Dude Wipes Out

When the toilet clogs yet again, stay-at-home dad Mitch decides to finally get to the bottom of who’s responsible by interrogating his wife and two daughters.

Unsplash image by Giorgio Trovato

 In 3 days, I wrote this 2,000-word story with the randomly assigned topics of comedy, underappreciated, and interrogator during Round 2 of the 2022 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge.

Dude Wipes Out

Mitch Bergson lifted the lid, wafting aromas of homemade lamb stew. He whispered, “Really amazing job, Mitch,” rhetorically patting his own back. He set four places at the table, opened a bottle of cabernet, wondered when he’d started talking to himself, and waited for the chaos to begin.

At 4:30pm, his daughter Alena announced her arrival by slamming the door, dropping her bags and locking herself in the bathroom. Sophie, two years younger and a step behind, also slammed the door, ran after her sister screaming, “Hurry up!” Ten minutes later, Cora kicked off her heels and danced toward the bathroom humming, “My turn.”

In the kitchen, Cora accepted the glass Mitch handed her, taking two great gulps before unloading her day on her husband. Once upon a time their arrivals and departures had been demarcated by a kiss and embrace, back when Cora asked about Mitch’s day. Certainly tonight his wife would notice how he’d tidied the house, filed their taxes, folded laundry, mowed the lawn, outdid his own culinary achievements…

Instead Sophie yelled from the hall, “Dad, something’s wrong with the toilet.”

Mitch turned off the burner and stepped around the corner. “Two squares, ladies. How many times must I say it.”

“That’s insane, Dad,” Alena said. “This isn’t the pandemic.”

Mitch grabbed the plunger. Sure he had regrets. But when his career shifted from legal scholar to investigative reporter somehow morphing into part-time leisure magazine writer, taking the role of housedad was never something he regretted. Believing he could live amiably in a house with three women and only one bathroom was.

“I specifically told you not to flush things other than human waste,” he lectured. “Don’t you read the sign?” The poster he’d designed, printed and hung beside the flusher read: Don’t flush tampons, PERIOD! He thought it was clever.

“Don’t lie to me, girls. Did you flush a tampon?” Yellow water was swiftly rising. Mitch worked the plunger.

“No!” cried Sophie.

“It wasn’t me,” Alena said.

“Damn it. I can’t hold it off. Cora, call the plumber.” Mitch glanced at his oldest daughter. “In fact, call Dupont Plumbing.”

“No.” Alena’s eyes widened. “Mom, please. Call anyone else.” But it was too late. Cora was on the phone, flinging beach towels from the closet, sopping up urinated dilution seeping across the tile. “Yes, hi, our toilet’s clogged…again.”

Twenty minutes later, seventeen-year-old Liam Dupont knocked on their door. “Hi Mrs. Bergson. My dad said you called?”

“Yes, Liam. You know the way,” Cora said.

Liam lugged his toolbox inside, squeezing past Sophie and pausing at Alena in the hall: “Oh, hi Alena.”

Alena melted into her room. Liam was tall, fit and skinny. His arms were long enough to reach awkward spaces, ensuring his spot as star lacrosse player and his family’s plumbing business as the best in town. Last summer, his dad bought him a truck outfitted with two bench seats and a rack for his tools. Liam was smart, charming, handsome, handy. Alena was mortified.

Before tackling the toilet, Liam politely asking Mitch to hover somewhere else. “Good idea,” Mitch said, “I’ll find out what we’re dealing with.” And he herded his girls onto the couch.

“We’ll know the cause soon,” Mitch said. “So I’ll give you each one chance to tell the truth. Who clogged the toilet?”

“Mitch,” Cora said. “Is this really necessary? I’ve been in court all day. Can’t we just let Liam take care of it and eat?”

“No.” Mitch crossed his arms. “No one gets stew till I get answers.”

Cora covered her laugh with the back of her hand. “You expect a confession? Mitch, darling, you were terrible at this in law school. You’ll never get them to confess.”

“You’re not clear of this either, darling. Just because I didn’t pass the bar, doesn’t mean I don’t have same degree as you. You forget how observant I am. For instance, at 4:32pm Alena was in the bathroom for seven minutes. At 4:40, Sophie entered, but was interrupted by you. At quarter till the bowl overflowed, so I can only conclude that someone one is using more toilet paper than their permitted two squares, or you’re flushing foreign objects down the toilet! Why else has the toilet clogged three times this year. Please explain what I’m missing!”

Alena snorted. “You won’t get a confession from me.”

“Nor I,” said Sophie.

All three women crossed their arms. Mitch took a step back. “Oh no, you won’t gang up on me this time.”

He set up his interrogation room in the kitchen, where overhead lights cast harsh shadows and the smell of stew had faded. He adjusted his favorite apron and gestured for Cora to sit.

“Let’s begin,” Mitch said, slipping a coaster under her glass. “As a woman, you obviously know which of our daughters is currently menstruating.”

Cora choked before swallowing.

Mitch continued, “Isn’t it true that women can tell these things through psychosis?”

Cora restrained her smile. “Honey, what’s this really about?”

Mitch glanced at the table set for four, the lukewarm lamb getting chewy. You hardly notice me, he thought but said, “It’s about paying that plumber one twenty an hour when we should be saving for Alena’s tuition.”

“I told you I’m taking care of that,” Cora said.

“Of course you are,” Mitch muttered.

“Excuse me?” Cora set down her glass. “You know, this is precisely why you never made it as a lawyer. Your tactics are all wrong. Sarcasm? Intimidation? It doesn’t work. It never has. If you want them to open up, you need to build rapport.”

“Reports, I know.” He unmagnetized his whiteboard, usually reserved for meal planning, and pointed to three names and timestamps written there.

“No, honey, the t is silent.”

“No, it’s not. Report-t-t-s,” Mitch said, jutting his jaw for emphasis.

Cora sighed. “Maybe I should talk to the girls.”

“No!” Mitch lurched forward. “No,” he said more calmly. “You don’t need to do everything for me, fix everything for me. I wish you’d be on my team here. I wish you’d appreciate what I’m trying to do.”

“And what are you trying to do, exactly?”

“I’m trying to understand why you girls keep clogging the toilet.”

“Us girls?”

“You know what I mean.”

Cora leaned forward. “You think I don’t know what can and cannot go down a toilet? I’m a fifty-nine-year-old woman, or haven’t you noticed? If you’re so observant, you’d know about my night sweats, hot flashes, the fact that I wear more layers than I can count and suffer terrible mood swings.”

“Well, I have noticed those.”

“Mitch! I’m menopausal. I haven’t had my period in seven years. I’m getting acne for Christ’s sake. I’d love to explain how shifting hormones affect the body, but you never ask. You don’t want to participate in this part of my life because that’s not the sort of plumbing you’re interested in!”

“Honey, I—” Mitch stuttered.

“Forget it. Have your stupid mock trial. I’m getting more wine.”

Cora stormed off, leaving Mitch dumfounded in the kitchen. When she rejoined her daughters, she winked and smiled. “Your turn, Alena.”

Alena sat on the stool, arms folded, watching her dad neurotically scrub drops of wine off the counter. In one swift movement, he aimed the overhead pendant light into his oldest daughters eyes. “You entered the bathroom at 4:32, correct? But didn’t exit until 4:39. What can you possibly do in there for seven whole minutes?”

“Dad, are we really doing this?” Alena slouched in her seat.

Mitch circled behind her. “Having Liam here makes you giddy. You like him. You have every reason to clog our toilets so your mother has to call him. You know this breaches my no-boys-in-the-house rule.”

“Dad, you’re the one who insisted we call him. I begged Mom to call someone else.”

Mitch changed his tone. “Let’s talk about prom. Has he asked you yet? Do you want to go with him? Do you keep shoving tampons down the toilet so he’ll come over?”

“What? Dad, first of all, I’m a seventeen-year-old woman who has successfully not been clogging toilets for years. If I wanted a date for prom, I’d probably choose another way to get a boy’s attention than having him plunge my toilet?”

Mitch stopped wiping the counters. “What? Nobody will be plunging anyone’s toilet around here. Not on my watch!”

Alena smirked. “You know he uses his snake to—”

“Stop.” Mitch gripped the counter. His face blanched white.

“Are we done here?” Alena stood up.

Mitch nodded.

She sauntered to the couch and said, “Your turn, sister.”

When Sophie arrived, Mitch was scrubbing the stovetop again. She said, “How does a man this obsessed with cleanliness manage to wipe his ass with only two squares?”

Mitch threw down the sponge and said, “Language! Now, is it true that you’ll capitalize on any opportunity to embarrass your sister?”

He slid a chocolate bar across the counter. Sophie snatched it and ate ravenously. Mitch noted this on his whiteboard. “How are your moods today?”

Sophie put down the chocolate bar. “I’m not on my period, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Mitch cringed. “Nobody seems to appreciate how disruptive this clog is. Do you know how expensive plumbers are?”

Sophie leaned forward. “Do you appreciate how disruptive having your period is? Can you imagine layers of your organs peeling off every month then falling out from inside you?”

“Oh god,” Mitch gagged on his own saliva.

“I don’t even use tampons, Dad. They’re so bad for the environment. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I contributed that much waste to landfills. I’ll show you what I use. It’s called a diva cup. You simply pinch the sides and shove it up your—”

“Nope.” Mitch held up both hands, shielding himself from whatever Sophie was extracting from her purse.

Thankfully Liam appeared from the hall. “All done, sir.”

“And?” Mitch rushed over. “Who’s the culprit?”

“I’d rather not say, sir. It doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh, it matters,” Mitch said. “In fact, everyone in the living room.”

“Mitch,” Cora hissed. “You’re embarrassing all of us.”

“Embarrassing? How do you think I feel when the neighbors see this damn truck here every month? The neighbors are talking. They say, Oh that Mitch can’t keep his plumbing straight. That Mitch does whatever his girls tell him. That Mitch cooks and cleans and folds laundry without a thank you or smile or hint of appreciation. I’m the one keeping this house in order and you three just clog, clog, clog. I can’t take it anymore! So, yes Liam, please tell us what in the world is clogging the toilet.”

“Dude Wipes, sir.”

“What?”

“Dude Wipes. I know they say flushable on the package, but they’re really not.” Liam handed over a bright blue box.

“But,” Mitch whispered. “They say one wipe replaces ten full squares.”

“That may be true, sir. But they’re doing a real number on your pipes, sir. You need to throw them in the garbage.”

Mitch crumpled into his chair. Humiliated, silent.

Liam paused before hauling his toolbox to the door. “Actually, while I’m here sir, I was hoping to ask Alena something.”

Alena leapt from the couch.

Cora did too. “Not now, Liam. This really isn’t good timing.”

“But with so many house calls lately, I’ve finally saved enough for a limo!”

“Do you mean…?” Alena started

“Later,” Cora hissed, pushing Liam out the door.

Mitch sat with the box against his forehead. When the door latched and Liam was gone, all three women burst into hysterics.

“Oh Mitch…” Cora started but the rest was drowned in laughter.

Alena keeled over, holding her stomach. “Amazing job, Dad…” but she couldn’t finish.

Sophia wiped tears from her eyes, reaching for the box of tissues. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll only use two squares.” She laughed and cried. And for the first time ever, she patted her dad on the back.

---

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Dr. Amaz's Gateway to Immortality

Image by Nhia Moua, Unsplash

In Round 3 of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, I had 48 hours to write a 1,500-word story with the surprise topics of comedy, immortality, and a statistician. Comments from judges include, “The writer is a commanding storyteller” and “I thoroughly enjoyed this fun, outrageous comedy…"

Dr. Amaz’s Gateway to Immortality

by Meghan Robins

Day one of Jacklyn’s internship was typical: Here’s the coffee machine, printer. Are you good with printers? These are rows of human preservation canisters… Dr. Amaz was tall. He wore loafers without socks, Levis uncuffed, pristine lab coat, stoic frown. His smooth dark skin and drooping eyes gave him a young-but-wise appearance. The sign out front read “Dr. Amaz Life Insurance Company.” The sign in back read “Cryonic Preservation Foundation.” Something about this internship wasn’t right, but Jacklyn needed the credits, and this was the address Professor Tudor had given her.

“Sit here,” Dr. Amaz said, tapping a desk with two fingers. “Have clients fill this out, then buzz me. Whatever you do, don’t answer their questions.”

At 8:30am, Benjamin rushed in. “Sorry I’m late. You must be the intern.” He held out his hand. His olive skin and almond eyes sent Jacklyn’s heart aflutter. Sweat pooled between their palms. “I’m Benjamin, lead statistician.”

Benjamin explained their systems, operations, her daily tasks. “Mostly, we need you to record whose insurance funds will run out before their liquid nitrogen does.”

“I’m sorry,” Jacklyn said. “The internship form said—"

Benjamin shushed her and pointed to his embroidered lapel: “The gateway to immortality.” As if that answered everything.

Rows of silver tanks lined the backroom. They could’ve been brewing beer for all she knew—the college student’s gateway to immortality. But each tank had a name, policy number, digital screen, and a tiny window at the top, too tall for her to see through.

“Shouldn’t medical staff be doing this?” Jacklyn asked. Standing beside Benjamin, she felt warm and cool all at once.

“Oh, these people are dead,” Benjamin said. “We’re like high-tech storage facilitators.”

Dr. Amaz cleared his throat. “We’re life insurance brokers.”

“Who’ve found a way to keep on collecting.” Benjamin grinned.

“Who are these people?” Jacklyn peered across a row of severed heads.

“Politicians mostly. People who altruistically chose the ‘for humanity’s sake’ checkbox. We try not to judge.” Benjamin winked.

“And these?” Jacklyn blushed, pushing her glasses up her freckled nose.

“Divorcees mostly. No better way to spite a loved one than redirecting funds to your own impossible re-animation. Take Number Five here, Mr. Bradigan. He took the liquid nitrogen plunge to ensure his fortune is spent preserving his own body, indefinitely. He’s just one of many clients looking for final ways to screw their spouse.”

Dr. Amaz, who never seemed to stop checking thermostats, called from another row, “The odds of science catching up is low. But the moment I added Cryonic Preservation to our life insurance forms, policy sales skyrocketed. It was only a matter of time before I had enough to purchase human-sized tanks and do the storing myself.”

That afternoon, an elderly man shuffled in. “I’m here for my procedure,” he announced, arms wide open.

“Certainly,” Jacklyn said. “Please fill out this form.”

The man beckoned her over with curled knuckles. He read the form aloud: “Reasons for choosing cryonic tissue preservation: a) to benefit society b) to seek immortality c) to avoid death. I’d like to add another option ‘to avoid know-nothing millennials and other dumb questions.’”

“Excuse me?” Jacklyn brushed the pleats of her skirt.

“There, like that,” he said. “I’m ready for immortality already.”

Benjamin turned the corner, coffee filled to the brim. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. You’re looking alive and well.”

“Screw you.”

Jacklyn handed back the clipboard.

“Do you want me to kill myself?” Mr. Johnson asked.

“We’d rather you didn’t, sir.” Benjamin took a sip.

Jacklyn smiled longingly at Benjamin. She startled when Dr. Amaz emerged from the backroom. “Mr. Johnson, you know the drill. No de-animation till you kick the bucket…naturally.” Dr. Amaz wagged a finger. “It doesn’t work if you kill yourself. That sort of abuse just can’t be undone.”

Mr. Johnson grumbled and handed Jacklyn a check for ten thousand dollars.

***

For weeks, Jacklyn scrolled through files, recording phrases like ‘catastrophic tissue failure,’ ‘organ obliteration,’ ‘literal cracking of the heart’ in her spreadsheet.

Under reasons for procedure, she noted that most clients checked the box for ‘benefits associated with avoiding death.’

“What are the benefits of avoiding death?” she asked Benjamin one day.

“Not being dead,” he said. “That’s literally the only benefit.”

Despite herself, Jacklyn flushed. Maybe it was her lame college dating scene but there was something about him, his enthusiasm, his passion. The way his chest swelled under his shirt.

“Do you want to get drinks?” she asked.

Benjamin’s eyes dropped, but he smiled. Before answering, he stole a glance at Dr. Amaz. Jacklyn understood right away. The odds of finding happiness with a bisexual statistician were low, but she didn’t care. She’d intended to invite them both.

Over drinks, Benjamin gave her the run down. “Full-body clients pay twenty thousand a year. Severed heads, fifteen. Living policy holders pay up to eight-hundred a month. Mr. Johnson for example, has been paying into his policy for twenty-seven years.”

Dr. Amaz chuckled. “His problem is he just won’t die.”

Jacklyn laughed too loudly and touched Dr. Amaz’s arm. He flinched.

“I’m sorry,” Jacklyn said.

“No, I am.” Dr. Amaz gripped his mouth and rushed to the bathroom.

“What have you done?” Benjamin said, knocking his chair back to watch Dr. Amaz go. “Don’t you know warm tissue makes him queasy!”

In afterthought, he sat back down and grabbed Jacklyn’s hand. “What did he feel like?”

***

The next day, Jacklyn wished she’d feigned sick. Inexplicably, the backroom was hissing and gray. Shining human canisters were rhythmically spitting puffs of liquid nitrogen.

“What happened?” she asked.

Benjamin rushed at her. “They’re thawing, all of them. Bring your spreadsheets!”

Dr. Amaz was running between canisters, his eyebrows white with sudden freeze. “Someone transposed the readings. The thermostats are set too warm. We’re losing them!”

“Three people work here,” Jacklyn said.

“There’s no time,” Benjamin said, guilt written across his face. “Your analysis. Who should we save first? Who has the most remaining funds?”

“What?”

“We have to keep it cool inside,” Dr. Amaz yelled, sealing the door.

Jacklyn couldn’t process that ‘cool’ meant negative three hundred degrees. With canisters slowly leaking liquid nitrogen, they were both warming their clients too quickly and freezing themselves too slowly.

“What are the odds we should save this one?” Dr. Amaz yelled over hissing pipes. He was standing beside Number Seven.

Jacklyn looked at her notes. “I don’t know,” she screamed over the noise.

Benjamin grabbed Jacklyn’s spreadsheet. Data fields were bursting with lengthy prose.

“What is this?”

“This feels like a bad time to tell you,” Jacklyn paused, “I’m an English major.”

“What?”

Dr. Amaz waved desperately. “The odds, man, tell me the odds!”

“How could you?” Benjamin’s eyes were huge and panicked. Beside him, another hose burst.

“What, be a writer?” Jacklyn cried. “It said data journalist internship. How was I to know. Did you even look at my resume?”

Hoses and pipes pinged and popped. The room was now filling with liquid nitrogen very quickly. Jacklyn’s tear ducts began to crystalize.

“You’re the statistician, Benjamin,” Dr. Amaz yelled, slowing to a crawl. “What about this one? What are the odds we can save this one?”

“Please stop asking that,” Benjamin moaned.

“What about this one?”

“You want data?” Benjamin yelled. “Zero percent. Zero percent chance any of this works. The stats are clear as day. It’s like freezing lettuce. Has no one tried this on lettuce? Even if they do reanimate in one hundred years, they’ll be mush and so outdated they’ll be asking to check their Facebook. Look at this guy!”

The canister beside him had burst open. The client slipped out and cracked on the floor.

“And while we’re admitting things,” Benjamin yelled. “I’m dyslexic!”

The glass on three more canisters exploded. Corpses fell out. Something gray oozed across the floor.

Dr. Amaz gagged. He crawled toward Benjamin, his mobility rapidly de-animating. “What the hell have you been doing these last six years?”

“This was the only job I could get.” Benjamin’s eyelids gave a last flutter. He reached out and Dr. Amaz reached back. Finally, their nitrogen-crisp hands were cool enough to embrace.

Benjamin struggled to his knees. More bodies were slipping from their canisters. Heads were rolling.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin,” Dr. Amaz said. “What a terrible misunderstanding. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel.”

At their exact moment of de-animation, when sixty percent of their tissue was more ice than water, Dr. Amaz leaned forward, finally able to stomach a real human kiss.

Jacklyn wallowed her near-frozen body closer just in time to hear Dr. Amaz whisper in Benjamin’s ear, “I have secrets, too. I’ve been frozen once before.”

As their lips touched, Jacklyn joined in. For a brief moment, they all three understood that they’d be frozen like this for eternity. A trio together, forever.

What are the odds? Jacklyn thought. Of finding ourselves in love in one hundred years?

But she knew nobody in that room knew the answer.

Permit to Redecorate

Top deck of the Galapagos catamaran Alya, which I had the pleasure of cruising aboard thanks to AdventureSmith Explorations.

This work of fiction earned 3rd place in Round 1 of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. I had 7 days to write a 2,500-word story, with the surprise assigned topics of suspense, a decorator, and amenities. Top 5 stories selected by a panel of judges moved on to Round 2.

Permit to Redecorate

by Meghan Robins

When Manuel Alvero converted his twelve-passenger catamaran into a research vessel, he became desperate to keep the Adrianna afloat. Vaquitas, the world’s rarest marine mammals, were on the brink of extinction. As was Manuel, if he didn’t find a backer. Regretfully, the only philanthropist interested was Antonio Soto, the wealthiest businessman in Baja.

Lizzy White was a law school dropout with a keen eye for color squares. Her job was to diversify Mr. Soto’s investments—quietly, profitably, stylishly. Her eye for detail was impeccable. Mr. Soto’s taste was eccentric. When they caught wind of a fledgling nonprofit aboard an outdated catamaran, they agreed it checked all the boxes. Mr. Soto’s fascination for smart investments was rivaled only by his love for endangered species. Lizzy explained this to Manuel as they toured their newly co-owned catamaran. “We’ll add another bar here. Teak decking everywhere. Mr. Soto is awfully fond of royal hues, so this will get updated. I’ve ordered a marble Jacuzzi for the top deck, imported from Italy. These rooms will be combined into the owner’s suite. We must secure all the proper amenities for Mr. Soto’s ship.”

“Our ship,” Manuel corrected, following her up the spiral staircase.

“Yes, of course, your ship.” Lizzy leaned over the banister, her blond hair swirling in the early summer breeze. “Now these vaquitas, how do we get one?”

“Excuse me?” Manuel said. “They are endangered animals, not pets. And they do not survive in captivity.”

Lizzy turned sharply on her heel. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Alvero. Who would keep a live whale aboard a ship? We mean to preserve one. Hang it here, right above the Jacuzzi. An homage to Mr. Soto and the good work he is doing.”

“Good work?” Manuel felt sick.

Lizzy’s green eyes narrowed. “I conveyed your enthusiasm, and Mr. Soto feels inspired. It is the only reason he chose to invest in your dilapidated boat. My job is to ensure he has all the amenities he deserves. He deserves a gorgeous space, doesn’t he? A ship unlike any other?”

Manuel gripped the railing. “This is not possible,” he said.

Two chauffeurs, as they had been introduced, stepped forward. Lizzy, four inches taller, leaned over Manuel. “This is not a negotiation, Mr. Alvero. We did not choose your vessel because of its quality. We chose it because of your access. You are the only one permitted to enter the cove during birthing season. Mr. Soto has requested a baby vaquita to be mounted, in honor of him, right here.” She waved her arms at the alcove behind them. “He wants to be one with the sea. Isn’t that what your website promises? Help Mr. Soto get his trophy and he will invest millions in saving the whales you care so much about.”

“They’re porpoises.”

“What?” Lizzy flipped a business card between them, her manicured fingernails bright as healthy coral.

“Get off my boat,” Manuel said through gritted teeth.

Lizzy smiled, tucking the card into his shirt pocket. “This is not your boat, Mr. Alvero.” From her shoulder bag, she produced fabric swatches, layering them across the bench and cocking her head. She handed the swatches to the thick-necked chauffeur. “We have one week until the whales begin birthing. We’ll get one then.”

Manuel went directly to the police, closing the captain’s door behind him.

“Distressing indeed,” Captain Romero said. “We’ll send patrol boats, but, as Ms. White says, you are the only vessel with a permit to be in those waters at that time.”

“You need to arrest them.”

“For what, intent? We will patrol the waters, but Manny, I cannot just arrest this woman, an American no less.”

“So, you’ve met her?”

The captain leaned back in his chair. “She came to me, asking for a permit. I told her only one vessel was issued such a permit. I’m sorry, Manny. I didn’t know it would come to this.”

Manuel nodded and stood to leave. The captain glanced at someone behind him, and before Manuel knew it, he was cuffed by two policemen and shoved into a cell. Captain Romero leaned against the bars, picked his fingernails. “I am sorry, Manny. But you’re too reckless, angry. We both know you’d try to stop them.”

“Why aren’t you?” Manuel was livid. “It’s your job to stop them!”

Captain Romero rubbed the back of his neck, taking his time. “Exactly. It’s my job. Not yours. So just sit tight and don’t worry. I’ll call your wife and tell her you’re safe.” As the guard opened the door, the captain paused. “I’m doing this for Elena, you know.”

“You bastard!” Manuel shook the cell bars, but nobody was listening.

***

Lizzy stood at the window overlooking the Sea of Cortez.

“So?” Mr. Soto said from the doorway.

Lizzy startled and splashed her drink. She laughed and wiped gin down her pantleg. “We have a ship,” she said.

“Well done, Lizzy.” Antonio Soto took her hand. “I’ve been thinking, why settle for merely a stuffed fish. I want to be one with the whales, those powerful, forceful beasts. I want to feel like we’re swimming together.”

“But, my love, vaquitas do poorly in captivity. It is known.”

Mr. Soto squeezed Lizzy’s hand until it hurt. “Make it happen.”

***

For two days Manuel rattled his cage bars. Only the young guard who brought his meals acknowledged his conspiracy theories about illegal poaching. On the third day when he shook the cell door, it creaked open. Timidly, he stepped out. It was before dawn and the sheriff’s office was empty. The young guard was in the other room, pouring himself coffee. Through the glass partition, he watched Manuel gently open one disarmed security door after another. Manuel paused, searching for an explanation. But the young guard flicked his chin as if to say, hurry. Manuel nodded and was gone.

At home, he skirted the edge of their yard to avoid Elena in the kitchen. He quietly unlocked the shed and reached behind shovels and rusting buckets for an old duffel, saved from a life lived long ago. When he reached the Adrianna, much had changed. Crates and old furnishings were piled on the dock. Lizzy’s slender silhouette was on the top deck, cursing. “If that Jacuzzi doesn’t arrive in the next twenty-four hours, I’m going to murder someone!”

As the sunrise crossed calm blue waters, Manuel waited for the chauffeur-guard to take a piss before hurrying aboard and down to the hull. Quickly, he stashed his duffle in a hatch and began dismantling tracking devices, subtly rearranging wires.

“What are you doing?” Another guard’s shoulders were pinched in the narrow stairwell.

“Daily maintenance,” Manuel said. “These systems need checking.” The guard smirked and forced him above deck.

Lizzy was fuming. “Do you think I’m stupid, Mr. Alvero? Do you think I would purchase a boat without knowing how to operate one? I need your vessel, your permit. I do not need you.” She looked at the guard, who quickly secured him to the bench. “I knew you would meddle. I just wish for once I didn’t have to deal with it.”

All morning Manuel struggled against his zip ties. Midday, Lizzy brought him water, tipping the bottle to his lips. Together, they sat under the canopy, watching men crane in and install Mr. Soto’s prize amenity: a pink, marble, Italian Jacuzzi. Large enough to fit ten guests, it filled the entire deck. It was horrendous.

One of the guards rattled up the stairs, dropping Manuel’s duffle on the bench. “Look what we found.”

Lizzy unzipped the faded bag, revealing Manuel’s old tranquilizer gun. She stood up, ran her fingers along the tub’s marble edge, lingering on the marble ashtray, an added gift from the supplier. “We asked about you,” Lizzy said. “Poacher turned environmentalist. It’s a nice story, but unrealistic. People don’t change, Mr. Alvero. It’s the world we live in. Animals go extinct. People die. You get it.”

“How old are you?” Manuel said, searching for a diversion, a weakness.

“Twenty-six.”

“You’re too young to be this depressing.”

Lizzy sat down. “Tell you what. It can be your choice: you can either choose which baby vaquita we take. The weakest, ugliest, by your standards. Or we can tie weights to you now and let the newborns feed on you for their first meal.”

“That’s not—” Manuel started. “You’ll never get away with this. There are dozens of conservationists. People are watching.”

Lizzy stood with a tired smile. “I don’t care.” She hit him across the face with the ashtray.

When Manuel awoke, stars filled the sky and he could hear the loud puffing sounds of vaquitas. The Adrianna was no longer at the dock but in the cove. The Jacuzzi was cleaned, filled, bubbling. How long had he been out? His head ached. Blood crusted down his cheek. He scanned the empty deck, then wriggled toward his duffle, reaching for the switchblade he kept in the side zipper. After painfully cutting himself free, he lifted the bench seat, still filled with old life vests, ropes, a first aid kit. Along with flairs and a two-way radio. He flipped to the emergency channel and called for mayday. After minutes of white noise, someone said, “Mayday copy, what’s your position.”

“This is Captain Alvero of the Adrianna. I’ve been kidnapped. Location is Florien Cove. Over.”

“Manny, is that you?”

Shit. “Yes, Captain. I’m in the cove. They plan to poach vaquitas. I fear they may do it tonight.”

“Manny, we are aware of your position. Our records show you are no longer the captain of the Adrianna. If you are aboard illegally, we’ll have to arrest you, again. Over.”

“Romero, there are poachers here, now. There’s more than enough proof. Why aren’t you doing your job!”

“I am Manny, calm down.” Headlights appeared across the water, flashing twice aboard the police patrol boat. “In fact, we’re running security. I’m sorry, Manny. That American is very persuasive. And I have my family to think of. As do you. One whale to save both our families? That’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“They’re porpoises!” Manuel yelled, launching the radio into the ocean.

Two guards below were on their radios in an instant. Heavy footsteps rattled the staircase. Just as the thick-necked chauffeur appeared, Manuel grabbed his duffle and jumped over the side, skimming down the slanted wall to a balcony. The balcony led into what was once two quaint rooms. Through a sliding glass door, he saw they’d been converted into one luxurious owner’s suite, filled with a ridiculous round bed. Atop of which lay Mr. Soto and Lizzy White, startled by the thump of his landing. The bright interior kept Manuel in shadows and he rushed to load his only weapon. Aiming his tranquilizer carefully (it always pulled left), he cracked open the slider and shot. In the split-second Mr. Soto had reached for his gun, the dart was already stuck in his bare abdomen. He fell backwards, pinning Lizzy to the bed. She screamed. Manuel leapt to the adjacent balcony. He needed to pull the anchor. If he could get the catamaran out of the cove, their window would be missed. He hoped Captain Romero would see the boat leaving and assume the deed was done. When Manuel reached the stern, his stomach dropped. In the open space where they once pushed kayaks and survey equipment into turquoise waters, lay a giant gill net. Not since his first sea journey did he feel that queasy. He went to work cutting it into pieces, desperate to dismantle the greatest killer of vaquitas. But the net was too strong, too well made. He didn’t hear Lizzy’s bare feet approach from behind. He did hear the click of a gun.

“Stand up,” she said, two guards on either side. “Why are you making this so difficult.”

Manuel stood. He could see too much of her through her satin gown. “You don’t have to do this,” Manuel said, looking away.

“You don’t get it, Mr. Alvero.” Lizzy stepped forward. “Our desires need no explanation. All we need is to feel good. And things, Mr. Alvero, décor, amenities, these things make us feel good. I need to feel good.”

Manuel looked into her green eyes. “It makes me sad, Ms. White, to think you could be so much more than a decorator.”

Lizzy let out a cackle. “Trust me. I am so much more!” She spun swiftly with a high kick, knocking Manuel in the jaw. He fell sideways and scurried to the side rail. Lizzy stood ready, waiting for his approach, a maniacal grin on her moonlit face. Manuel doubled over, holding his bleeding mouth. He leaned onto the lever that engaged the pulley for the net. Lizzy swung upwards, caught like a fish. The two guards rushed forward, unable to shoot with Lizzy hanging between them. Manuel snuck around, landing a powerful right hook and knocking one guard overboard. The other scampered this way and that, dancing around the net.

“Kill him!” Lizzy screeched.

But the guard was too slow. Manuel grabbed the net and swung like Tarzan, kicking the guard in the chest and landing him in the water as well. Lizzy was frantically trying to aim her gun, but it was pinched too close to her chest. Manuel reached the lever and hoisted her to the top deck. His primitive brain had taken over. Evil deserved evil and he had never met someone, in this life or his previous one, who was as callous as Lizzy White. The net hoisted up and up, maneuvered over the railing, directly above the Jacuzzi. Long before this was a research boat, this was where they dropped their main catch. Finessing the levers came back so naturally. Lizzy understood what was about to happen.

“No, wait!” she screamed, but Manuel could no longer see her. He adjusted the levers, knowing the weight of the net would suffocate her as he dropped her into the pink, marble, bubbling Jacuzzi.

After few moments of silence, he crept up the spiral staircase. Lizzy was drowned in three feet of water, tangled in the thick, deadly gill net. Bubbles clung to her nose. Her green eyes were open, shining gems in the fluorescent floor lights. Manuel settled onto the royal bench, admiring the soft cushion. Then he heard a strange creaking, the failure of wood. The floor beneath the Jacuzzi buckled and gave way, crashing into the room below. Manuel peered down the splintered hole. The walls Lizzy had removed to create the owner’s suite were supporting walls. She had inadvertently aligned Mr. Soto’s bed right beneath his new tub.

Manuel Alvero stripped off his boots and thick shirt, strapped his duffle to his back and jumped into the water. As he swam for shore, navigating the moonlit waters, he could hear vaquitas all around him. How lovely, he thought, to be one with the sea.

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Vaquitas are endangered

The vaquita porpoise is the world’s most endangered marine mammal. The primary threat to their existence is drowning in gillnets, which are often used to poach other endangered animals.

To learn more about the effort to save the vaquita porpoise (not a whale), visit VaquitaCPR.org.

Photo credit: Greenpeace