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  PRAISE FOR ONE POTATO

  “This novel is deranged, in the best way. If Aimee Bender and Charlie Kaufman wrote a book together, this is what it would sound like. McMahon has written a perfect novel satirizing our imperfect time.”

  —Joshua Mohr, author of Sirens and Model Citizen

  “You’re going to want more than a helping of One Potato, which humorously weaves together such disparate topics as American intervention in South America, the dangers of botanical monoculture, violent revolution, population bottlenecks, and a good, old-fashioned love affair. It is a sign of a truly accomplished writer that this novel entertains as it elucidates. You’ll never see a spud the same way again.”

  —Allison Amend, author of Enchanted Islands, A Nearly Perfect Copy, Stations West and Things That Pass for Love

  “With urgency, wit, and vivid imagination, Tyler McMahon’s One Potato engagingly explores the dangers of monoculture, a ruthless dictatorship, GMO controversies, corporate greed and corruption, and the necessity and power of a free press. Packed with absurdist humor and a vibrant sense of place, a fast-paced and suspenseful plot and a layered rendering of its often hapless characters, One Potato is a memorable novel with an impressive scope. I was wonderfully entertained by this book, but I also learned so much from it.”

  —Joanna Luloff, author Remind Me Again What Happened

  “Fast-paced, comedic, with significant social undercurrents—Tyler McMahon’s latest novel One Potato is a wild ride with real heart. [McMahon] pairs hilarious antics and a sweet romance with very real research into GMO plants and products. If you’ve always wondered how Michael Pollan’s nonfiction would look in the hands of Tom Robbins or TC Boyle, then this is the novel for you.”

  —Kristiana Kahakauwila, author of This is Paradise: Stories

  “One Potato blends cauterizing satire with a deeply humane worldview. It manages to be—all at once—fast-paced and thoughtful, hilarious and consequential, disturbing and delightful.”

  —Elise Blackwell, author of Hunger and The Lower Quarter

  “Like the diaries of Ché Guevara seen through an Ore Ida lens, this deeply funny yet pointed novel juggles the acknowledgement of a future we should all be terrified by, and the hope that our shared but loveably flawed humanity will win out in the end. Buy two copies, read one, and use the other as compost for your new organic backyard potato patch.”

  —Sean Beaudoin, author of Welcome Thieves

  “Reminiscent of Vonnegut in his prime, One Potato drives the tantalizing line between satire and global reality, using quick, vivid chapters to create a captivating read. Eddie Morales and his game sidekick Raven Callahan are in over their heads in the most wonder-filled ways as they venture into the unknown world of Puerto Malogrado and the mysteries of genetics. Their story is both insightful and poignant, their trail of discovery one you can’t help but follow.”

  —David Bajo, author of The 351 Books of Irma Arcuri and The Ensenada Public Library

  “One Potato is a brutal, hilarious, and perfectly-timed interrogation of Big Agriculture’s colonization of the human food supply—And McMahon’s landscape of “third world conflict porn” is brilliantly pollinated by unforgettable characters either longing for connection, painfully suffering their genetics, or absurdist and malignant in their dedication to the regime of Capitalism crop-dusting our minds and hearts.”

  —J. Reuben Appelman, author of The Kill Jar

  ONE POTATO

  A NOVEL BY

  TYLER McMAHON

  Keylight Books

  a division of Turner Publishing Company

  Nashville, Tennessee

  www.turnerpublishing.com

  One Potato

  Copyright © 2022 by Tyler McMahon. All rights reserved.

  This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Lucy Kim

  Book design by Mallory Collins

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: McMahon, Tyler, 1976- author.

  Title: One potato / Tyler McMahon.

  Description: First edition. | Nashville, Tennessee : Keylight Books, [2022] Identifiers: LCCN 2021030552 (print) | LCCN 2021030553 (ebook) | ISBN 9781684427833 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781684427826 (paperback) | ISBN 9781684427840 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Transgenic plants--Fiction. | Genetically modified foods--Fiction. | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction)

  Classification: LCC PS3613.C5846 O54 2022 (print) | LCC PS3613.C5846 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021030552

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021030553

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Paul Diamond

  Before the ordeal, all I cared about was my assistant Jill and the perfect vending-machine French fry. I finally had my own lab on the second floor. Our latest round of prototypes had brought us so near to a breakthrough that I could almost taste it.

  “We’re getting close,” Jill said over the bubbling oil. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail just below the strap of her safety goggles. Even under the fluorescent lights, the skin of her face looked dewy and round.

  “Very close.” Indeed, after months of hard work, the reconstituted potato flakes had finally formed into convincing batons. We’d worked out a particular blend of oils, the perfect temperature, and a viscosity that wouldn’t clog any of the machine’s parts. The only aspect that still eluded us was aesthetic: a crispy, golden-hued outermost layer. The samples we’d produced thus far all had a mealy texture and a pale color—never quite brown enough.

  I was convinced that one more step, some sort of coating or varnish, would take our product to the next level.

  We spread a batch of samples across the stainless-steel counter, along with a dozen potential browning agents. I painted the latter onto the fries, while Jill labeled the grid.

  “Seriously, Eddie. This could be a game-changer.” Jill’s voice grew throaty with excitement. The smell of her shampoo was still faintly pleasant over the aroma of hot oil.

  “I’m just the R & D guy.” I shrugged.

  “Don’t be so modest!” She gave me a playful hip-check. “Warren changed the world with frozen fries, half a century ago. If you figure this out, no teenager will have to stand over a fryer getting acne ever again.”

  I nodded.

  “Imagine it,” she said. “They might as well put a fry dispenser beside the soda dispenser in McDonald’s.”

  “Self-serve.” I said it as though the concept hadn’t occurred to me. “It’s possible.” In truth, I preferred to imagine these machines at lonesome truck stops and rest areas, the waiting rooms of hospitals and bus stations. What motivated me most about this project was the notion that any American anywhere might be able to buy real, warm fries—the world’s greatest comfort food—at any hour of the day or night, with one unwrinkled dollar bill. No prep and no mess.

  “It’s more than possible.” Jill’s elbow brushed mine. We exchanged a mutual embarrassed glance.

  “Once we get our part sorted out,” I said, “the engineers will have to finish up the machine.”

  “Then we can finally celebrate.” Jill looked up from the grid and cocked an eyebrow at me.

  I felt my face start to blush and turned back to the varnish.

  “Morales!” The door to the laboratory burst open. “Is Doctor Morales around?”
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  “We’re in the middle of an experiment here,” Jill shouted.

  The intruder was a big-shouldered lump of a man with a dark suit and a shaved head. I could tell by his red badge that he was from Operations.

  “What can I do for you?” I snapped off a rubber glove. “I’m Doctor Morales. And you are?”

  “Lutz.” His big hand gave mine one hard squeeze, then released. “You’re needed on the eighth floor. Immediately.”

  “That’s Warren’s floor!” Jill stage-whispered.

  “There must be a mistake,” I insisted. The oil inside the beaker let out a spatter. “I don’t have any business up there.”

  “Smells like fries in here,” the Ops man said. “You coming, or what?”

  “Go!” Jill said. “I’ll handle this.”

  I nodded and took off the goggles and lab coat. Jill straightened my collar, tucked my hair behind my ear, and gave me a thumbs-up. I followed Lutz to the elevator. His thick finger nearly covered the Up button as he pressed it.

  “The eighth floor?” I asked.

  “That’s correct,” he said.

  “I’ve never even been up there before.”

  Lutz sighed. “The elevator does most of the work.”

  Warren Shepherd had started this company when he was fourteen years old with a few potato seeds and an acre of southern Idaho soil. Now, Tuberware was the world leader in all potato-related products, taking Solanum tuberosum into areas of science not previously considered possible: improved foodstuffs, many of them frozen or shelf-stable; starches and fillers for use in other processed foods; non-edible goods like potato-based insulation and packing materials; as well as a whole new array of plants and seeds. This building, One Potato Way, functioned both as an executive headquarters and an innovation laboratory for new products and technologies.

  I’d shaken Warren’s hand at the Christmas party a couple of times, but I’d never had a full-blown face-to-face conversation with the man. He kept a private office on the eighth floor. When I’d first started here, a sign in the elevator had explained that no employee was allowed to enter without an invitation or an escort. Now the sign was gone and the fact was simply understood.

  “Is this about the machine?” I asked Lutz as we slowly climbed.

  “The what?”

  “The French-fry vending-machine prototype.”

  “I doubt that Warren is aware of that project’s existence,” Lutz said.

  “So it is Warren I’m going to see up there? Mister Shepherd, I mean.”

  “Nobody else has an office on that floor.”

  The doors slid apart. Lutz held them open with one hand and gestured for me to exit with the other. Once I was out of the metal box, I turned back to him.

  He didn’t say goodbye—only used his eyes to gesture toward the opposite side of the floor—as the elevator doors slid closed.

  Upon first glance, this wasn’t so different from the other levels of One Potato Way. I stepped out onto the same gray tile as my lab, surrounded by similar off-white walls—the only light coming from fluorescent tubes along the ceiling. But at the far end stood a different sort of wall, this one of rough-hewn timber, like an old ski lodge or a Western saloon. In front of that was a small desk with a woman seated behind it.

  “Eduardo?” she asked.

  “Eddie is fine,” I said.

  “He’s ready for you.” She smiled: white teeth through dark lipstick, her hair pulled back in a tight bun.

  “Mister Shepherd is ready for me?” I asked.

  She nodded and stood to open the wooden door.

  I met her eyes and saw my confusion reflected there. Was nobody going to tell me what Warren wanted before I went into his office?

  The woman extended a hand, as if to show me the way.

  Once inside the office, I had to squint. The north-facing wall was entirely floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out toward the foothills. In the distance, the tallest peaks of the Boise Mountains were capped with snow and reflected the afternoon sun. Once my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I made out a long executive desk—built from a blonder strain of timber and coated in an inch of varnish. The interior wall, even the flooring, was all knotty wood. It was a charming log cabin suspended eight stories up in the sky.

  Sitting behind the desk, Warren Shepherd stared out the window, the back of his head shining with thick silver hair.

  “It’s beautiful country, isn’t it?” He didn’t turn around.

  “Idaho?” I said sheepishly. “It certainly is.”

  “America.” The chair spun, and Warren sat there facing me. His expression was more somber than in the photographs that hung throughout the hallways.

  “Right,” I said. “They’re both beautiful countries. States. Sorry. They’re both very nice.”

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  I sat down in a stiff wooden chair—the lone piece of furniture on this side of his desk.

  “You’re Cuban; isn’t that right, Eduardo?”

  “‘Eddie’ is fine, sir. No, I’m from Florida, actually. My parents left Cuba after the Revolution. Cuban-American, I suppose.”

  “A hell of a thing.” He looked down at the desk, tapped at it with a long fingernail. “Losing your country right out from under you like that.”

  “Yes, sir. I wouldn’t really know, sir. I’ve never been to Cuba.”

  “I meant your family.”

  “My family! Yes. Hell of a thing for them, sir.”

  “Speak Spanish, is that correct?”

  “Me or my family?” I asked.

  “Tú hablas español?”

  “Oh, right. We spoke it in my home, growing up. I’m rusty now, sir.”

  “Rusty?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you enjoy working here, Eduardo?”

  I paused and took a breath. “It’s my dream job, sir. I love it.” That was true. I’d worked with potatoes even as a college student. Before my graduate study was finished, it was clear that Tuberware would be the perfect place for me.

  “Outstanding.” Warren opened a drawer and produced a thick manila folder. “You’ve heard of Puerto Malogrado?” He dropped the folder onto the desktop with a thud.

  “The country?” I asked. “In South America?”

  He grunted. “A landlocked nation named for a port. How do you like that?”

  “Some consider it the birthplace of the potato,” I said.

  Warren looked up from his documents and held my stare for a second. “Is that so?”

  I shrugged. “It’s contested, but yes. That’s one theory.”

  “Well, they get them from us now.”

  “I heard about that. They’re buying the DS 400s, correct?”

  Warren leaned back, his interest in the documents appearing to wane. “Do you know what that ‘DS’ stands for, Eduardo?”

  “No, sir. Genetics isn’t really my field.” I touched my yellow Processed Foods badge, a subtle reminder of my actual role in his company.

  “Dog slobber,” he said.

  An awkward second of silence passed. Outside, a crow flew dangerously close to the window behind Warren, but pulled up at the last minute. I flinched in my chair.

  “Is that a joke, sir?”

  “The ‘S’ started off as ‘saliva.’ Maybe you could say that ‘slobber’ is a joke. It does roll off the tongue a little better.”

  “That’s funny: that last part.” I grinned. “Slobber. Off the tongue.”

  Warren didn’t appear to get it. “Here’s the deal. We’d been selling Puerto Malogrado our Idaho Bombs for years. They’re a bigger and much more calorie-dense product than those scrawny blue ones they got down there. Problem is, at certain elevations, they get attacked by some odd unidentified bacteria.”

  “So you got Gen-Mod on it?” I asked. The Genetic Modification unit specialized in creating strains of tubers that were resistant to pests—and pesticides.

  He nodded. “And do you know where you find a
wealth of robust, broad-spectrum, bacteria-fighting enzymes, Eduardo?”

  “Ed. Or Eddie’s fine. No, sir.”

  “Dog saliva.” Warren smiled. “Why do you think they’re always licking their wounds?”

  “Sorry, sir. Vertebrates are not a specialty of mine either.” It did make a bit of sense, I supposed. “Does it work?”

  “Like gangbusters.” He slammed his fist onto the desk. “Not a single case of infection on the plant since we started testing those seeds down there, over a dozen years ago now. The FDA approval is still in process. But we could be talking about a potato variety for all seasons and all climates here.” He grew short of breath.

  “So, what’s the problem?” I asked.

  “The problem is,” Warren pushed around the papers from the file, “in one of the farming villages where they’re growing DS 400, three children have been born who allegedly cannot walk upright on two legs.”

  I waited for him to erupt in laughter or scream “gotcha!” at me. Only silence.

  “You’re not serious,” I said.

  He took one piece of paper out from under the others, turned it around, then passed it to my side. I pulled my chair up closer to his desk and had a look. The page was a printout of a low-quality photograph showing three children crawling across the ground on the balls of their feet and the heels of their hands. They looked to be just outside a humble adobe house, some chairs and a clothesline in the background.

  “But this,” I couldn’t look away from the picture. “This is ridiculous. It doesn’t make any—”

  “It’s beyond ridiculous.” Warren raised his voice. “It’s complete horseshit. There’s no relationship to our potatoes at all. But now we’ve got all the makings of a full-blown media circus on our hands.”

  “Are they faking it?” My eyes stayed on the photo.

  Warren blew a puff of air out one side of his mouth. “Most likely. There certainly are people who’d love to see our GMOs linked to something like this. There’s a very small chance it could be a legitimate genetic anomaly. It happens a couple times a century, or so I’m told. Either way, now there’s not much stopping every family in Puerto Malogrado from making their kids walk on all fours and bark out loud.”