Our contests may be good fun, but they do have an earnest objective, and that’s getting writers to write. Sofia Higginbotham has risen to the challenge with this piece for A Dish Called “Wanda.” She’s been following our site closely for many months, although she’s only commented once or twice. This is her first submission, and she surprised herself as much as anyone when she wrote it.  She’s a prolific writer, but she’s strenuously avoided fiction, believing her own life and inner workings provided rich enough fodder for a million blog entries.  Sofia tells me she’s not sure where this story came from, but it must have been lurking in a dark and moldy corner of her mind, just waiting for an invitation.  Sofia, we’re glad you came out to play.

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Catch of the Day

The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there an open can of live bait and a shotgun on my table?

“What’s wrong?” said the waitress impatiently.

“Well . . . ” I motioned to the wriggling worms and the polished butt of the gun.

“Oh, that,” she sighed, as if it were a splotch of spilled mustard.  She shrugged.  “I can’t do anything about that.”

“Maybe I could sit someplace else.”  There were plenty of empty tables; I was the only customer in the whole place.

“This is the best seat in the house.  Besides,” she added lightly, “you never know.”

I consented out of sheer hunger.  I sat down, pushed the gun and the bait out of the way, and she handed me a menu.  The cover displayed a golden-beamed sun peeking over the horizon.  Its rays cut through a cerulean blue sky and illuminated gentle green hills.  Dark, red-brown smudges marred the lower half.  Probably dried ketchup, left by the last person to eat here.  Maybe whoever owned the bait and the gun.

I opened the menu.  A slip of paper fell out:  Catch of the Day, pan fried with clarified butter and caramelized cippolini onions, served atop thyme-infused polenta with citrus-glazed baby carrots and grilled zucchini medallions.

I glanced up at the waitress, who was hovering near my table with her pen poised above her notepad.  “Well?” she said, raising one eyebrow and tapping her pen on the pad.  The Catch of the Day didn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d usually find at a roadside diner, but what the heck?  How bad could it be?  Maybe it would be as delicious as its description.  Like the waitress said, you never know.

“I’ll have the catch of the day,” I said, “and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.”

She eyed me over the rim of her glasses.  “Where do you think you are, honey?  The Tavern on the Green?  I’ll tell you what.  I’ll get you a nice glass of peach iced tea.”  She whisked the menu out of my hand before I could even ask about pie, and walked briskly through the swinging door which led to the kitchen.  I heard her say, “Catch of the day, Wanda!” before the door swung shut.

I unfolded and refolded my napkin, then examined a bottle of Tabasco sauce.  My grandfather said that you could tell a good restaurant if there was Tabasco sauce on the table.  In my experience, the opposite was more often true.  But where did I think I was?  The Tavern on the Green?

Just then the waitress came back through the door with a plate in one hand and a tall glass of iced tea in the other.  She set the plate down in front of me carefully, even reverently.  “That’s Wanda’s specialty.  Nearly as good as her cherry pie.  Maybe you can have a slice …later.  Need anything else?”  Her left eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

“No, thank you.”  I took a sip of the tea.  It was sweet and peachy and made me think of a summer day.  “All right,” she said, and trotted quickly back to the kitchen.

The meal was artfully presented and smelled tantalizing. I couldn’t tell exactly what kind of fish it was.  It was big, that’s for sure, because the filet was as large as a steak. I took a tentative bite. It was as close to perfection as anything I’d ever eaten. The pale flesh was firm and moist with a slightly sweet, almost nutty taste.  I took another bite, this time with a bit of polenta and a baby carrot.  The flavors blended delectably on my tongue.  I ate eagerly, trying not to rush but not able to stop myself, like a lovesick man who finally touches the naked skin of the one he has most desired.

My reverie was interrupted by a violent crash, splintering glass and shriek of bending metal.  A stench assaulted my nostrils – rotting vegetation, pungent, foul, like flowers that have been left in a vase too long. I heard heavy footsteps and a wet, slithery, swish-flap sound. The silverware on my table jangled.  I looked over my shoulder and saw a creature about as big as a man.  It pulled itself forward on massive webbed feet, dragging a silvery fishtail behind it.  Its gray-green scales glimmered dully under the flourescent lights.  A dorsal fin rose out of its hunched back, reminding me of the Chinook salmon I caught on my last fishing trip.  I gutted it right on the beach, where the river met the sea, and the gulls dove down to fight over the bloody entrails.  I roasted the whole fish, flashing scales and all, over a driftwood fire.  It was vivid pink, easily pulling apart in big, flaky chunks and filling my mouth with spectacular salmony flavor.  When I wiped my chin, my hand came away slick with oil.

The fish-thing hauled itself toward me, its breathing labored, its gills shuddering with effort.  It was at least half mouth.  Its eyes were set deep into its skin above the jaw-hinge.  It did not blink.  It fixed me with a disconcertingly human eye – hazel flecked with gold and encircled by lush, soft-looking lashes. It flicked its eye toward the can of worms, but then returned its gaze to me, as though I might be the tastier morsel.  It opened its black maw and I couldn’t draw breath for the putrid fumes of decay that wheezed out of its belly.  There was no tongue, just row upon row of jagged teeth.

I didn’t care what the the thing was. I wanted to live long enough to finish my dinner. I grabbed the bait can and flung it across the room.  The monster followed the can’s shining arc with its eye and heaved forward in a sloppy, lurching gallop.  As it galumphed away between the tables I grasped the shotgun and nestled the butt to my shoulder, so that I could feel the cold metal against my cheek.  I’d never fired a gun before, but if there was a time to learn by doing, it was now.  I hoped that the safety was off, aimed in the general direction of the fish-thing, and squeezed the trigger.  The kickback flung me hard against the booth.  I could barely hear; I felt as though I was deep underwater.  One sound reached my ears – a guttural moan, a last, gargling whoosh of death-sweet air from the creature’s lungs.

The kitchen door swung open and the waitress sauntered out with a slab of cherry pie.

I struggled to speak. “Wha . . .what was that?”

She tilted her head to one side, smiled and said, “Catch of the day.”

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Next time, order the waffles.