Microwave Dave's Bad Days - 6. Hot Potato, Hot Potato

I bet you have that Wiggles song in your head now, don't you? “Hot potato, hot potato; Cold spaghetti, cold spaghetti.” No, never had small kids, huh? Lucky shits. Devlin still likes the Wiggles. He just had a birthday party the other day. I saw the candle; it was a big eight. Apparently, he wanted to watch a Wiggles video. His friends chased him through the house calling him a baby. I guess they all grew out of the Wiggles, like they did with Teletubbies and Barney. It could have been worse. I could be writing about fruit salad. Actually, that may not have been quite as messy as the potatoes. No, my future would be different too. Fruit salad would definitely have been worse.

So anyway, I received a stomach transplant after the last Devlin based fiasco. Yeah, the plastic cup melted completely and bonded with my old stomach. It really needed to be removed. It was what you might call fucking gross. But this one is brand new. Please don’t screw it up for me Devlin. Of course, that, I believe is what is called a pipe dream. Although, sometimes dreams actually do come true. But I'm getting ahead of myself, yet again.

So, that's not what Devlin put into me the last time I saw him. I gather his dad made baked potatoes out on the grill. The tin foil had those dark lines on it, like leftover hot dogs and hamburgers sometimes do. Apparently, Devlin likes, or perhaps I should say liked, because I haven't seen him in days, I really don’t know how many, but it’s been at least six. I'll get back to this.

On to the potatoes. He was smart enough to take the foil off the two potatoes before putting them in me this time. Yea! No metal! But, once again, his concept of time was significantly screwy. Not that it matters, but he picked a number I can't say around along with it. One thousand isn't around one thousand, it IS one thousand. Regardless, sixteen minutes and forty seconds is apparently too long to microwave two potatoes. Two rather small potatoes, I might add. Hey, in microwaving things, size matters. I've heard that saying before. No clue what it means for humans. For me, smaller means it gets done quicker. Hmmm, I wonder if Addison had that problem. Sorry, I digress.

One potato was slightly larger than the other. The first, smaller potato, blew up at six minutes and forty-two seconds. The second one lasted eight seconds longer. Now I know what the white stuff was in the soup that time. Yeah, little bits of potato. Like what’s ALL OVER MY INSIDES NOW!

Sorry, I shouldn’t yell. But that kid... Of course, after he made those potato bombs, did he get punished? No, seriously, I’m asking you. Like I said, that was the last time I saw the little bastard.

Well, a little while after the potato explosion, Seneca, a.k.a. dad, yanks on my tail and things went dark. My battery backup only lasts forty-eight to fifty-two hours, if I’m lucky. I wasn’t lucky. I have no idea how long I was disconnected. All I know is I woke up and it was midnight on January first, nineteen-seventy. By the looks of this kitchen that I'm now in, I traveled back in time and my internal clock is right.

No Devlin sightings yet, which is good in a way, but I’ve been awake now for, yeah, I know you don’t like pinpoint accuracy, another four plus days. I’ve seen an old man, and an old woman walk past me a number of times. They weren’t Mr. and Mrs. Smith/Balor. Oh, shit. Have I been off for like forty years and it is them?

No, can’t be. Mr. had reddish hair; Mrs. was a blonde. These two have black and white hair. Are my new owners zebras? No, they’re definitely people. I don’t know how I got here, or why I’m here. They haven’t used me once since I’ve been here. It's been pretty boring.

Oh, wait. There’s Seneca. But this isn’t my kitchen. Maybe I’ll overhear something that will give me a clue.

“Ma, haven’t you used the microwave since I gave it to you?”

“No, dear. We appreciate the thought, but it’s too complicated for your father and me.”

“Come in here. I’ll at least show you how to reheat a cup of coffee.”

Real freaking hard. Push six and hold it. ‘6, one cup coffee, 90 seconds, high.’

Wait. If Seneca is here, does that mean...

“Oh, that is easy, dear. Why did Devlin Junior have such a problem with it?”

“He put things in there that shouldn’t be. Randomly picked times to cook things. He’s safer with it at your house. I’ll write down all the shortcuts for you.”

Devlin Junior, huh? So, Seneca, I mean dad, is a Devlin too? Never had any problems with him. He actually undercooked everything. And he fixed my clock. Thank you, thank you. Shit, eight days? I lost eight days? Senior stood at the counter next to me, reviewing all the speed dials. Hey, it works for phones. Let me have something.

But it’s lonely here. I don’t even have a router telling me where to pee. I can’t believe I’m thinking this seriously. I miss Devlin. I hope he's okay.

Epilogue

Dave lived with at least one of Devlin’s grandparents for another six years. After that, he could be found at a flea market. Unwanted, unused, and unplugged.

He was finally purchased by a young man who was moving away to college and spent the rest of his natural life living with Carson Gordon, who was smart enough to use Dave properly. He was never abused again. His demise came another twelve years later, during a lightning storm. His circuits were old and fried easily. Thankfully, it was a painless death.

Devlin lived long enough to grow up to be a mechanic and terrorize all manner of mechanical devices, although none quite as badly as Microwave Dave.

The End

I received a funny story from Sherye Story Reader, and since this is the last currently planned comedic entry, I thought it too funny not to share:

Afternoon Sex

The only way to pull off a Sunday afternoon "quickie" with their 8-year-old son in the apartment was to send him out on the balcony with a Popsicle and tell him to report on all the neighborhood activities.

"There's a car being towed from the parking lot," he shouted.

He began his commentary as his parents put their plan into operation:

"An ambulance just drove by!"

"Looks like the Anderson's have company," he called out.

"Matt's riding a new bike!"

"Looks like the Sanders are moving!"

"Jason is on his skateboard!"

After a few moments he announced, "The Coopers are having sex!!"

Startled, his mother and dad shot up in bed. Dad cautiously called out,

"How do you know they're having sex?"

"Jimmy Cooper is standing on his balcony with a Popsicle."