‘The Oedipus Myopus Mystery’

Wendy Wahman’s illustrations have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the NY Times, the Boston Globe, Harper’s Magazine, and more. She is best known for her children’s picture books, ”Don’t Lick the Dog,” which was a Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year, starred for Outstanding Merit & accepted to the Society of Illustrators Original Art Show, "Old Pearl," "Pony in the City," and others. Her new work, shown here, are meditative, improvisational drawings she calls, "Wenderings," as they begin with a line and go from there. www.wendywahman.com; Instagram: @wendywahman

This story requires some context. I wonder how far back I should go? In fourth grade I couldn’t read the board. Everything was blurry. I moved closer for the year and got glasses that
summer. This may be too far back.

Let’s fast forward to my sophomore year of college, when this story transpires. I was sitting in the campus café. Buckle in, because this is a bit of a mystery story. No murder, no sexiness, just an unsexy man and his terrible eyesight. But trust me, as poor as this premise sounds, it could be interesting... I was working on my laptop in the campus café. Writing an essay or doing a project or something. I sat alone at a table intended for 4 and capitalized on the space. Notebooks, pens, my water bottle, my glasses (note this) and other things were littering the table. I was honed in on my work. Instead of my prescription lenses, I wore blue-light glasses. For those who don’t know this obvious fact, blue light glasses do not rectify vision in the slightest.

Most of the time I worked in the library, but Tuesday was the day I always ran into her. A romantic interest? Maybe. Just keep following along.

He was- wait- I was feeling low because of the disappointments of the World Series. I mean, they weren’t even putting up a fight. 3-0, are you kidding me? I wasn’t even going to tune into game 4, but then again, you never knew...

So Tuesday in the campus café. I don’t know how many times I have to reiterate this point. Maybe until I reach the minimum word count. Okay, I trust you understand where I was now. I was sitting close to the screen so I could actually see what I was doing. I typically wore my prescription lenses and leaned back in my chair, but that day, for whatever reason, in the campus ca- okay, sorry. That day I wore my blue-light glasses for the first time in my college career.

For the past few weeks of the semester on Tuesdays, without fail, she’d come up to my table as I worked in the café. I understand we live in the information and cell-phone social media age, but she was terrible at using these things. She was a videographer for the TV club, writer for the school paper, a full time student with a part-time job and... I forget what else, But I think that’s enough to illustrate that she was a busy person.

She’d respond to my texts once a week or so. Now, I wasn’t a very busy person at this point. I had a chunk of savings that I drew sparingly on and spent my free time that wasn’t spent doing homework (which I usually finished quickly) reading. So texting someone was a nice change of pace from my very sexy and exciting schedule. (I think I’m undercutting myself here. I was, after all, chairman of the poetry club. I was the only member and I didn’t advertise it at all. In fact, when people asked if they could join I’d say I didn’t know of any poetry club. I wanted to put it on a resume, but didn’t want to put much
work into it). So I was sitting in- wait, you get it, I’m sorry.

I’d be hard at work (or sitting around bored, reading or writing poetry) and she’d come up and with the cutest and most innocent voice ask “can I sit here?” It was like hearing “Here Comes the Sun” for the first time every time those words blessed my ears. I’d laugh, close up my book or finish a sentence/stanza and say: “You don’t have to ask every time you know,” with a smile. She’d smile sheepishly and say in a quiet voice: “I feel rude not to,” as she settled down.

She’d open up more as we talked and caught up on events from the past week. She’d tell me about her clubs and urge me to join and I’d always say I’d “think about it” (my thoughts always came back ‘no’). Then we’d both have to go to our 1 o’clock class in the same building, so we’d walk together and part ways.

It was hard to tell if she liked me.

I’d like to think “yes,” but I couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt to the people of the jury. I wrote a note once of a thought that came to me that I intended to incorporate into a poem sometime: “It is in uncertainty that God tests our faith in Him” or something along those lines. So I bounced back and forth. Should I trust God, go with my gut and just tell her, knowing that anything that happens is His will? But then I’d think about the relationship broken like taking a firm step on an old wooden plank just for your foot to go straight through. Crack and now my leg was broken and splintered and she’d never want to talk to me again.

Sigh. What to do?

To make this story dramatic and interesting, I could say that that day was the one I resolved to tell her. Yes, with certainty I was going to tell her that day. I was sure I’d see her because I saw her every Tuesday without fail. I could hardly focus on my work that day because I was so eager to tell her. Not anxious or nervous or even confident. I just calmly was. But I wasn‘t resolved to tell her that day. I didn’t carpe that diem because I was just cruising along waiting for the moment to be right. Whenever it felt right, I was going to say: “You like reading, right?”

And she’d say something like: “Duh” or “are you stupid, I’m an english major and a writer for the school paper, you know this” (this, of course, after she settled in and opened up). So I’d say:

“You wanna go to this local used bookstore?” (probably some other details about it, I’m not too sure).

And she’d say:

“Just you and I?”

I must interject for fantasy clarification here. We had hung out outside of school only once. It was with two other people. It was the worst double date ever because the girl she brought along had a boyfriend and the guy I brought along had a girlfriend. I wasn’t too sure about her relationship status and I don’t think she was certain about mine. I’m assuming the reader can guess mine and no, that’s not the mystery of this story. It would be a quick one if it was.

The four of us had gone to a movie. At one of our Tuesday meetings I absentmindedly brought up my desire to see a certain new movie and she expressed eagerness. It wasn’t my intention to suggest plans at all, but she was quickly telling me how we should go, how she was free this weekend and her friend wanted to go too and if I had anyone who might want to go to feel free to invite them- if I and they were free of course.

I had no qualms with this. I suggested matinee for the sake of my savings. I knew my friend would be free because we had talked about doing something that weekend and so it was. Her friend and mine sat on one end, she sat next to her friend and I sat on the other end next to her. I hope this isn't hard to keep up with.

She was focused on the screen and I snuck glances at her in the flashing blue light of the screen. Our arms brushed once and I felt electricity (not static, but metaphysical) between us. I quickly moved my arm because I am constantly self-conscious about women not liking me. I had been rejected and abandoned many times. (A clue? No, this isn’t the mystery).

The rest of the day was platonic and ordinary. I dropped them off at campus and went home.

The Tuesday after that hang out, she came into the café as usual and we had an ordinary chat. We talked a bit about the movie and she told me what had happened between Saturday and the day we were talking. It wasn’t much. Oh! She remembered. She wrote a review of the movie to debut in the next issue of the paper later that week. I told her I was excited to read it.

Needless to say, she didn’t mention me or the spark between us even once in her review. It stuck strictly to the subject matter. I knew I was delusional to expect anything, but I was disappointed slightly nonetheless.

And then our fateful day on which this story begins...

Wait- not that day in fourth grade with my poor eyesight. No, the day in the campus- sorry, sorry.

As I said, I was leaning close to the screen, only 15 feet from the pick-up counter of the café. This seems close enough, but anything more than two feet away looked like it was underwater to my eyes.

Something caught my eye as I sat there working (and here comes the mystery, get your magnifying glass and Sherlock hats). A tall guy was approaching the counter with a short girl next to him. A short girl with light brown wavy hair and black spectacles. She wore a brown sweater and knee-length skirt. It looked like it could’ve been her, but I couldn’t be certain. He grabbed a drink from the shelf, they turned around, she looked at me for a few moments then away, and they walked out.

Now she wasn’t the only short brunette with glasses who dressed that way on campus. But she was one of few. Then again, I couldn’t tell for certain because of my blurred eyesight. I recall a time where I thought I was flirting with a girl across the room in a restaurant, making periodic eye contact and smiling and thought she was smiling back only to put my glasses on to find out it’s a metal-head and he’s not even looking at me, but somewhere over my head. Turns out Seinfeld reruns were playing on the TV above me.

So I didn’t know beyond a reasonable doubt.

But it was the time she usually came in and it did look like her. But there shouldn't be any reason for her not to acknowledge me. Unless she didn’t want the guy she was with to know she knew me.

And my heart and stomach dropped and my appetite ran.

What if that was her boyfriend? Her new or old, I didn’t know. But she never mentioned him. Was she juggling the two of us? Living a double life? Or did she just start dating him and had no need of me anymore. Did she never like me in the first place?

Was it even her?

I returned to the ebook I was reading, The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro. Ishiguro is a master of world building, of deliberately leaving gaps in order to fill them in and make the story complete later. Of the slightly surreal. Of the-

“‘Sup Calvin,” I heard a blurry face say and they sat down and I realized it was Henry from Philosophy class.

This was my class acquaintance and, incidentally, the other contender for her heart. I liked him to an extent. He was another unsexy individual like myself (and when I use “sexy” and “unsexy” here, I mean in the Wallacean sense and not the corporate consumer sense. Or maybe those two are linked? This is not the place for such a thesis) and, as I said, contender for her heart (contender may be too strong here. I feel like that indicates that we have a fighting chance when the opposite is likely the case. I should probably say something else, but “contender” is convenient).

It’s important to note here (since no dialogue of significance is about to transpire between Henry and myself. Actually, the mystery may deepen if I ask something. Let me ask and then I’ll get to the important note).

“You seen Daisy today?” I asked.

Now, Henry was always keeping tabs on Daisy. He’d joined her clubs and tried to get classes in the same buildings as hers. Daisy had mentioned these things about Henry to me before with a laugh.

“Doesn’t he know he can’t do that?” she said lightheartedly.

“I guess not,” I responded with a laugh, hoping she was telling me this as a potential lover and not as she would “one of the pals.”

He, of course, perked up at the mention of her name. Henry was notorious for doomscrolling instead of having conversations, laughing to himself and seeming to forget he’s immersed in society. He’ll look around with slight perplexion after looking up from his phone.

But at the mention of Daisy’s name, he immediately looked up, then around us.

“Daisy? Where?”

“I asked if you saw her today”

“Oh, not yet”

Another dead end. I was hoping he’d be able to tell me “yes” and if she was walking with somebody. I considered the timing between her departure and his arrival. As the din of sound became a blanket of white noise around me, I puzzled over the entrances and exits to the building. The most popular ones and least used ones. I was just about to ask which entrance

Henry had come through when I realized that was creepy.

“I gotta go to class, I’ll see ya,” he said, standing and still looking at his phone.

“See ya,” I said quietly. I was so sad to see him go.

The mystery thickened.

If we fast forward or rather jump cut, I can finish this story. Some context: I wanted to die.

I walked around with my glasses on. Actually, I was walking my friend to class. In the distance, in the direction we were heading, I saw her. She was talking to someone. A guy. This guy, in fact, was in my Philosophy class (not Henry) and from my ideas, seemed to be a bit of a womanizer. I didn’t direct much hate at him nor much attention. There was just this fact. It didn’t help that he was “handsome” or, rather, “sexy” and, as we’ve established, I’m “unsexy.”

This is who she was chatting with as we drew near. And wouldn’t you believe it, he was tall just like the guy from the café. She looked up at him, smiling and laughing at everything he said with his cool Bond-like gaze.

“Hey Daisy,” I said as my friend and I walked past.

She turned slightly and gave back an unenthusiastic:

“Hey”

And turned back to him.

It was overcast that day. I didn’t bring a raincoat. The forecast said sunny. It wasn’t the first or last time I’d been lied to. The Yanks lost the series. I gave a halfhearted “goodbye” to my friend as he entered his class. As I reached the front doors of the building to leave it began to rain hard.

I felt like Henry at the end of A Farewell to Arms after Catherine dies (and to hell with your spoiler alert):
“But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn’t any good. It was like saying good-bye to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain”

I never wore my glasses again after that. Not even to drive.

I may have overreacted.

I don’t think it’s any use at this point to return to the café with Henry. We’re beyond that.

You know what happened next. It’s similar to seeing the man behind the curtain and being expected to go back to how it was before seeing him. I’m at an impasse as a narrator. My character got a little ahead of me...

Let’s just strike that from the record, if you will. We can pretend I never revealed what happened next. The mystery continues... But the mystery is gone. It can’t be stricken from the record. Well, it can be stricken from the record, but not your mind. So I guess we’ll proceed to what happened after that.

Consider the tall man. Was he the one from the café? Was she the one with him? Survey says “yes,” but again, not beyond a reasonable doubt. As the narrator I’ll play the judge. For fun, we’ll let the mystery continue. I hope you didn’t throw away your magnifying glasses or Sherlock hats. The mystery thickens.
For the next week, I saw her everywhere. I’d be walking behind her on my way back to the commuter lot. I’d walk faster to catch up with her only to realize it wasn’t her.

She’d drive past me as I walked to the convenience store down the road. I wanted to jokingly stick my thumb out and ask her to drop me off there only to remember she didn’t have a car.

I’d walk past a classroom and- I think you get the point. I’d see her, but not her.

I started to go to the library on Tuesdays. I had watched The Notebook over that weekend and was feeling like romanticizing my life, so I wrote her a long poem. It started with the night I first saw her. She was taking pictures for the school paper (yet another activity of hers) at a nighttime carnival on campus. I prayed I’d be able to talk to her, but left it up to the Lord. The Lord answered my prayer.

“Can I take your picture?” her sweet voice asked from beside me.

I was next in line for the food truck. She apparently needed pictures of smiling students receiving their fried dough, but so far nobody had looked happy enough. I put on a huge phony smile, making her giggle as she took my picture.

“How was that?” I asked her after getting my food and moving to the side. Still laughing, she answered:
“Perfect,” and showed me the picture. I started to laugh too.

I took note of her deep brown eyes- eyes so deep brown they almost appeared velvet- and tiny beauty mark on her cheek near the nose. I asked if she minded if I followed her the rest of the night. Not solely because I wanted to soak in her presence, but because I had an interest in photography. In high-school I had taken a few classes and only ever really photographed nature stills. I wanted to see how moving subjects worked, especially at nighttime. She talked me through the settings and difficulties and how to overcome them. I held on to every word. It was good advice.

There were things in between that I touched upon, but the next big thing I wrote about was the “date” (I say that feather-lightly) and my disappointments about her paper article. Then, of course, I ended with the heartbreak on the rainy day.

“I pray every day that I see you anyway because seeing you is like finding money on the ground when you’re dead broke and about to be evicted”

This is what flowed out of me as I wrote longhand in my notebook. I tore out the multiple pages of the poem (cross-outs and all) and put them into an envelope that I had asked for at the front desk. I fully intended to give it to her the next time I saw her.

By the time I saw her again the romantic feeling had faded. That’s not to say I didn’t like her anymore. I most certainly did. But the burning passion that had produced those words had smoldered into coals of comfort and I knew to give it to her would be delusional. I happened to be in the campus café. It was Friday.

“Can I sit here?” she asked.

[ins. “Here Comes the Sun” lyrics].

My heart nearly exploded and my hands were shaking. I tried to keep myself calm and cooly smiled, acted like I was finishing my sentence and said the same line I always said:

“You don’t have to ask every time you know”

She briefed me on all that had happened in between.

“Geez, I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said bewildered as she finished

You’re telling me, I thought.

Apparently the boy she had been talking to was her assigned partner for a class project. He was pretty cool and sometimes funny, she said (and I cringed) but mostly serious. He was either too serious or too funny. She was glad to finish the project and move on from him (music to my ears).

She was going home for a week coming soon, so she had to catch up on a lot of work for her classes and clubs so as not to fall behind. The paper liked her articles and was asking her to write more than she was accustomed to.

She was in love with me and had been longing to see me to finally tell me. She didn’t want to be apart from me even for a moment. There was a piece of technology she devised so that she could shrink me down and open the tiny cage of her heart and put me there forever.

There were too many “sexy” men around and she wanted someone genuine and “unsexy” and
nearsighted who read and didn’t do much else. The mystery was solved three paragraphs ago and now I’m writing nonsense. I wish she said this, but I have to take what I can get (the envelope sat eager in my bag. I ignored it). If it’s a conversation then so be it.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short stories can be found on both Half and One’s and Wordsfaire’s websites. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

‘Cowboy Jones and the Rootin' Tootin' Revenge of the West’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Cowboy Jones was the fastest hand West of the Mississippi and I’d be willin’ to bet East too. He’d walk into a saloon and ‘fore anyone could spit he’d take ‘em out. Yup, he was that fast.

Cowboy Jones liked shootin’. Sharp shootin’, regular shootin’, any shootin’. He’d shoot a loose hair from yer head at 20 yards or clean shoot yer little finger off at 30.

He came out the womb shootin’. Pistols akimbo, he shot his own damn foreskin off ‘fore any doctor could get ter hackin’ at it. That’s what the legends say anyhow. His momma didn’ wannim no more after he did that. His daddy was proud.

Okay, I’m through practicing my southern accent. However, this story is still the story of Cowboy Jones. The reason I chose to write about Cowboy Jones this particular day is the need to grease my wheels. I’ve been on vacation for a week and need to recover my land legs. My land legs of writing that is. I was on a cruise from writing and now that I was back I needed to readjust. So I’m experimenting a little bit and hoping the result comes out fine. We’ll see. Anyway, back to Cowboy.

It’s true what I said before. Cowboy Jones did love to shoot and he shot indiscriminately. He shot his own rabid dog, he shot his mother when they wouldn’t euthanize her and in the end he shot himself. But we’ll get to that when we do.

Cowboy Jones was tall and intimidating. Some estimates say he was six feet seven and others even say six ten. He always wore a black cowboy hat and matching cowboy outfit. He fitted himself with four holsters. Two for each hip and two for each ankle. Rumors said he kept an extra gun under his hat.

He was large for his size too, like Goliath. He was around three hundred pounds and hairy as can be. His weight was well distributed, giving him an appearance closer to Zangief than E. Honda. Rumors say he was bald under the hat, but he never took it off, so it’s hard to say. Even the coroner took the news of his head to the grave.

Cowboy Jones was angry with the world. He came into the world angry. Obviously, he didn’t actually come out of the womb shooting. That’s a legend a la Romulus and Remus being raised by wolves. But I wasn’t there, so I couldn't say with absolute certainty. If I had to guess, I’d say it was legend.

He did, however, come out of the womb with the umbilical cord around his neck, which he tore through with the few teeth he was born with. The doctors were horrified, they had never seen anything like it, his mother wondered what was happening and his father fainted. When all was said and done, he wasn’t screaming crying, he was smoldering mad.

Soon as Cowboy Jones could walk, his father had a gun in his hand. His father had waited all his life for a son and finally got it. His own daddy had died when he was young, so he wanted to get all his fathering in as soon as possible just in case he suffered the same fate. So at two years old Cowboy Jones was shootin’ cans and squirrels and all sortsa things (forgive me for my accent creepin’ in. I can’t help it sometimes when tellin’ sucha story as this).

Having lived past when his own daddy died, Cowboy Jones’ dad decided to teach his boy about the Old American West. He had heard tales in his youth from his grandaddy about the wonders of the west. Wars between Cowboys and Injuns (as his grandaddy said), wrangling horses, hunting buffaloes, diggin’ for gold, spittin’ in spittoons, shootouts in saloons at high noon…

Young Cowboy Jones’ impressionable mind was fascinated. As much as he was fascinated, though, he was pissed. All this glory and adventure and exploration had been stolen from him by urbanization and industrialization. There was nothing left to explore, nothing left to wrangle if ya didn’t have a permit, nothing left of the Olde American West. He started to get his revenge.

As a teenager, Cowboy Jones went ‘round his neighborhood stealing all the carburetors from the cars. He lived in suburbia, a byproduct of industrialization. If he had his way, he’d live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, living off the fatta his own land. But now everything came from the convenience of grocery stores and all the jobs were cushy office jobs in the city. So he stole all the carburetors. Nobody got to work that morning and there was a lotta yelling and head scratching in front of smoking carhoods.

What did this accomplish? Nothing. Cowboy Jones didn’t give a damn about accomplishing nothin’. He was just mad and he took out his anger however he felt compelled to. It didn’t matter to him if people lost their jobs or kept em. The industrial world was his enemy and he was lashing out.

He started growing crops in his yard and taking school off to harvest ‘em. He argued with all of his teachers, saying all they taught was nonsense and of no importance. If anybody wanted some real learnin’, he said one day, come to my house after school. I’ll teach ya how to shoot, how to grow crops, how ta live damnit.

Only one guy did show up and he and Cowboy Jones became the besta friends. This guy was, of course, Cowboy Jones’ notorious companion, Killy the Bidd. At least, that’s what Cowboy called him.

Killy had no daddy. Cowboy Jones Sr. (real name unknown) took Killy in as his own son. Whenever he got back from work, no matter how exhausted he was, he’d be happy to relate old tales or balance an apple on his head so they could shoot it off, no kiddin’!

This went on for some years. Cowboy Jones and Killy the Bidd were like brothers. Killy always stayed for supper and Mrs. Cowboy Jones Sr was happy to make it. Cowboy and Killy lassoed mirrors offa cars, took out carburetors, freed horses from the local fair just so they could wrangle ‘em (and wrangle ‘em they did), and had all sortsa more innocent adventures.

When Cowboy Jones Sr. died, their innocence did too.

Cowboy Jones Sr. grew progressively wearier and wearier over the years. Long hours and little pay all to support his family. He never took a vacation cause he just couldn’t afford it. Over time, he wasn’t able to relay tales or balance an apple anymore. His hair grew greyer and thinner and he could hardly hold an apple, let alone balance it on his head.  One day he never woke up for work. His alarm rang and rang to no avail.

Cowboy and Killy were a wreck. Of course, they were too tough to acknowledge they were a wreck, but whenever they lay alone in their beds at night they wept silently for the departed Cowboy Jones Sr.

Those tears of anguish soon turned to tears of anger.

“It’s this damned system that killed my daddy!” Cowboy Jones said to Killy, furiously pacing and jamming his fist into his palm. He turned to Killy the Bidd, who sat watching attentively.

“Y’know what we gonna do Killy?”

“What?” he responded, almost in a whisper.

“We gonna get revenge…”

What revenge entailed, Killy the Bidd didn’t know. Over the next coupla months, Cowboy closed himself in his room, only coming out to shoot targets or test dynamite. Of course he couldn’t do this in his own suburban neighborhood. He rode his horse out to a secluded plot of land they’d bought with his daddy’s life insurance money. Killy would follow behind on a steed of his own asking questions all the way but never gettin’ answers.           

Killy looked up to Cowboy as an older brother. He was only two years older than himself, but Cowboy acted so grown up that he mighta well been ten years older. He trusted Cowboy and was excited and nervous for whatever plan he was gonna unfold. He was angry about Cowboy Jones Sr too, who he considered his own daddy.

One day, the plan was revealed. Killy the Bidd lay in bed one full moon night, his room dimly illuminated. He was silently crying about the death of Cowboy Jones Sr when something banged on his window.

“Open up Killy!”

Killy jumped up in bed and turned his face from the window, quickly wiping his tears and collecting himself. He threw the window open and hoped it was too dark to tell he’d been crying. Cowboy Jones all but threw himself in.

“Tomorrow, Killy,” he said, panting, “it’ll all happen tomorrow”

Cowboy explained the plan to Killy, pacing and punching palm as before. Killy sat on the edge of the bed and listened intently. Cowboy Jones was a silhouette against the moonlight as he paced, but as he drew his face close to Killy’s it was half illuminated.

“Ya got it Killy? Are you ready?”

Killy the Bidd nodded. He was ready as he’d ever be.

Cowboy Jones had enough dynamite to bomb a city and that was exactly his plan. Over the months he tested different combinations of dynamite to produce the most monumental results. He’d finally perfected his recipe and was headed for his daddy’s old office building.

Killy the Bidd and Cowboy Jones galloped through the city streets, weaving in and out of honking cars and barreling past civilians. They each had a knapsack on the rear of their horses filled with explosives. Cowboy Jones had a rifle slung over his back and his four pistols in their holsters. He was large, hairy, and maybe bald. Puberty had hit him like the charge of an angry buffalo. Killy the Bidd was baby faced yet, but his voice was deeper. They both wore black cowboy outfits fit with black bandanas over their faces.

Out in front of the glass windowed building, they tethered their horses to a bike rack, unslung the dynamite, loosed their pistols and headed inside.

“Excuse me sir, do you have a-” came the male receptionist as they entered. Cowboy didn’t hesitate to shoot him dead.

They strutted across the marble floored lobby, their boots clicking on the ground. Oddly there was nobody else there. They approached the elevators on either side of the desk. Killy went to the right and Cowboy went to the left. They operated in unison. Pressing the button, they unslung the dynamite from their backs, pulled out the long wick and lit a match. They didn’t light the wick yet. The matches burned down and down and down.

Ding.

They touched the matches to the wick and threw the hissing bags into the elevator. A few screaming businesspeople tried to exit, but they brandished their guns, silently telling them to stay inside. They entered the elevators quickly, hit the button for mid-building, hit the door close button, then ran through the revolting doors to their horses.

With practiced efficiency, they untied their horses and saddled up. They rode off away from the building with Godspeed. Cowboy Jones, hunched forward against the wind, took out his pocket watch.

“Thirty seconds Killy!” he yelled over his shoulder.

They rode on. They needed to be at least ten blocks away after the initial explosion, then twenty by subsequent explosions. You see, Cowboy Jones’ daddy worked in an undercover munitions building in the heart of the city. He worked on top secret projects for the Military Industrial Complex developing high efficiency explosives. They figured if such a thing were disguised as an office building, our international enemies would never catch on. So far they hadn’t, but-

BOOM!

Glass and mushroom clouds shot out of the side of the building.

“YIPPEE!” yelled Cowboy Jones, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at the loudest damned sound he’d ever heard. He couldn’t even hear himself yell over the deafening roar.

Like Lot’s wife looking back at Sodom’s destruction, Killy the Bidd reared his horse to look back. A sickened feeling came into his stomach as he heard the fearful screams of everyone around. People ran around him, abandoning cabs and cars and briefcases to run. Glass, papers, desks and chairs rained down on the streets.

“Killy! KILLY!” Cowboy Jones yelled over his shoulder without stopping. It was no use. Killy couldn’t hear him over the chaos and was too stunned to even if it was dead quiet. There was a ringing taking over Killy’s ears. His vision was growing fuzzy. Police officers were approaching, but it was no use-

BOOOOOOM! BOOOOOM! BOOOOOOM!

Tears stung the eyes of Cowboy Jones as he felt the heat of the explosion on his back. He knew Killy had been incinerated along with anybody else within a twenty block radius. He spurred the horse faster and slapped the reins. Yah! Yah!

Ten miles outside the city limits, Cowboy Jones made his last stand.

His weary horse galloped through a wheat field until they stumbled upon a barnyard. There was a large red barn with doors wide open. The midday sun beat down furiously. Cowboy Jones guided his horse into the barn, where there was an old farmer tending to his horses.

“What the sam hill?” the farmer said when he saw Cowboy Jones coming straight at him. He didn’t have a chance to say anything else because as soon as Cowboy processed he was there, he shot him.

He jumped from the saddle and tethered her to a post. He then stepped over the farmer’s body and slid the large door shut with all his might, grunting and cursing the whole way.

Inside the farmhouse to the right of the barn, the dead farmer's wife was on the phone with the police. She had seen the TV news about the city and knew now what the explosions she had heard were. She was telling the officers that she had just heard a gunshot and was worried about her husband. The police took down the address and several patrol cars were on their way.

Cowboy Jones took frantic inventory of his rifle ammo.

“Shit shit shit,” he said to himself, loading the rifle with trembling fingers, “it wasn’t supposed to be this way, damnit Killy”

He slung the rifle over his back, set his black hat more tightly against his (bald?) head and climbed the ladder to the second floor. He propped open the window above the barn door. Outside, he had a view of the long dirt road to the house flanked on both sides by the fields. There was a large open dirt yard with a red pickup and a light blue hatchback parked imperfectly in front of the two story white farmhouse. In the distance, he heard sirens and saw the burning city.

“Serves you right, you bastards,” he said, staring angrily at the burning city.

The sirens grew closer. The police cars came into red and blue flashing view and he sighted them. He clicked the hammer back. Bam click bam click bam click. One car lost control and was all over the dusty road, then crashed into the field. Two others were still making their way towards him.

Inside of the crashed police car, the officer used the last of his breath to weakly say “officer down,” into the walkie.

“COME AND GET IT YOU BASTARDS,” Cowboy yelled, lighting a piece of dynamite he had kept on his belt.

He tossed it between the two cars that skidded to a cloudy stop. Four doors opened like insect wings and officers jettisoned from them. The dynamite blew, taking the two cars with it in a fiery explosion. A flaming hood landed on top of the barn.

“YIPPEEEEE!” Cowboy Jones yelled, clicking back the hammer and shooting the ground around the police officers. He was toying with his food.

Toof toof toof. The bullets struck the dusty ground around the police officer as he covered his head. The heat from the exploded car had singed his back. Into his shoulder walkie, he yelled:

“Officer down, we are under fi-”

Cowboy Jones placed a practiced shot right between his eyes, then reloaded.

The flaming car hood still burned on the roof. The roof began to catch fire. More police cruisers wailed in the distance. Cowboy Jones peered down to the first floor where the horses were whinnying and going wild. He put his own horse out of her misery. Although he didn’t want to consciously accept it, just like the death of Killy, Cowboy knew he wasn’t getting out of there alive.

An armada of cruisers came over the distant dirt road like a swarm of bees. Cowboy Jones closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He leaned back against the wooden wall of the barn and stretched his legs in front of him. Smoky air began to fill his nostrils and he coughed a bit. His head became filled with the tales of the Old American West his father had told him.

He removed his hat and placed it next to him. He ran a hand over his bald head (gasp!). He turned the hat over and removed the last stick of dynamite he had. This was the stick to end all sticks. His father had taken it from the lab and kept it in hiding (or so he thought). Cowboy didn’t know what the explosion would be like, but he knew his father often talked about its power.

The wood splintered around his head as officers yelled and shot the barn. The flames started licking down towards the window, feeling hot against the back of Cowboy Jones’ neck. He placed his hat firmly back on his head, lit a match and stuck it to the dynamite wick. He placed the stick in his lap as the bullets whizzed around him and sirens wailed and fired crackled and horses whinnied. He thought of the Old American West and smiled. He removed his great grandfather’s revolver from his waist and placed it in his mouth.

His last thought was about the Old American West. 

And so concludes the story of ‘ol Cowboy Jones. We never did get around to him shooting his rabid dog or his own mother or many things. We’ll conclude with John 21:25: And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website and “The Revenge of the Potato Man'' on Wordsfaire. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

The Revenge of the Potato Man

Photographer - Tobi Brun

You almost wouldn’t consider Captain Sandwich a superhero. Almost. But if you saw how fast this guy could throw a sandwich together, it would blow your mind. I mean, you can’t even see it. It’s like… like… If you’ve ever been unexpectedly hit on the head and your eyes black out for a split second. It’s like that. It’s not painful to watch. It’s just that fast. 

I first met him when I started working at Fatty’s Sandwich Shop downtown. They didn’t even have the guy train me because he’s too fast. He’s physically incapable of slowing down. At least, that’s what he says. I just don’t think he likes training people. 

“Oh, and this is Captain Sandwich,” the grease-aproned owner with the bulging belly said to me as an afterthought on my first day. I must’ve looked confused. 

“Y’see,” he started to explain. The whole time, Captain Sandwich worked away, making sandwiches, stocking the line, filling sauce-bottles. All extremely fast. 

“The p’cyoolur thing ‘bout him is: he’s only this fast with anything sandwich related. Can’t run for shit, can’t beat anybody up worth a damn. But man, when he makes a sandwich…” he drifted off and raised his hand towards Captain Sandwich, still working away. 

Mitch trained me. He was a cool dude, laid back. I thought he was my age. I was nineteen then. Later when it came up (I forget how) I was shocked to find out he was ten years my senior. I was also shocked to find out that not a hair on his head was real. One day, when he was walking into work, his hat (part of the uniform) blew off and took his hairpiece with it. He chased it down as I watched out the window. When he finally caught it, he placed it swiftly on his head and neck-snappingly looked around to see if anyone saw. I quickly averted my eyes and continued making sandwiches. 

Mitch and Captain Sandwich and me and Fatty (the owner). They really didn’t need anybody outside of Captain Sandwich, but he had recently converted to Catholicism and wanted

Sundays off. Mitch worked Sundays now even though he didn’t like it. I asked him why he didn’t like working Sundays and he shrugged and said: “just don’t.” Anybody else who responded in this manner could be psychoanalyzed to determine the root of this dislike. Maybe a dislike of being deprived of a morning of sleeping in during their youth. Maybe something traumatic and repressed regularly occurred on Sundays in their youth. Maybe they had been forced to work Sundays against their will their whole life. But Mitch could be taken at his word. If he just didn’t like something, he just didn’t. 

Sundays were the only day of the week I worked which was fine because I was in school. I didn’t know what I wanted to do and felt like I was wasting my time and money in school. Or somebody’s money. I wasn’t involved with the tuition payments. My parents and the government handled things. But I was wasting somebody’s money and that didn’t sit right with me. 

The only reason I had gone to college right after high-school was because that's what I was supposed to do. That’s what everybody else was doing. All the people that didn’t follow this pattern were on Skid Row, or so they’d led me to believe. “They” meaning the adult influences in my life. So it was off to school. 

My first semester I had no friends. Well, there were people you could call friends, technically. People I would talk to in passing or in a certain class, but it wasn’t like we were hanging out outside of that. 

I remember Frankie Midnight (his actual name, I’ve seen his license). He didn’t have anybody in his social circle in our sociology class and we happened to sit next to each other, so we’d exchange comments at the beginning of class. All the talk was limited to the class, though. As much as I desired to break beyond that talk, I never could. I didn’t know too much about him. Maybe I could’ve come up with something. Asking him about a movie or an album or

something. But I never did. I’m pretty sure he was content with the limitations of our conversations. 

I was doing the credit-required classes first and falling deeper into depression. I found refuge in the library. The third floor was the silent floor and there were stacks and stacks of classics to look through. I buried myself in A Farewell to Arms and A Wild Sheep Case as well as several biographies or autobiographies of my favorite writers. The bio/autobiographies depressed me though. Keouac had met all of his lit’ry buddies in college while I was sad and alone. Rimbaud had completed his works by seventeen. I was two years older and hadn’t written a worthwhile thing. Hemingway was on the Italian front at eighteen. I dove deeper into fiction. 

The sad thing about reading was that the library would always close at some point and whenever I put the book down I’d be alone again. Wisps of the characters and their worlds would comfort me in my mind, but confronting the sidewalk by myself as others around me walked laughing in twos and threes always brought me down again. 

Working Sundays was a welcome escape. Fatty’s was far enough away from campus that nobody would pass up the other options along the way to get there. Fatty’s wasn’t renowned or locally legendary. It was just another sandwich shop in the city. The only people that came in were traveling through or lived on the block. 

I’d work other days as needed. My social life was nonexistent and my free time was spent reading, so I was available to work whenever. Fatty would call me and ask if I could come in and I’d always say “yes.” I’d get to witness Captain Sandwich at work. 

Whenever I worked a shift with Captain Sandwich I never had to make anything. Well, sandwiches anyway and that’s mostly what we sold. We only had two salads and they were the simplest things in the world to make. Just a Cæsar and a Greek. People hardly ordered them.

They weren’t even listed on the menu and most people weren’t brave enough to ask for something they didn’t see. But once in a lucky penny (how often do you find those?) someone would ask. 

The thing I noticed about Captain Sandwich was that he was incredibly slow doing anything else. I mean, Fatty had told me so, but to actually see it? It was the craziest thing. There would be a rare instance, say he went to the bathroom and I had to make a sandwich. He’d come back and notice the wallet-clutching customer and decide to cash them out. He would punch the numbers at a flat tire’s pace. Beep…… beep…… beep…… enter… “your total will be $13.74.” He’d slowly take the money, like he was reaching through frozen syrup, gather the change like someone after coming stiffly inside after a freezing day, and hand it back through the syrupy barrier. 

Whatever sandwich I had made would be long done, waiting on its anxious owner to get their change and devour them. Then he (Captain Sandwich) would smile the biggest smile in the world. It looked like it hurt, with his eyes squinting and all of his teeth showing, and bid them a good day. He’d hold the smile until they walked out the door, casting uncomfortable or shivering glances over their shoulder, then he’d sigh and let it drop like the final rep at the gym. His face would return to normal, he’d pat me on the shoulder without looking at me and then return home to his station. 

I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew what I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to be a clock puncher or a pencil pusher or a corporate drone. I didn’t know exactly the meaning of these phrases at the time, but I understood the idea they represented: conformity to a single thing for a lifetime. Whiling away the time until retirement, then being too tired to do anything when retired and wasting away prime years of life. Thinking of doing any single thing

for the rest of my life terrified me. The only things I really wanted to do was… well, I didn’t know. 

I didn't want to be a rockstar or an actor or a lawyer or doctor or teacher. All I wanted to do was be left alone to read and write. Whatever I wrote and submitted was rejected. Maybe my time to be a writer was gone. Maybe I wasn’t even born to be a writer. What did I want? Maybe I could just marry into money and become a house-husband. That’d be easy if I knew any rich women and how to talk to them too. 

My second (which would be my final) semester ticked away. I was already wasting time in life. I needed to get out, I needed my freedom. Time was freedom and if I could control my time I could control my life. That’s what I thought then at least. Why was I learning things I didn’t care for or had already learned in high-school? I was planning on going on leave to sort things out. I needed to know what I wanted before I wasted any more time or money. 

Fatty’s grew on me. If I was spending time doing something I didn’t want to, at least I was making money doing it. But I enjoyed Fatty’s. All sorts of interesting people came in and Captain Sandwich was there too. I’d become mesmerized watching him work on any large orders, the way his hands moved, the way the ingredients flashed away. It was like watching something in fast-forward, but about a thousand times fast. 

One Sunday, Mitch told me the origin of Captain Sandwich’s powers. It had been itching away inside of me, the need to know. I waited and waited until somebody told me, but as time went by, nobody ever did. I finally asked Mitch. His eyebrows raised and he nodded. 

“You’ve been here so long now that I didn’t realize you didn’t know,” he said. I was leaning against the sandwich line and he leaned against the salad line opposite. There were no orders and everything was clean enough. He looked off, thinking…

He looked slowly back at me. 

“Apparently he was born like that,” he said with a shrug. Just then, a customer walked in and Mitch nonchalantly walked over to take their order. I was left incredulous and disappointed. I planned on asking Captain Sandwich (real name unknown) myself one day, but never got the chance. 

After a month of mentally building myself up, I finally decided to ask him. I finished class and skipped the library. Fatty had asked me to come in when I could. That was in the morning before my class. In fact, his phone call had woken me up. 

“Busy today kid?” he asked. Fatty was straight to the point. No ‘hello,’ ‘good-morning,’ or ‘did I wake you?’ I didn’t mind it. 

“Not after class,” I responded, equally to the point. 

“Come in when you can?” He said with a slight note of asking. Somewhere towards a demand like a speeding car, with the added question like hitting the brakes too late when passing a cop. 

“Sure” 

“Thanks” 

He hung up. 

When I arrived at Fatty’s it was no longer Fatty’s. There were fire engines lined all down the street, cop cars, ambulances, lights flashing, hoses spraying and misting. Ironically, the mist from the fire hoses made a rainbow in the air. Before the remains, outside of the emergency responders buzzing about, were the infuriated, fist-clenched Captain Sandwich and the greasy-aproned fat-bellied Fatty, trying to hold back tears. 

Before I could say anything (I had no idea where to start), Captain Sandwich’s

fire-eyed gaze met my helpless and confused one. 

“Come with me,” he said and began to walk. I followed behind. Fatty stared at the smoking blackened remains of his once not-so-renowned restaurant, oblivious to anyone else. The sun glinted off of Captain Sandwich’s blackout ‘77 Mustang. He got in and reached over to open my door. I slid in. It smelled like a new car. The leather interior was spotless and the sun gazing down from the blank blue sky hardly penetrated the tinted windows. “It’s about time I ended this,” he said, staring forward angrily and firing up the engine. Before I could ask what we were ending or what happened or if he was really born like that, we were peeling out and zooming down the street. 

When I said he was slow at everything else, I was wrong. Apparently he was a fast driver. Captain Sandwich was an enigma full of surprises. And not only was he a fast driver, he was precise too. He drifted around corners on a dime. He weaved in and out of honking cars, his only focus on the road ahead. I felt at ease, despite the speed and ferocity with which he was driving. “Potato Man,” he brooded, “Po-tay-to Man.” 

He rounded another corner and there was a long empty straightaway. At the end of the straightaway stood the city’s renowned restaurant “Potato Man’s: Burgers, fries ‘n stuff.” “What makes you think he did it?” I asked, unease creeping up on me. The packed parking lot of Potato Man’s lay ahead. We entered and Captain Sandwich slowed, stopped, then reversed quickly into an empty spot. 

He put it in park and fished in his pocket for something. 

“THIS,” he said, removing his hand dramatically from his pocket to reveal a single french fry. I didn’t get it.

“THIS,” he said, bringing the fry slowly in front of him, his gaze focused venomously on it, “Is the Potato Man’s calling card.” 

“We’ve been enemies from the start,” he said to himself, then looked me in the eyes, “But today I end this.” 

We marched in. Captain Sandwich marched straight to the front of the long line. Several people raised voices in objection, but we paid them no mind. Well, Captain Sandwich didn’t. I gave them apologetic shrugs and helpless hand gestures. 

“Bring me to the Potato Man,” Captain Sandwich demanded the freckled, potato-hatted cashier. The cashier nodded nervously. 

We were brought through the busy kitchen to a door that looked like the door to a walk-in cooler. 

“He’s through there. Or, uh, he should be. I gotta get back to work.” 

He quickly moved away. 

The door opened inward to a dark wood paneled and floored hallway. It was lit overhead by warm lights hanging at intervals from the ceiling. Captain Sandwich entered and I followed. The door shut behind us. 

At the end of the hallway there was a potato-skinned door with a golden plaque that read “Potato Man.” We entered without knocking. 

The Potato Man (I assumed) was behind his desk. He stood when we entered and between the short time between him standing there and him raising the revolver, I gathered that he was short, fat, bald, and wore a white suit with a Potato Print tie. He fired and I winced, shutting my eyes. I heard a thud. It was a gut shot to Captain Sandwich. 

My mouth hung open. My mind raced. What the hell was–

There was a second shot and the bullet thudded into my gut like a boxing glove hitting a heavy bag. I was down for the count. I looked over to Captain Sandwich and he looked at me. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Is this really how it ends? I thought. Captain Sandwich smiled. I was confused. 

“Y’see,” he strained, “he thinks he’s won.” 

The Potato Man still stood, only the top of his bald shining head visible over his desk from where we lay on the ground. 

“But he’ll never, never–” 

There were two more shots and everything went dark.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.