Do enjoy "Stolen Future," our March story. We promise this will be the most fun piece you read about art grant writing, a sperm bank heist, and a desert tortoise.
Don’t try this at home,
The Editors
An art opening in Las Vegas. Wine and cheese and harp music. Surreal desert landscapes.
I make land art, said João Alcantara. Out there.
He pointed in some direction.
There is lots of land out there, said the tall woman.
No one is doing much with it, João said. One day they'll build more cities. Or solar panels to power the cities they already built.
The woman nodded.
Are you an artist too? João asked.
In Utah, she said. I play the bass guitar in a Mormon band.
I didn't know they had Mormon bands.
It's just a joke. We're a regular band.
Now João nodded.
The tall woman: In the day I work in a sperm bank.
João: What a job.
It's normal.
Do the porno rooms exist?
They're like time capsules. They have magazines and DVDs.
Are there any strange people that make deposits?
Mostly older men. Don't know if it's strange. Men of a certain age think a lot about their mortality. We learned that in the training.
I see.
Sometimes young guys in their twenties come in. That's sometimes weird. Sometimes they have good reasons like they have Hodgkin's Lymphoma but sometimes they just seem like pervs.
There's a joke about the woman in an elevator at a health clinic. There's a man in there with her who says he's going to the sperm bank on the fifth floor. She asks him how much they're paying for sperm these days. A lot, he says.
The tall woman nodded. João didn't know if it meant she'd heard the joke before or if she wanted him to continue.
João went on: She goes back to the clinic. When she gets there the elevator door is closing and she waves at the people inside to hold the door. When she makes it, someone asks her what floor she's going to.
João and the tall woman simultaneously puffed out their cheeks and held up five fingers.
That's a classic one, she said. But it's not that kind of sperm bank. They freeze their own. It's not donations. It doesn't work like that.
So they don't get paid?
They pay. It's not cheap to freeze your sperm.
João now understood his misunderstanding.
The woman looked past him, maybe at one of the paintings, but kept talking, as if to the landscape.
The deposits come with these gigantic insurance policies.
On their sperm?
People who make deposits do it because soon they'll be impotent for some reason. Chemo, age, forced vasectomy. It sounds kind of pro-lifey, but these deposits are like their kids in a sense. If they spoil or get lost–
When you say gigantic–
I think the standard is a million dollars.
Does it happen often?
The policy is included in the deposit fee.
I mean do the samples spoil or get lost often.
It's never happened at my work. They take it all really seriously.
How are the samples stored?
The freezers are really cold. They have to be below a certain temperature always. They have backup generators for if the power goes out, and backups for the backups.
So it's pretty much impossible.
Pretty much. The only thing I can think of is that something happens in transit.
From the penis to the cup?
From my work to the lab where they do the in vitro. We just do storage. When people want to actually use their sample it gets sent off somewhere else.
So if it gets lost in the mail.
Right.
~
Land art is not a lucrative field, and João was never a day job type of person. He'd been living off of his girlfriend, Elke, for most of his time in Las Vegas, making only symbolic contributions to rent and groceries when he was motivated enough to buy a pile of second-hand clothing at Saver's and sell it to college students at a ludicrous profit. But now Elke had left him and returned to Köln to take care of her sick father. Now he was couchsurfing, not unhappily. Still, if he could snap his fingers and be back in Faro, he would.
João's financial precarity was more justification than inspiration. That came from his amusement at the idea.
He looked up Las Vegas clinics. He booked a free consultation.
~
And if I want to make a withdrawal–
Of course, just give us a call.
And how does it go from there?
You'll let us know what facility will be taking care of the in vitro fertilization. There'll be some paperwork, and then we send your sample to them.
Pretty simple.
Yes, sir.
And what–I'm sorry for all the questions–
It's no problem.
I'm wondering what that actual transfer looks like. You know, if something happens–
It's all a secure process, refrigerated vehicles, airplanes if necessary. We understand the importance of preserving the integrity of the samples.
Good, good.
They sat there in the consultation room for a moment longer.
If you don't have any other questions, I'll take you up to reception and you can discuss appointments and payment.
~
It occurred to João that the money he needed to raise just to make the deposit would be more than enough to get him home, or even to live more comfortably in Las Vegas for a while longer. But now he was having fun.
Once, in his first year living in Las Vegas, he had been awarded a grant from the Red Mountain Institute to build a piece of land art called Damn, Hoover! near Lake Mead. That project was a big success, and the organization's director wrote to João after the opening to be in touch whenever he was ready for the next project. He never did–there was never another project–and now he looked for the man's contact and quickly wrote an artist's statement.
Pacific Desert is, like all land art, an ecological reckoning. Raised on the southern coast of Portugal, the desert was never part of my world. That was until I moved to Las Vegas and it became the entirety of it. Now, the salted water of my beloved Atlantic feels like an entity of another universe. And yet. Not far west of here, just over the mountains, lies another behemoth of an ocean. I can only imagine that for the people of the Pacific the desert that is their neighbor is as abstract and unimaginable as it was to me before my arrival in it. Pacific Desert aims to change that. Pacific Desert is an effort to join these two distant worlds, to bridge the gap between desert and coastline, between cacti and coral, between dry and wet.
All bullshit. João knew his audience.
~
João! Hey brotherman. I read your pitch. Artist statement. Fantastic shit. Moving shit.
I'm happy you liked it.
Yeah, man, cool shit. Really. Anyway. Brass tacks: let's get down to it. How much you gonna need?
I need a truck. I need money for gas. Motels in California.
Sure, sure.
Money for permits. I'll need an assistant. I can find a student who will do it for cheap, but something for him. Food on the trips. Will need some equipment. Ropes. Wheelbarrow.
Good. Reasonable. You're a reasonable guy. Salt of the earth. Let's talk numbers.
Maybe eight thousand.
The sound of heels landing on a desk came through the phone. A leather chair squeaking backwards.
Eight. Good, sure. I can do eight.
That's great. Thank you.
Pleasure, man. The arts are everything.
I should be up front that this project will take a while. Land art takes time, a lot of time.
No worries, bud. I know the schtick. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
~
Six weeks later the money hit João's account. He called the clinic right away and confirmed an appointment for later that week.
When he got to the clinic he filled out paperwork. Reason for deposit: lesbian friends want baby, I want vasectomy. The stereotypical receptionist laughed happily when she read it over. Her voice was sing-song. She chewed gum.
Telling it like it is! she said. You're a funny fella.
He gave her a check for eight thousand dollars.
Soon the nurse, the same one from the consultation, led João to the Sampling Room. The room looked like a therapy office. There was an armchair and a cushioned bench, both wrapped in plastic, which from a certain angle showed streaks of cleaning product. The walls were decorated with beige-scale photos of desert plants. Between the chair and bench was a rack of magazines, their covers occulted by a panel of cardboard.
Are there videos? João asked.
Just the magazines, she said, but I can give you the wi-fi password if you'd like to use your phone.
Don't worry, he said.
The nurse set the sample cup on a side table next to the armchair.
All inside, please, she said.
Then she went away.
João took a magazine at random and looked through it. There was a spread full of women with peanut butter and jelly on their breasts, surrounded by adult men in schoolboy outfits. Another of a blonde woman working naked in an emergency room. João got most caught up reading an article about the all-new 83 Bronco.
When he got through the magazine he put it away, took off his pants, and masturbated to the thought of Elke's older sister, Hella.
He got it all inside and put the cup inside the metal cubby in the wall, as instructed.
Just give us a call when those friends of yours are ready, said the receptionist on his way out.
May be sooner than you think, you know how they like to move fast.
If that's not the truth! Bye bye now!
~
The question, then, was how long to wait. João considered suspiciousness, biology, and the realistic boundaries of his patience. A month would be too suspicious. Two, how boring. Six weeks was a cliché. Seven, then. Or five. Impatience won.
Over the next five weeks, João spent about half an hour, on most days, planning. Mostly that meant just sitting and thinking. One day, during the third week, it meant grilling sardines in Rebar Robby's backyard.
Rebar Robby was a handyman from Las Vegas that João had hired to help with Damn, Hoover! He was a good worker. Very strong, very crazy. He always had a handgun in his waistband. His backyard had chainsaws, leafblowers, a backhoe, and a jackhammer, all just lying around. João liked to play with the jackhammer, which Robby let him do in exchange for grilled sardines. On this day, during the planning period, João told Robby about the plan, about what he was thinking, and what kind of cut Robby could get if they pulled it off.
Kinda fruity for me to help steal your jizz, said Rebar Robby. But fuck it. That's some serious cashola.
~
That was awfully quick! said the receptionist over the phone.
I had a feeling, João said.
Have they picked out a fertilization center? she asked.
I'm sending you a message now with the information. A place in Los Angeles. Dr. Friedman.
Great choice. We've worked with Yoni before.
I want to ask–I feel stupid–I got the vasectomy already, and with the lab in California, I'm just–they won't be happy if something happens.
Don't worry, sir. LA is easy. We send samples there all the time, nothing's ever happened.
How is it transported?
By car, we hire a service. Very professional. There's really nothing to worry about.
And the turnaround time? Just to keep my friends updated. When will it be sent?
Let me just–
Keyboard sounds. Hmms.
We can get it out two days from now, she said. On Thursday. It would be at Dr. Friedman's that afternoon.
Good. Perfect. Thanks very much.
~
Early Thursday. A clear day. Chilly. The morning moon above Red Rock's peaks.
João Alcantara and Rebar Robby sat in Robby's license-plateless Scion boxcar in the clinic's parking lot. João in the driver's seat, Robby shotgun, Robby's pistol in the glove box. On the radio, frantic jazz. Robby's head twitched with the hi-hats.
The receptionist appeared at quarter to eight and went into the clinic. Fifteen minutes later the sign above the front door lit up, and soon after, two nurses went inside, neither the one who'd helped João.
João kept glancing at the clock. Robby kept telling him to be patient. Robby was very patient.
Finally the car. It had to be. A small white van with a big back. It pulled into one of the parking spots in front of the clinic, and a man with a hat, earbuds, and a clipboard got out and went into the clinic.
That's it, Robby said.
João started the car.
The sperm courier reappeared holding a Styrofoam cooler under his arm. It was perfect how the clouds of cold billowed from the back of the van when he opened it and put the cooler inside.
Showtime.
Robby said this earnestly, and it was.
~
Jean, Primm, California, alien solar farm, Nipton Road.
They climbed out through the hills behind the van. The jazz station fuzzed out and João shut off the radio. The road rumbled beneath them.
Soon, said Robby.
They came over a peak and had a long stretch of downhill ahead of them. Several miles ahead was a rest stop. João kept seven seconds between him and Robby and the van. There were two minivans driving slow in the fast lane. Otherwise the road was empty.
Rest Stop 1/2 Mile.
Robby: Go. Now.
João pressed the accelerator. In a moment they were on the van's tail.
Good perfect stay there.
Robby opened the glove box and took out the pistol. He opened the window and rushing air shouted into the car.
Steady now!
Robby leaned out of the window. João turned his head to watch but swerved the car some and snapped his eyes back to his white knuckles at ten and two.
The gunshot killed the sound of the wind.
The van's back tire exploded with a puff of dust.
Rebar Robby. Just perfect. Already back in the car. The window already up.
Sparks flew as the van leaned onto its stump, the metal wheel scraping against the asphalt below.
João was mesmerized by the image. He only noticed how close it had gotten when he was right up on it.
Jesus! Robby yelled.
Robby grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it sideways. They swerved around the car and passed it in the shoulder.
Take the exit, he said.
The van followed them into the rest stop. João and Robby got out. Robby waved at the van as it pulled up next to them with an awful scraping noise. The driver parked and got out. He took out his headphones and put his hands on his head. His goatee looked like it had been lined up in the last half hour.
Jesus man, Robby said to him. You okay?
What the fuck happened? said the driver.
Your tire went, said Robby.
No shit fool, said the driver. Shit fuckin blew the fuck up.
Must've hit a rock or something, said Robby. Desert driving, homie.
The driver took out his phone and pushed down his shades to look at it. Then he held it up to the sky.
Fuck bro, he said. Yall got service?
João took out his phone. He really didn't have service. He shook his head regretfully.
I don't have a phone, said Robby. 5G man. Bad shit.
Good for you bro, the driver said. He shook his head. Just watch the car for me.
He put his phone back to the sky and wandered towards the bathrooms.
Rebar Robby flashed João his ugly smile. All big yellow teeth.
Easy money sardine man.
The driver disappeared behind one of the buildings.
João moved quickly. He opened the latch on the van's back. The cold whooshed at him and when it cleared the cooler was right there, just on the floor. He opened it.
It really was all too easy. The sample just by itself. Clearly labeled: Joao Alcantara.
João took the cup of solid semen and closed the cooler. Then he closed the van door. The driver still somewhere looking for reception.
Vamos, said João.
Let's go find dude, Robby said. Destroy suspicion.
You, João said. He shouldn't recognize me.
Fine. Start the car.
Robby went jogging towards the corner the driver had gone around. João got back in the car and put the sample into the cupholder. He turned on the engine.
Robby got in a minute later and grinned at João.
Dude isn't suspicious at all. He's worried about getting home in time for the Lakers game. Soon we're counting moola.
~
Rebar Robby was asleep. João turned the air on hot and took the exit for Nipton Road.
He drove East a while, past several dilapidated houses surrounded by cars on bricks, air conditioning units, refrigerators.
He turned off Nipton and followed the new road into the Mojave Preserve. By now it was all Joshua trees.
He pulled into the shoulder. Picked up the sample, held it up to the light, gave it a shake. It was at least halfway thawed. It jiggled.
João got out of the car and started walking on the desert pavement through the Joshua trees. He was looking for the right one. He didn't know what that looked like but knew that he'd know it when he saw. With his eyes on the branches he almost tripped over the real answer.
The desert tortoise looked up at him as if to say: do it.
~
An art opening in Lisbon. Wine and cheese and bossa nova. A small room packed full. Everyone there to see the only piece of art in the world that mattered.
Futuro roubado (Stolen Future)
by João Alcantara
The soundless projection runs on a loop against the gallery's back wall. The people watch in rapture: A desert tortoise, its shell covered in human ejaculate, walks slowly across a desert landscape.
-30-
Arel Wiederholt Kassar is a writer from San Francisco, living in Las Vegas. His first novel, The Desert Spring Movement, is forthcoming from Bench Editions in 2026. Find him online at arelwk.com