The Potluck

THE POT LUCK by Hillbilly Mom


Mr. Prufrock smoothed the crease of his gray polyester slacks and sighed. This unrequited love business certainly was not so romantic as literature would have you believe. He put the finishing touches on his love letter. Love limerick, as it were. He closed his eyes and imagined how her eyes would light up when she got it. Carla. His inamorata. The mere thought of her set his heart aflutter. Mr. Prufrock slid his calligraphy pens back into their clear plastic case. “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” he said, tucking the pens back into the top right compartment of his antique oak roll-top desk.

Carla was everything he was not. Vivacious, popular, young. “Opposites attract, “ stated Mr. Prufrock in a sing-song manner. He often talked to himself these days. The house was lonely, now that Mother was gone. He smoothed the lace runner on the dining room table as he passed by. The smell of last night’s sauerkraut still lingered a bit in the dim, stuffy air of the living room. He settled back in his La-Z-Boy recliner, the one splurge he’d made with the insurance money. The TV was tuned to the weather channel, but Mr. Prufrock no more knew the forecast than a dog knew how to solve a quadratic equation. He sat, as had become his habit of late, dreaming of his soul mate, Carla.

Carla ripped open the bag of Ruffles and dialed her best friend. “Di. Watcha doin’?” She chugged half a can of Milwaukee’s Best, and emitted a long, rumbling burp.

“Just finishing my Mississippi Mud cake for the Pot Luck. Can you chew with your mouth closed?”

“Why? It’s just you and me. I ain’t tryin’ to impress anyone.”

“It’s kind of hard to understand you with all that crunching.”

“You’ll get over it. What should I take to the Pot Luck?”

“Isn’t it a little late to be thinking about that now?”

“Yeah, well. Call me Susie Homemaker. I was out in the back yard hitting golf balls all afternoon.”

“Don’t your neighbors complain?”

“Not real golf balls, you twit! Wiffle golf balls. So, I thought I might bring corn.”

“How are you making it?”

“Making it? I thought I’d bring a bag of that frozen stuff. If somebody wants some, they can heat it up.”

“I guess that’s no worse than the annual loaf of sandwich bread from the day-old bread outlet.”

“Exactly.”

“Hey, I saw your lovah looking at you during the meeting.”

“Ha ha. That bald little old freak? He told me he thinks you’re attractive.”

“Nice try. You’re making that up. You’ve never even talked to him, have you?”

“No. But he was watching YOU.”

“Only because I was in his way when he undressed you with his eyes.”

“Yeah, right. You crack me up, Di. He’s a 53-year-old virgin who looks like Montgomery Burns. Only not so attractive.”

“That’s a mean thing to say about your boyfriend.”

“He’s NOT my boyfriend. The day he becomes my boyfriend will be declared National Handbasket Day.“

“Don’t get you panties in a wad. It’s not like he’s even asked you out. He seems content to admire you from afar.”

“And he’d better stay a-far away from me. I heard him talking to Debbie after Open House night. You know how Danny had the flu? Creepy McGeezerson said, ‘I hope your betrothed is on the mend after his bout with the influenza. Perchance it has gone from whence it came.’ Then McPervy asked Stacy, ‘Are you and your cronies off to trip the light fantastic at a local speakeasy? Don’t overindulge, my dear, or you shall pay for it on the morrow.’ What’s THAT all about?”

“Aww…don’t be so hard on him. He’s just an odd duck.”

“Time to play Duck Hunt, I say.”

“It’s been fascinating, chewing the fat about your secret crush, but I still have papers to grade.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. On the morrow, heh heh.”

Mr. Prufrock lay back on his virginal bed, hands clasped behind his head. “I am quite the catch, if I do say so myself. I’ve held a steady job for nigh on 20 years. I have saved my chastity for the marriage bed. Those rowdy fellows who have taunted me all these years shall rue the day, when they spy the fair maiden, Carla, upon my arm. They shall be dumbfounded by the beauty of my bride. And when we retire to the marital chambers for our honeymoon, none of them shall know the measure of our passion. For I shall skillfully wield my battering ram to fill my fair lady with boundless pleasure.” Mr. Prufrock shuddered involuntarily. “Though I must take precautions to ensure that I do not commit a premature, seed-spilling faux pas. That would sorely disappoint m’lady, methinks.” Mr. Prufrock drifted into a pleasant slumber, dreams of his impending nuptials dancing in his head.

The next morning, Mr. Prufrock retrieved his Pot Luck corn casserole from the harvest gold refrigerator. He had prepared it two days ago, using Mother’s special recipe, which included creamed corn, Jiffy cornbread mix, and Eagle brand condensed milk. “I’m off!” he announced, to no one in particular.


Carla and Di filled their Chinet plates from the 20-odd covered dishes at the Pot Luck.

“Thanks for saving me a place in line, Carla. I’d hate to think that all the good stuff was gone before I got here,” Di commented, rolling her eyes like a world-class ocular orbitist.

“That’s what friends are for, Di. What’s that stuff? Mmm…it looks like a cheese casserole. Slop me a big pile of that on my Chinet.”

“No need to be greedy. Other lunch shifts need to eat, too, you know.”

“Yeah, well they can eat what’s left. You snooze, you lose.” Carla looked scathingly toward the end of the line. She did not see Mr. Prufrock, standing in the doorway, unrequited love oozing from every pore.

Di sat down, and Carla followed. “Let’s dig in!” She scooped a large plastic spoonful of the cheese casserole into her mouth. She immediately spat it back onto her Chinet.

“That is the nastiest stuff I ever put in my mouth! I think I’m going to vomit! What IS that shit?
Nobody noticed the single tear that slipped over Mr. Prufrock’s left lower eyelid, and slid silently down his cheek.