Yesterday I woke up and poured a glass of water for my houseplant Walter.  After dispersing the water evenly around the dirt, I marked on the outside of his plastic green pot with a silver glitter pen.  When I finished counting the marks I realized it was a special day, so I called my boss and told him I couldn’t work.  “It’s noon on Saturday, Lester,” he said.  “You don’t have to work today and if you did, you’d be five hours late.”

“Cool.  Thanks.”  I said and hung up the phone.  Then I poured a shot of whiskey in celebration and drove to the store so I could make a sticker.

The woman behind the counter was well groomed and her breath smelled like Tic-Tacs and BBQ chicken.  She was helpful but I’m not sure if she saw the vision the way I did.  After I finished my mission I drove home and placed my ‘Proud Parent of A Three-Year-Old Houseplant’ sticker on the back of my truck.  I would have poured a shot for Walter, but houseplants age in six-year cycles, so he was only eighteen in houseplant years.  I dialed Fast Eddie, my best friend and sometimes spiritual advisor, to share my excitement.

“Congratulations,” Fast Eddie said.  “This is excellent practice for when you have children.”

“What the hell do you know about children?” I asked.

“I know they shit in their pants and expect birthday parties.  You should have a birthday party.”

“Excellent idea, Fast Eddie, most excellent.  I’m hanging up now, we’re going out to eat.”

I took another shot and went to my room to dress for the party.  My thought was that I wanted to look nice, like I was dressed for a reason, but the only things clean were a pair of blue jeans with the pink spots of bleach and a faded corduroy button down.  After I was dressed I asked Walter where he wanted to go eat and he said he wanted jalapeno cornbread.  “I know the place,” I yelled.  “But you may have to drive home.”

Besides the natural camaraderie, the best thing about an 18 year-old houseplant is that he can be the designated driver.  It’s a lot like owning a two and half year-old dog, but better.  I saw Walter smile when he saw the sticker I put on the truck.
When we got to the restaurant I asked the hostess to seat us in a booth in the back.  I was planning to celebrate and didn’t want to deal with people walking past us on the way in and out of the restaurant.  After ordering country-fried steak for myself, I asked the waitress to bring Walter some meatloaf.  I think she thought it was odd that Walter and I were sitting on the same side of the booth, but we both wanted to watch the door for the beautiful women.  The waitress started walking away so I had to yell, “And a Heineken!”

I had powered three beers by the time the food got to the table.  Since it was Walter’s birthday I crumpled the jalapeno cornbread and sprinkled it in his dirt before I cut into my meal.  Then I poured him some water to soak it all in and cool off the peppers.  I took several bites of my steak (really, I just ordered it for the gravy) before I cut the meatloaf into pieces and shoved them into Walter’s dirt.  One of the walls in the restaurant was covered in mirrors, and even though they were very dirty, I was able to watch the people gawking at us without being spotted.  Their disgusted looks made me drink more Heinekens, but I refused to let their jealousy spoil our birthday party.

After the food was all gone and my buzz had begun to teeter my equilibrium, I started singing Happy Birthday to Walter.  He didn’t seem to appreciate my melodic sensibilities from a seated position, so I jumped on the table and belted out a joyous verse.  It was probably the singing in a deep bass voice that caused a toothpick to fall from the ceiling.  I was busy singing my favorite country ballad, so I didn’t see the toothpick fall, nor did I see it cut one of Walter’s leaves.  But I saw the blood.  It was everywhere and several of the waitresses rushed over with towels and tears.  I knew it looked worse than it was, but I didn’t want to see my houseplant cry in public, so I scoped him up and ran toward the door.  On the way out, I reminded Walter that he would have to drive, and he nodded in agreement.

For the record, because it is important, I had already paid my bill, including a tip, because running out on this town’s diligent service workers is so not cool.