Peanut Butter and Toast

To be frank- although my name is not Frank and never will be Frank and whoever thought to use such a word as 'frank'? "To be quite honest with you" was a much more thoughtful phrase, as it did not put anyone in the position to be judged or teased. Had somebody named 'Frank' been brutally impetuous or honest, thus creating the rise of such a word? It could be rather rude, to be quite 'true blue' with you. Another phrase! Ah, how quaint. One could go on with such 'pessimistic' views all day. The word, pessimism, sounds like someone decided to take a leak on a fish; just sayin'. "In the john: ... Poor John Doe. Oh, wait. That would be me; and my father, mind you.

And, honestly? "For Pete's sake?" Oh, poor Peter, yet there are so many. Saint Peter? Peter the Great? Or Peter, your ordinary day Peter? Hey, I like that Peter; be nice to him. But what's for his sake? Perhaps he's dead! Who are you saying to the sake to, in that case? Nothing will be beneficiary to the lad, if he's already dead. And why not the French version of the name, "Pierre"?Or the Russian version, "Pyotr"? More often than not, I go by Peter, but only few were permitted to call me thus; most were restricted to the name of Peanut Butter, which I happen to take very seriously, thank you.

And...where were we? Yes. To be frank. Honestly, I have no idea where this was going.

Oh, right.

"To be Frank"—haha— it wasn't that I was a bad kid or anything; I was just always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, what I mean to say is, I hadn't ever really been one to curse or do anything bad. Apparently, that alone makes one a suspect.

How had something like this happened? It was, after all, just bread. So what if it was a little brown? Ish. Rather, it was, admittedly, kinda black. Sam—or "Toast," as he was more often titled by yours truly and select others—was not happy to hear of this news, no matter of the mistake and lack of intentions to inflict. How had he come by it, anyhow? It'd been tossed last Thursday; yes, more than a week ago. That kid is crazy, I tell you.

"You seriously burned it?!"

"Erm... No?"

"You mean to say, 'not deliberately.'"

"No, it was not I who burned the toast, you twit! You're ridiculous..."

I swear, the kid wanted to grow up just like his old man; he did, after all, want to become a bottle and stopper. Oh, copper, pardon. Cop. Policeman. Public safety enforcer. A man of the executive branch, executing executive orders exclusively stated for the American population as a man of the executive branch that executes executive orders given from his executive officer, directly or indirectly from the President of the Who-Cares-Where Land.

Whatever floats your friggin' American boat, you little Titanic invaders!

"Ah-huh. I've known you since we were in Pre-K, mate; I can tell when you're lying."

"I am not, you little—augh! Quit accusing me of crap! It was Da, not me!"

"Fine. John!"

"What?"

A more mellow response had come from the direction of the loo, where a flush was heard, proceeded by the sight of an anxious, nervous father peering around the corner, concern written across his face as he began washing his hands in the kitchen sink, rather than that of the bathroom, in order to was his 'two sons,' whereas he only had one.

My father.

The latter, however, that had come at simultaneous timing, had been purged from my lips. Sam wasn't always the easiest person to keep my mellow, calm self with. But he was the only one who knew the other side; the one that had just blown its top.

"You alright, there, John?"

My father's Irish accent did little for me. He was from Ireland, whereas mum was from Wales; I had been born on the Continent, thus my being raised in London and such surrounding cities and towns. I’d grown up around Sam and his family; we were neighbours, and had been for years and years.

It was so confusing to share the same name as my father; you'd agree, if you, too, were burdened with the same 'experiences' as I have encountered. Especially when he addressed you so formally by his own name—and yours—at the same time.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Da.”

However, he didn’t hear my voice. He had become too distracted by the similarly coloured beet-red flushed skin both Toast and I shared at that moment, gaze intent on our faces, not our words.

“You two having a bit of a tussle? Lover’s quarrel? Bit of a tiff, eh?”

It was Sam who answered this, not I. Or, rather, countered the question with his own question, greatly similar to the one he had earlier hounded me with.

“Yes. Was it you who burned the toast?”

“What toast?”

“This toast,” Sam growled, holding up the toast; the toast from last Thursday, which, I swear, had begun to develop some mold, just on the southern edge of the slice of bread. Gross…

Fear struck my father at the moment, whereas the flash of recognition of the situation at hand and consequence of his actions—last Thursday—would be, although a blasé expression quickly contorted the betraying glance of his unmasked culpability.

“No.”

Dash that man! He lied! The liar! And…Toast believed him! Now, I was to be toast!

“Ah-ha! You liar! I don’t suppose it was the dog, then?! The ghost of your dead mother! She’s the ghost of Mothers Pass’d, now, you know.”

Of course, it had all been entirely just a jest, the twit, but what happened next changed everything.

And I was entirely at fault.