpered. “I swear. He talks like Ja Rule. Those Hips, Those Thighs I! I swear he did.” “Leif, I know you’re nuts but this is new. Stop harassing the damn dog and come back to bed.” It was entirely possible that I had imagined it all. Hell, weirder things have happened in this fine city of ours. I put down Potato and I went back to bed with Pistil. Potato was silent for the rest of the evening, and damn, how things are now, I wish he had stayed that way.
Pistil Long-Am and I had been together for about two years when Potato started getting weird. I figured Pistil loved me, even though she never said so. She wasn't that kind of girl, I guess. I was taking a Spanish course at LACC for the hell of it (Our neighborhood is mostly Mexican and I thought it would be tight to kick it with the abuelitas down the street) when I came across this little proverb: “contigo, pan y cebolla.” It basically means, “I love you so much that we will prevail through hard times, even if all we have to eat is bread and onions”. I thought this was such a good proverb that I spent the rest of the class daydreaming about being destitute, eating bread and onion sandwiches with Pistil in the streets of Moorish Granada, begging for money and knicking loaves like Aladdin and Abu. In this fantasy, I was Abu. I identified with his kleptomania. When I got home I told her about it over a