The Machete Yelp Reviews of Sebastian’s Seabiscuits

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Jonathan D.

Davis, CA

3/5

Sebastian’s Seabiscuits was fine. I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I feel for the staff. But would I

come here again after what happened? Not a chance. I mean, I didn’t really see it. I was pulling

out of the parking lot when the guy got there. I think I saw the knife for a second. But still. Also,

racehorses aside, I still don’t have a clue what a “seabiscuit” is. The crab wasn’t half-bad though.

Rachel F.

Santa Cruz, CA

5/5

Please please please please please support Sebastian’s Seabiscuits! Like I’m begging! They need

support now more than ever! I get the criticisms– like sure, how did the guy get in? But what,

you expect these minimum wage high schoolers to risk getting beheaded so you can eat your

lobster mac and cheese? They’re such nice people. Would give 6/5 if I could. Great service! The

experience wasn’t their fault. Oh, and the food was pretty good too iirc!

Barnabus M. (Food Critic and Top Reviewer)

Sacramento, CA

0/5

Davis, California has a new restaurant and if I can say so based off of my experience (and I

really do feel like I need to say so), it’s a total f*cking death trap. Don’t eat here! It’s supposedly

a “new” restaurant, but it already has mold in the corners. The silverware looks old and has water

stains. The décor is old-fashioned if I’m saying it politely, and the breadsticks were stale.

Disgusting. And what on earth is a seabiscuit? Look, I’m not saying the deaths were their fault,

but clearly, they’re into the drug trade or owe money to the wrong people. So, actually, probably

is their fault. I didn’t even get to sprinkle some crackers in my bisque before blood was squirting

all over the place. And before people start sending me messages again, yes, this is my real name.

Delany J

Davis, CA

2/5

This place was a really weird way to start college. My roommates and I just wanted to get some

food after we got our nails done. We’re tired of our room already. I mean, three bunks in a 12-

foot space? What is this, the military? The university is totally abusing us. Anyways, we got the

grilled prawns for our appy and it was actually pretty good. Maybe too salty. I’ll have to drink a

lot of water before my workout in the morning. But not bad. I was really excited for my eggwhite

whitefish omelet. They said it comes with tomatoes, spinach, a mix of cod and haddock, and

avocado optional, but y’all know I’m a California gurlie so OF COURSE I’m getting my

avocado!!! And a good price, I think. $25. I grew up in Nevada and we don’t get a lot of seafood

out there, so it seems fair enough to me. Anyways, the guy with the sword walked in right when

my omelet got set on the counter thing where the servers pick up the food. He was dressed nice.

Sort of like Daniel Craig <3 But then he started hacking away at people and the servers just ran.

They just ran! They didn’t seem all that dedicated, and the omelet never came. Not sure if I’d

come here again. Depends how well they clean up the stains.

Curtis L.

Pensacola, Florida

1/5

Listen I paid for a f*cking service man, this stuff happens in real cities all the times but these

townies just freaked out and ran off like a bunch of rabbits or whatever. I paid for a service!

Where are my salmon tacos? They talked up the avocado drizzle. Well, you know what? I never

tasted it. They didn’t even give me a voucher for free food next time or nothing. Not that I’d ever

come back. Shouldn’t food be part of the service? Like, shouldn’t a comfortable sword-

murderer-free dining room be part of what we’re paying for? How the f*ck they gonna let some

dumba** with a machete in. Block the door. Say he didn’t reserve a table. HOW BOUT CALL

THE COPS. But no. California hates police. Let’s just let everyone take a machete to the neck

instead of trusting our bravest heroes. AND GOD FORBID WE HAVE A GUN ON HAND TO

PROTECT OURSELVES. I don’t know why my daughter wanted to go to school here.

#givewaitorsguns #impeachNewsom #f*ckcommunism #landofthefree #nationalguard

#f*ckliberals #demsrcowards

Dave

San Francisco, CA

4/5

Jeez. That was a crazy experience. I think they handled that psycho pretty well. Minor injuries, 2

deaths. But that’s the police’s fault for not getting there quicker. Machetes aside, the food was

good. I really recommend the lobster tarts. Sounds weird, but it was really good. Also, the Clam

Juice Monterey Mule was surprisingly refreshing. Yeah. I feel bad for the owners. Gonna be a

rough few months for them. I’ll go back next time I’m in town again though. I feel good

knowing that my son is going to college here given how kind the employees were to us after the

cops arrested that dude. Also, though, I’m really unclear about what a seabiscuit is. “Seabiscuits”

weren’t even on the menu, so I decided to google it, but the only thing that comes up is that

Tobey Maguire movie.

Jake Johnson is a writer based out of Davis, CA. They are an MFA Candidate in the Creative Writing Program at UC Davis and have an adorable dog named Bandit. Their work has been featured in Rain Taxi Review of Books.

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.

‘THE BANANA WHISPERER’ & ‘BITTER HALF’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE BANANA WHISPERER

by

Daniel Weitzman

Ben is the apostle of perfectly ripe bananas. 

Does Ben have his mother to thank for cultivating this talent?  She may have played a part, had relied on the child Ben to let her know when bananas had attained the right shade of brown to be turned into banana bread. 

Does Ben have his streetcorner fruit vendor to thank for his prowess?  There may be a connection, the scrambling man is forever laying out unripe bananas for his customers — only to invoke Ben’s disapproving eye. 

Maybe Ben was just born a Banana Whisperer; regardless of how he achieved this distinction, it’s only done so much for him.  For reasons that escape Ben, potential employers aren’t terribly impressed by his knack for identifying banana ripeness — even though he customarily gifts interviewers with a Ben-approved banana.

Once, Ben’s then-girlfriend Elsa called him out for his banana-centric skill set, convinced he was just trying to work a banana into their bedroom maneuvers.  Ben denied the allegation vehemently — while still suggesting that a greener banana would be the banana of choice for such activities.  Elsa was gone shortly thereafter — but not without terming their breakup, “The Banana Split.”  Ben was not amused, moped around his studio apartment for weeks afterwards.  Ben reached out to his older brother Joel for comfort; Joel accommodated accordingly, inviting Ben to spend a long weekend at his swanky beach house.  Ben was only too happy to accept, was having a lovely weekend until he apprised Joel’s six-year-old son, Alexander of a classic banana peel shenanigan.  Alexander tossed a banana peel on the floor to see if — as Ben had suggested — someone would slip on it in true cartoon style.  The gambit was summarily derailed by Joel’s wife Melissa, who a) spotted the banana peel before anyone could slip on it and b) had Ben disinvited for the rest of the weekend for being a bad influence on Alexander.

No job, no girlfriend, no support network.  Things are not looking up for Ben.  Ben wonders if there is a way to “monetize” being a Banana Whisperer.  He imagines launching a career where he travels the country, advising cooks, grocers and shoppers on banana viability matters.  Surely, he could be a featured guest at Whole Foods or alike!  Ben goes so far as to design a Banana Whisperer outfit/apron to help him build his brand and impart his knowledge.  Ben digs deeply into his already-scanty savings to promote this initiative, which turns out to be more of a de-monetizing idea.  There are no takers for a traveling (or stationary) Banana Whisperer.

This is discouraging for Ben, but he will not give up on his dreams.  He puts a banana under his pillow at night, perhaps it will whisper pulpy intelligence to him while he sleeps.  For his troubles, Ben’s pillow smells like a banana — not an awful turn of events, but not the outcome he is hoping for.  The ‘pillowed’ banana has attained a lovely yellow hue overnight, Ben deems it suitable for a morning peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Still seeking a way to leverage his Banana Whispering skills, Ben wonders if he’s been culturally insensitive in pursuit of career actualization.  Might he fare better if he included plantains in his scope of Whispering?  He spends the next few weeks focusing on plantains; the streetcorner vendor allows Ben to sniff and fondle the odd plantain.  It makes for an interesting sight — Ben up to his nose in plantains while customers go about their habitual melon, kale and carrot acquisitions.  Still, Ben’s efforts to diversify fall woefully short.  Seems his gift doesn’t translate for plantains — which he discovers tend to remain green even when ripe.  Unable to account for this variance with his prognostications, Ben is forced to move on.

Accordingly, Ben widens his scope of inquiry, visiting the monkey house at the zoo.  Here, he hopes to find inspiration, identify a telling interaction between monkeys and bananas that will inform his pursuits.  Sadly, there are no revelations to be had among his fellow primates (though Ben does have a modest breakthrough, realizes he prefers orangutans to chimpanzees). 

Ben’s research continues, he trains his thinking on certain banana icons: banana cream pie, Banana Republic, J.D. Salinger’s short story, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.”  Still, he is unable to close the loop, find a rationale for Banana Whispering as a tenable occupation.  While Ben is tempted to drown his sorrows in a banana daquiri, he is not so far gone as to recognize the cycle of self-destructiveness this may unleash.  

Instead, Ben finds himself in the throes of another potentially self-destructive act, agreeing to visit his mother for an afternoon catch-up.  Ben, thoughtful Banana Whisperer he is, comes prepared — bearing a bunch of bananas perfectly-suited for his mother’s banana bread. 

Ben takes a deep breath at mom’s door, waits to be admitted.  She throws open the door, ushers Ben into her living room.  Here, a surprise awaits — as Ben’s brother, sister-in-law and Elsa close ranks with his mother, surrounding Ben.  Ben wonders if he’s forgotten somebody’s birthday or if his mother has gathered the family to announce that she is finally ready to downsize to a smaller apartment. 

As it turns out, the get-together is all about Ben, whose family has united out of concern for Ben.  Ben has walked into an intervention.  For years, they’ve tolerated his Banana Whispering.  But his recent attempts to make something more of his gift, to turn it into a bona fide business?  Ben has crossed the line, has taken his Banana Whisperer preoccupation too far.  There must be something else he can do with his life; he did, after all, graduate a reasonably good university with a B.A. in Media Studies. 

Ben looks around the room, absorbs the would-be succor. 

His mother offers to take him to the theatre to help clear his mind.

His brother offers to bring him into his restaurant supply business.

Elsa offers to take him to lunch, maybe they can mend fences. 

Ben recognizes that all present have honorable intentions.

Still …

For all their troubles, it’s clear to Ben that those nearest and dearest to him have no idea who he is.  Ben is The Banana Whisperer — and that’s not about to change.

Ben departs his mother’s, bananas in hand.

BITTER HALF

by

Daniel Weitzman

“Who are you?” said a particularly hefty tween, bellowing at Landon Raff from among a throng of alligator worshippers. 

“Just the creator of “Ali Alligator,” said Landon, a few beads of sweat running down his concave face. 

“What do you mean, ‘creator?’ said tween nightmare, flapping his costume Ali jaws. 

“Where are your parents?” thought Landon.  “And can they just show up and drag you away?”  Landon knew that wasn’t about to happen, more likely, mom and dad were among the attendees of today’s Ali-thon.  The show was just getting started, and Landon was already primed for it to end.  One of these days, he would walk. Today?  Probably not, he was already present and accounted for — even if he felt unaccounted for.  Such was the life undiscovered, unappreciated, unknown.  

“I wrote Ali into existence, he’s my brainchild,” said Landon, peering down at the imperious tween from a podium asparkle with lights and glitterati all paying tribute to Ali.  At least it wasn’t a big city humbling; today’s show was taking place in the mid-Huron valley, where press coverage was less suffocating than it would be in any given Gotham. 

“Whatever,” said the kid.  “When will Ali be here?”

Landon was tempted to tell his audience exactly what they didn’t want to hear, something like … “As soon as I fire up my imagination and dream up Ali’s next adventure,” but reason prevailed. “Soon,” he said.  “He’s just getting his Ali rap together — getting pumped for you guys.”  More likely, Derek Solomon, the man who donned the Ali suit for live events, was getting his stomach pumped after another bender of an evening. 

It was just another day of abject humiliation for Landon — the man whose blood, sweat and life savings had gone into giving life to Ali, but who remained an anonymous figure to the army of Ali allies whose patience was wearing thin — almost as thin as Landon before his Ali submission somehow found its way out of The Bokar Syndicate’s slush file and into the spotlight.

If only Meredith Bokar could’ve prepared Landon for the life of callous disregard that came with the territory. 

Ali was a multi-media sensation:

His syndicated exploits appeared in almost three thousand publications.

His animated show boasted streaming numbers that wrung sponges dry and shellshocked ninja turtles.

Of course, there was a movie in production.

Ali was the best-selling plush plaything in toy stores, nationwide.  He was also gaining momentum internationally; could an anime Ali be far behind? 

There were Ali pajamas, diapers, string cheese, breakfast cereal.

There was talk of an Ali ice skating extravaganza.

And as if Landon didn’t feel expendable enough, A.I. Ali had made a cameo on the Internets.   

It was Ali’s world, and Landon was just living in it.

Barely.

Sure, he was making stupid money and had redeemed himself in his mother’s eyes (the monthly check Landon sent her had shut her up about his life of Bad Choices and Missed Opportunities), but he couldn’t help but feel like an afterthought.  One might speculate (and Landon did) that his relationship with Dear Mother had forever doomed him to feeling like a second-class citizen.  That said, forever hadn’t happened yet, and Landon pined and sighed for first-class status.

How that was to be attained was anybody’s guess, Landon hadn’t a clue.  Of course, he could shutter Ali, walk away — but could he, really?  Ali was a cash cow, Landon wasn’t likely to fill the void as a dog-walker, barista or podcast host.  Better to feel jealousy than nothing at all, reasoned Landon — a sentiment sorely tested by his current surroundings.

“We want Ali … we want Ali … we want Ali!” 

The rafters shook, the auditorium redolent with worship — none of it for Landon, who — per script — grabbed the mic and shushed the crowd, the emcee who stood between Ali and his acolytes.

“Hello, Huron!” said Landon, playing his part to obsequious perfection.  These moments were scant consolation — but would have to do until Landon could devise a way to share in the spotlight with Ali.  Equal partners — he could live with that.  Right now, the scales were sorely out of whack; not only was Landon an unknown, he served to introduce the man in the Ali suit.  Oh, how the fit was preposterous; what fit?!?

Still, he had signed on to be Ali’s party-starter, had to put on his conciliatory pants and get the show started. 

“What do we say when Ali’s in the house!?!”  What, indeed?  Landon had burned the midnight oil — well into the following morning — coming up with a catchphrase.  But boy, had it been worth it!  For Ali.  And to adorn t-shirts, bumper stickers, the banner that accompanied the Ali float for the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

The auditorium buzzed, a sea of fanboys and girls singing Ali’s praises with carefully hewn phrases!  Oh, how Landon loved his work, his way with words! 

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

The auditorium buzzed, a sea of fanboys and girls oblivious to the work that had gone into inventing Ali.  Oh, how Landon hated his work, his way with words! 

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

What a bunch of fools and tools — if only Landon could bring himself to go rogue.  One of these days, Landon would put Ali in his place and elevate his own place.  Not today.  Not as the curtains parted and the star maker to the star maker to the star appeared.

What in god’s name was Meredith Bokar doing taking the stage; this was unprecedented?

Less unprecedented was the appearance of Ali nee Derek, riding Meredith’s coattails. 

The arena exploded; Meredith took it all in stride — as if she’d been born to bask.  In fact, she had been; daddy was the prototypical media mogul, had handed down the reins to someone just as capable and probably twice as bloodthirsty.  When Landon had floated the idea of a bigger payout, she had countered with the notion of diminished compensation; hadn’t Landon profited enough from Ali — and the corporation that sponsored him?

“We’ve got a special guest appearance today,” said Landon, cueing the crowd as Meredith cozied up to him.  “To what do we owe this pleasure?”  Meredith lived and died by the script, what was she doing interceding in today’s Ali-thon?  Why?  And why in God’s name did she insist on wearing alligator skin stilettos, wasn’t that a bit off-brand? 

“Hello, Landon … hello, Huron … hello, Ali,” exclaimed Meredith, wresting the Ali-clad Derek to her accommodating side.  “What do you have to say for yourself, Ali?”

“I say that today’s Ali-thon is a great place to break the news!” barked Derek, pumping his webbed wardrobe arms in the air.  Speaking of off-brand, an upright alligator was an anomaly no turn of genetic events could have ever concocted.  But the low-to-the-ground version of Ali had tested poorly—so, there was Landon’s brainchild, subverting evolution and snubbing him.          

“What news?” said Meredith, who clearly knew the news — and was allowing today’s main attraction to break it.  Landon waxed hopeful, had one of his recent story pitches gathered momentum?  ‘Gator-Haters Anonymous’ was one that he took perverse pleasure in.  Also, ‘Crock-Pot Journal,’ which would launch a new nemesis for Ali Alligator — a crocodile who fought Ali tooth, nail and jaw for the rights to reptilian greatness. 

“You heard it here first!” said Derek, egging on his Ali allies with stubby leaps and snappy prehensiles.  “You, my dearly beloved Ali lovers, are standing on the very site where we will soon be breaking ground for an amazing new Ali venture!”

The first to create, the last to know.  Landon shook his head, a bulbous bead of sweat splashing the podium.  What now?  Hadn’t Ali already broken the bank, wasn’t every possible version of him already in existence — or well along in the development process?  How else could Landon’s progeny lap him? 

“You tell ‘em, Ali!” extolled Meredith.  “Sure, we could’ve leaked the news sooner, or chosen a bigger media market to tell everybody — but we decided to tell the world on the exact grounds where our biggest Ali attraction ever will be located.”

“We?” wondered Landon.  He had zero recollection of being consulted on whatever it was that was about to turn Ali fans into fanatics — if they weren’t already.  Not that Bokar owed him the courtesy, by terms of his contract, he had been acknowledged as Ali’s author (a lot of good that had done him) but the iterations of Ali that found their way into the public eye belonged to Bokar. 

D/Ali (Landon’s term for the mash of Derek and Ali) snatched the mic and hatched the news.

“You, the fine people who make Ali possible, are standing on the future home of Ali World — where all things Ali will be happening!”

If Landon thought the crowd couldn’t get more boisterous — in fact, he didn’t, and they did.  A tumultuous cry rang out through the auditorium, Landon spotted the torturesome tween doing a flop of a backflip — which toppled a few of his equally enthused neighbors.

Ali World!  Wasn’t it already?  Landon had suffered a legion of Bokar babies; this one would be truly insufferable, the straw that broke the alligator’s back!  The death roll that dismembered Landon and relegated him to irreversible oblivion!  What happened in mid-Huron wouldn’t stay in mid-Huron; a few shakes of Ali’s tail and there would be an Ali World Europe, an Ali World Japan, an Ali World Saturn. 

It was time for Landon to take action … time to dial up his visibility … time to get the respect he so sorely desired.  Needed.  Was owed!  If it cost Ali some of his Landon-created popularity, so be it.  The scales of justice demanded it! 

And what might that action be?

Months later, when Landon was squirreled away, preaching the word of Landon to his listeners, he would reflect on how he’d fomented such an outlandish idea.  In fact, there was no thunderclap, no “ah-hah!” The idea just came to him — much like the idea for Ali had those tumultuous years ago.  The idea?

He would kidnap Ali, hold him hostage until the world paid his creator the attention he was long overdue.

How would that work out?  Landon wouldn’t know until he tried.

And so, he did.

It was now — not later — to make off with Ali Alligator.

If you happen to spot a hollow-faced gent shepherding an alligator wannabe — quite likely, against their will — you are encouraged to contact the authorities. 

The alligator is in great demand.

So is the man who created him.  His mother misses her monthly check.

Copyright © 2024 by Daniel Weitzman.  All rights reserved.

Daniel Weitzman is co-author of ‘Odd Gods’ (HarperCollins, optioned to be turned into an animated series). His children’s stories have been featured in ‘My Dad’s a Punk’ and ‘Stone-face.’ His film and TV credits include ‘The Pirates of Central Park’ (Children’s Film Winner, New York Film & Video Festival) and ‘Row Your Boat Ashore’ (Nicholl Fellowships Finalist). “Grown-up” material includes ‘The Only American’ (Every Day Fiction) and ‘Oh, Brad’ (Free Spirit). Daniel is author of a number of digital initiatives, including his personal favorite, a multi-media effort created for the US Forest Service. To check it out, visit https://discovertheforest.org/ 

The Idiot Savant

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Idiot Savant

Nineteen years of eating bats and salamanders. Nineteen years of painting walls. Nineteen years of humping the stalagmites when he was horny. Nineteen years of shitting in the corner by the rocks. Nineteen years.

Yes, nineteen years have gone.

The idiot savant is getting old these days. His head has balded, his feet have splayed, his spine has crooked and bent. At night he cackles. Wouldest thou see him there in the dark, thou would not even recognize him for a man, for a man he is no longer. A creature of the cave he
hath becometh, and with that, he grunts, he has finally done it. Today is the day the idiot savant enters the prime of his artistry. He wakes up and lights his torch with flint and stone and mashes up his berries between two rocks in its light. Then he takes the paste he’s made, rubbing it into his hands, and, going up to an empty wall, he starts painting. His subject, a horse, which came to him in a dream, prancing across a prairie he himself had never been.

“Grhm,” he grunts. The horse is goblin-like. It looks as if it shouldn’t prance. Rather it should romp.

“Grhm,” he grunts. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know what a horse looks like. He only knows what it doesn’t.

“Grhm.” He can’t tell what the painting even is.

“Grhm.”

“Grhm.”

“Grhm.”

He stops, standing back and looking at so far what he’s done.

Am I a brainless lizard? he thinks. A dilettante thug? Do I have any talent at all?

“Grhm,” he grunts once more, meaning no.

. . .

They found him there in the cave fifteen thousand years later, then just a shriveled mummy in the corner by a mound of fossilized shit. According to the lab where they tested him, died of malnutrition. Though, it was also suspected that, due to the phrenologically distorted crown of his skull, there lurked something else, an injury perhaps from his youth, although that they could not determine.

“He’s a savant,” one said, shrugging his shoulders and scratching his head with his micro-pipet.

“Sure.”

And so from then on in the eyes of modern science, he was a savant, the idiot savant. What was more a miracle than the mummy, however, was that, as for the art he made, it was still there, a bit grimy in parts but all still there. Archaeologists documented over two-thousand individual paintings, many of which on canvases that seemed to have been repeatedly scored. In one of their reports, they wrote that the paintings were the most lurid, the most sublime, the most visceral they’d ever seen, this coming from a part-time curator for the Uffizi and the Louvre and the Vatican. Another wrote that the paintings were so much what their colleague had said that, for weeks on end, lions and cave bears lurked in their dreams. They took special note of a horse in a field they said they but dimly recalled as though it was their earliest memory.

And so on and so forth until the hearsay had confounded, the reports had ballooned, and the money, the money, that which pervades all, too, had pervaded this. The company had planned to open the cave for tours to the public.

COME, they said. SEE THE SAVANT. FORGOTTEN DREAMS LIE WHERE HE RESTS.

By the time the archaeologists had searched the cave wall to wall once then twain and the company had opened the cave up, within no more than a single month, that month being February, everybody, everybody in the whole world seemed to have come. Ernest Hemingway,
Winston Churchill, Amelia Earhart, the Dalai Lama, to name a few. Picasso came once too, and when he emerged from the cave’s jaws as if straight from a woman’s womb, grabbing a hold of his wet tan fedora and wet tan suit, he turned to his wife and said, “Fifteen thousand years of
mankind and art.”

“Yes?” said his wife. “Yes, honey?”

He coughed. “And we’ve learned nothing.”

Condor Wrights -- Writer, student, cheeky little monkey with a stick. Lives in Nashville, TN and Oxford, GA. Reads in his spare time and lies around with Billy, his dog. Stokes the fire when he can.

A Solitary Affair

Photographer - Tobi Brun

A Solitary Affair

The man had been a famous writer in his day. He’d won the Booker and the PEN Faulkner and was a consistent bestselling author since his debut. His realm was the short story. They said he brought the form back from the grave. The boy was an aspiring young playwright. He had
boarded the man’s boat, again, seeking his advice.

"You didn’t say this writing business would be so lonely."

“Yes.”

“Yes? Well what do you mean?”

“Have you ever met a writer?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever met a socialized one?”

There was a pause.

“I suppose not. I see your point.”

They were sitting in a jacuzzi in Aruba on the man’s boat while a little Guatemalan girl
fanned them with a banana leaf. She had gecko eyes. They blinked from the side.

“Oh, Plata.” Plata was her name. It means silver in Spanish.

“Yes?” she said.

“Will you please stop it with that fan and get me my drink, please?”

“Sir, right away.” She folded in the banana leaf and set it by the corner.

“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” The man was leaning against the tub. His back was against the bubbler. “Ahhhh, isn’t it nice?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

His arms sank into the water. He scratched his stomach, twirling his belly button hair around his thumb. “So what makes you want to be a writer, kid? Is it the women? Is it the money? Is it the fame?”

“No. Not quite.”

“Well, you’re not a writer if you don’t want something.” The man sat up. “Cervezas, niña,” he said. “Pronto.”

“You see what I did there?”

Not long after the girl returned with the drinks. The boy stared into her eyes. She blinked, handing him his glass.

“Thank you,” said the boy.

“Yes. Thanks, darling,” said the man as lifted his glass to his nose then to his lips. “Mmm. Grhhmm. So kid, why do you want to be a writer? Tell me, what is it that truly brings you to such a craft?”

“It’s not that I want to write,” said the boy then took a sip. “I have to. I just have to. It’s in my blood.”

The man shook his head. His jowls jiggled along, “What? Margharitas in your blood, not spirit.”

“Margarita.”

“Yes. Rum is in mine.” To this the man finished his glass. “Welp, kid, you know, I have no real advice this time. Just chase it with a hatchet, and buy your boat in Aruba when you can afford one.”

The boy stood up. He waded through the hot bubbly water, thick as it was, crawling out of the tub. The girl handed him a towel.

“Thank you,” he said.

The towel soaked the water up.

It was evening. He looked back over at the man. The man was chewing ice from his drink, staring off into the sea and the sun. He sat alone.

“Sir, can I get that towel for you?”

The girl was behind the boy. Their eyes met. She blinked.

“No. No, I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Really?”

“Really. I can get it myself.”

He threw the towel in the bin by the sliding glass door.

The boy’s room was shaped like the inside of a conk, cavernous, marbled walls, mother of pearl. It sounded like a conk too. When one put one’s ear to the wall, the sea could be heard. He was packing his bags when he heard the knock. It was the girl. She poked her head into the room.

“What is it?” he said, walking up.

“There is dinner. Hermit crab, plantains and wild rice. He is waiting for you. Would you care to join?”

“No,” said the boy. “I prefer not.”

She smiled. It was a sad smile. “That’s too bad.”

He could see the light of the sun shining through the porthole streaked across her face.

“Here. Take this,” he said.

He held out a dollar coin in the palm of his hand. She reached. For a moment their hands clasped as she did. The coin was still there when she drew her hand back.

“I can’t accept this,” she said.

He looked at the coin. It glimmered in the light.

“Right.” He set it against his chest, wiping the grease from it, then slipped it in his pocket. “I best get back to what I was doing
then.”

“What was it you were doing, if I may ask?”

He stood there for a moment, looking down. “I was writing,” he said. Then he turned
back up without looking at the girl.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” she said.

The boat had shifted. The sun was gone.

“It was—I mean, it was nice to meet you as well.”

She smiled. “Good bye, sir.”

He nodded then shut the door.

Condor Wrights -- Writer, student, cheeky little monkey with a stick. Lives in Nashville, TN and Oxford, GA. Reads in his spare time and lies around with Billy, his dog. Stokes the fire when he can.