David was a strange young man. For some reason, every time he was in a public place, he had an urge to draw. Perhaps you, the reader, are thinking, “Hey, having in urge to draw is not that bizarre. What are you talking about you crazy writer person!” But let me tell you, David’s urge to draw was far from normal. Every time he felt a compulsion to draw, the same thing popped into his head, yearning to escape through his hands onto the surface of anything. That thing was a potato.
One day David was at the beach and he stepped into a Port-o-Potty because he had some business to take care of. Peeing was definitely a priority, but more importantly David disgruntled with the sand. That particular day was extremely windy, and as a result everything he etched into the grains of the beach was quickly obliterated by the elements. He had decided he would take his solace in the Port-o-Potty and draw away to his heart’s content.
David began pulling the fat, Sharpie Magnum that he carried with him constantly out of his pocket when he looked up and saw something that made him stop. By now, he had closed the door of the portable bathroom, and what was on the back of the door made his face contort into a mask of disbelief. There, on the blue, soft plastic was the drawing of a potato. However, this was not just any sort of potato drawing. It was the same kind of potato that David drew. David could not believe this, and he stepped back (as far as he could without falling into the abyss) and saw every infinitesimal detail that resonated within him, resonated with familiarity. The perfect shape, the lumpiness captured in all of its glory, and the three sprouts placed meticulously around the body of the potato.
Needless to say, David began freaking out, so to speak. Perhaps it was a mixture of the fumes and the sheer surprise of seeing something comparable to a doppelganger. “I have to find out who did this,” David thought to himself. His eyes zoomed over the potato once again, and that was when he noticed something which had not caught his eye the first time. A phone number, a tiny sequence of numbers embedded into the body of the potato in between the first and second sprouts. David pulled out his phone quickly and jabbed in the numbers. His phone began ringing, ringing through the earpiece and into David’s head. Finally, somebody picked up, yet that somebody was not someone whom David had expected to hear.
The person who had picked up on the other side of the phone was his father. His father had picked up on the other side. David stood there shocked and then shouted into the receiver in disbelief. His dad only remained silent, waiting for his son’s rant to end. Then, when things were calm, his dad began to explain.
Every male in David’s family had an urge to draw potatoes everywhere since the dawn of time. The details in the drawing, the thickness of the lines and the placement of all embellishments, were all intentional. David’s father was very to the point in the explanation, being as blunt as a kitchen knife that had attempted to cut diamonds.
David listened intently, yet something still bothered him. Why had his father left his phone number in this particular drawing? David asked his dad, and his dad nonchalantly replied that it was destiny. Every male of their family leaves their number in one particular drawing, and when their offspring stumbles upon their drawing it is their duty to explain the family heritage.
It all made sense to David now, or at least most of it for that matter. “What about the woman of our family?” David wondered. “Ah,” his dad said. His dad explained that there was not much difference between the traditions of the women and the men and their family. The women just chose to draw radishes.