In a remote corner of a hostile, mountain woodscape dwelled a man and woman. The latter was probably the only person on the earth capable of coaxing enough potatoes from the frozen, rocky terrain to eke out a meager existence. Meanwhile, the man spent his days darning socks, repairing their shack, and figuratively cooking up new ways to literally cook up their supper spuds. However, due to the extremely limited resources at his disposal, he invariably resorted to boiling them.
Perhaps as a side effect of spending every day together without any other human contact, the man and woman came to passionately despise each other.
"Why can't you grow something that isn't a potato?" he complained. "I want some lettuce or maybe a carrot! Or why don’t you hunt a rabbit for once? I’m not picky—I’d settle for a squirrel!"
"I don't see you bringing home any food!" countered the woman. "I happen to love boiled potatoes. So unless you start ‘bringing home the bacon’, we won’t have any!"
Although he'd eaten nothing but potatoes for years and years, the man vaguely remembered having eaten bacon as a child. He recalled the lazy Sunday afternoons, napping in the sun with a stomach full of pig’s ass. But that was so long ago, he couldn't even remember how the bacon smelled, or whether he preferred it crispy or soggy. All he knew was that he had been so much happier then.
But one hormonally tempestuous day, the man and woman ceased bickering just long enough for the woman to become entirely pregnant.
“Great,” she said sarcastically, “another mouth to fill with potatoes!”
“Maybe we can eat it,” hoped the man.
Nine months later, they had a healthy baby boy.
"It looks like a potato," said the man. "I hate it."
"I hate him even more," said the woman. "He looks like you."
And the man and woman were so wrapped up in their quarreling that they never even bothered to name the child. They just called him “him” or sometimes “it.” They also failed to notice that their poor son happened to be born without a tongue.
Years passed, and the infant grew into a pitiful, young boy. Already malnourished and pale, he looked even tinier wearing his mother’s worn-out hand-me-downs. Regardless, he was rather content—after all, there was no way for him to know better. And like all children his age, the seemingly magical world was a great source of awe and wonder for him. He was never, however, able to announce the miraculousness of a spider web or the life-lessons gleaned from a withered tree leaf. And so, he just stared and marveled.
"There's something wrong with It," complained the woman. "It doesn’t talk."
"He probably can't get a word in edgewise, the way you prattle on all day," said the man. "Either that, or he's plain dumb, like his mother."
In truth, there were lots of things the boy wanted to say. He wanted to say that there was a hole in his pants that made part of his left thigh quite cold on windy days. He wanted to say that one of his teeth wiggled around and kind of hurt sometimes whenever he bit into an undercooked potato. He wanted to say that he didn’t really like it when the parents yelled at each other. Lastly, he really wanted to tell his parents how great he thought they were.
And although the boy couldn’t speak, he made numerous attempts to communicate this last sentiment to his progenitors. Like a cat, he tried to win their approval by bringing them presents—the most fantastic twigs and leaves and frozen bear turds a kid could find.
“I don’t want all this shit in my house,” the woman declared one day, defenestrating several weeks’ worth of collected treasures. Mortified, the child vowed not to bring any more presents until he found something worthy of his parents’ attention.
When the tongueless boy turned about eight or nine (no one really kept track of his birthday or paid much attention to the calendar at all, really), he began to join his mother at work in the potato field. It was hard work, but, since he could not speak, he never complained.
One day, deeply entrenched in the task of making shallow trenches, the boy unearthed a small, wooden box.
“What a smooth potato,” he thought, turning the wooden box over in his hands. He knew it was extremely special, so he put it in his pocket, hoping to really impress his parents with it.
Later that night, the man was in rare form, having put in a long day of concocting improbable potato recipes.
“You know what?” he shouted at the woman. “I’d rather die than eat another ‘tater or have to look at your ugly face for one more minute!”
“I’d rather you died, too!” she hollered right back.
The man took this as an invitation to begin shouting about everything under the sun, and the woman viewed his shouting as an excuse for her to do the same.
Wishing the parents would stop fighting, the boy attempted to shout too, but all that came out was a labored gurgle. Although the child wasn’t as loud as his parents, the noise he made was so strange that it caused the parents to cease yelling for a moment.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked the man.
Shyly, the boy removed the box from his pocket and presented it to the parents.
“What’s that? Give it here!” yelled the woman.
“Where did you get that?” demanded the man. “It looks expensive.” He was already dreaming about trekking several days into town to trade it for a few slabs of heavenly, mouth-watering bacon.
Of course, the boy couldn’t answer the question, so he just stood, smiling proudly.
“There’s a latch,” noted the man, “Let me see, it—I think it opens.”
“I’ll do it,” said the woman, “you’ll break it with those clumsy bear paws.”
Although the boy’s parents hadn’t reacted to the gift exactly as he hoped, at least they’d temporarily stopped yelling.
Fully conscious it would drive the man insane, the woman ran her finger over the metal latch very, very slowly. With agonizing precaution, she undid the clasp.
“For god’s sake, just open the damn thing!”
“Patience,” she hissed.
After what seemed like an eternity, the box was opened for all to see. For a silent moment, everyone stared at its contents.
“What in tarnation is that?” asked the woman.
The boy knew exactly what it was: a squirming, living, magical tongue.
“Finally!” he thought, “I’ll be able to say all the things I’ve only ever thought!”
Nearly popping with excitement, the boy reached for the box.
But before he could grasp it, the man snatched it out of the woman’s hands.
“Let me have a look-see.” He peered at the tongue, which was already rolling in place and clucking and forming the most perfect consonants imaginable. It truly was a glorious tongue—capable of properly pronouncing anything—even the silent “m” in mnemonic!
“By god, it’s a tongue,” said the man, recalling a mediocre sandwich he once ate as a child. “I’m gonna boil it and eat it with my potatoes.”
“I want a piece too!” cried the woman.
Gasping, the boy hopped up and down, grabbing frantically at the box.
“What’s the problem?” asked the man.
Ah, Fate! How cruel and ironic that the young boy desperately needed the tongue to say how desperately he needed it!
“I mean, if you don’t want us to cook it, just say so,” said the woman.
“Yeah. Speak now, or forever hold your peace,” the man added cruelly.
Defeated, the boy hung his head. Excitedly, the father strode to the stove, held the box over the large pot of boiling potatoes, and turned it over. The wonderful, waggling tongue fell into the boiling water with a sickening bloop.
Putting the lid back on the pot, the man resumed loudly stating his opinion about something extraordinarily inconsequential, spurring the woman to contest him at even higher volumes.
Lugubriously shuffling across the floor, the boy stood on a stool and peered into the pot. As the tongue boiled, fantastical images began to ooze from it.
At first, the visions were cheerful—spider-webs and withered leaves. But as the water boiled harder, and the potatoes and tongue became softer, the apparitions got bleaker and more insidious—lucid depictions of the parents’ spiteful indifference. Eventually, the cauldron became so clouded with gloomy murk that the boy could no longer distinguish any of the pleasant things he’d seen before.
“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he thought, sighing as he put the lid back on the pot.