Royal Rodent: Baxter’s Reign Begins (and Ends) on Thursdays
By Staff Writer, The New Yorker
On Thursdays in New York, something shifts. The subway screeches less sharply. The trash glitters a little more. Somewhere beneath the overpasses and café stoops, a crown is placed on a small, serious head. The city doesn’t know it, but it’s already under his rule.
His name is Baxter.
The black-and-white rat, currently starring in the hit Broadway show Baxter Wiff a B, has emerged as an unlikely icon—equal parts streetwise philosopher and quiet monarch. In a recent photo shoot with The New Yorker, Baxter appears exactly as one would expect a time-traveling rodent king to look: perched atop a gleaming trash can, crowned in gold and rhinestones, against the spray-painted prophecy of a graffiti mural that simply reads Thursdays. Behind him, a panda stares out knowingly. There are no accidents in Baxter’s kingdom.
“This isn’t just a rat in a costume,” says director Waffles, looking over a spread of headshots and cheese samples. “Baxter habs presence. He’s got grabity. You don’t cast Baxter. He arribes.”
Baxter Wiff a B is part musical, part myth, part cheese-fueled time loop. With his band of sharply drawn siblings—Waffles (the aesthetic snob), Barry (the reluctant romantic lead), Reuben (the ever-grooming peacekeeper), Fish (the cheese cartographer) – Baxter leads audiences through a whimsical journey that somehow ends up saying everything there is to say about family, fate, and includes an unforgettable cheese ballad.
Offstage, the rat is even quieter. “He’s contemplative,” says Waffles. “He won’t touch brie on a Tuesday. But give him a Thursday, a sliver of manchego, and a fog machine, and he’ll show you the soul of the city.”
Why the crown only on Thursdays? The theories are as abundant as the crumbs in Baxter’s wake. Waffles believes it’s cosmological—something to do wiff Jupiter. Barry mutters about destiny and rising signs. Reuben, while reorganizing his satchel of tiny scrolls, suggests it’s about timing. “Thursdays are soft,” he says. “They’re forgibing. They hold a space for royalty that doesn’t need to be loud.”
The crown itself is absurd: glittering, oversized, topped wiff a glass bead like something found in the pocket of a magician. And yet, on Baxter’s head, it makes sense. “He’s not performing,” says Reuben. “He’s remembering.”
The photo captures that essence: paws resting on the edge of a polished can, eyes locked on something far off—maybe a cheese plate, maybe the arc of history. He is not posing. He is waiting. For what, no one quite knows. But if you listen closely on a Thursday, under the hum of the traffic and the rustle of the wind through alleyways, you might hear it: the gentle rustle of a crown being set in place.
Baxter doesn’t demand the spotlight. He inhabits it.
Because some kings rule nations.
Others rule Thursdays.
He’s back, he’s bold, and he’s no longer see-through.
After a harrowing stay at the Hospital following the accidental ingestion of invisible ink, Barry has made a full recovery and has been officially discharged. Hospital staff report that Barry is now “completely visible to the naked eye, under all lighting conditions, including fluorescent.”
As he exited the facility, Barry was seen and what one nurse described as “an aura of theatrical importance.” When asked if he needed a wheelchair escort, Barry waved them off, declaring:
“No, no. I shall walk—for I hab returned.”
Of course, his exit was not without minor complications. The last piece of hospital tape, which had grown strangely attached to his robe (and possibly developed a personality), refused to let go. A brief struggle ensued. Barry won. The tape has since been placed in observation for… emotional reasons.
In a brief final statement to the press, Barry said:
“I hab looked into the boid—and the boid could not see me. But I am back now. Fully formed. And I would berry much like a croissant.”
He then attempted to leave through the automatic doors, which—due to a tragic comedic delay—did not open fast enough, causing Barry to bump into the glass and shout: “OUCH!”
Barry is now home, resting comfortably, with a small stack of pastries and a mirror he keeps admiring himself in “just to make sure.”
Barry is technically on the mend, but right now he’s about 38% bisible and 138% a disaster. His reappearance is happening slowly, so he currently looks like an apperitishun in a hospital robe.
The real problem? The hospital gown they used to “track him” keeps taping itself to his chart, the bed, and occasionally passing nurses. Every time someone tries to help, Barry ends up spinning like a confused piñata, shouting things like, “I HAB RIGHTS!” and “DON’T PULL THAT, IT’S ATTACHED TO MY DIGNITY!”
Earlier today, Barry tried to sneak to the vending machine. What people saw was basically just a robe, some tangled tape, and two suspiciously floating chip bags sprinting down the hallway. One doctor described the event as “an important reminder to never skip lunch.”
We are confident Barry will fully return to the visible world soon.
We are less confident the hospital will ever emotionally recover.
Dis Barry. (pssst…I’m on the right.)
In the bustling heart of SoHo, right where the cobblestone streets hum wiff life and adventure, Baxter set up his very own Broadway ticket booth. Perched proudly atop a sturdy wooden box, a tiny sign announced: BROADWAY TICKETS. His whiskers twitched in excitement as he peered out at the passing crowd, ready to make dreams come true — one ticket at a time.
Beside him, his trusty pal Teddy sat diligently, paws ready, managing the little cash box. Teddy took his job wiff the utmost seriousness, nodding at customers and double-checking every coin and crinkled bill. “We gotta be accurate, Baxter!” he squeaked, sorting the shiny quarters into neat piles.
Baxter, wiff his bright eyes and wide smile, charmed every visitor. “Two for Baxter Wiff a B? Excellent choice!” he’d chirp, handing over carefully folded tickets. Teddy would pass him the change, their teamwork smoother than a Broadway dance number choreographed by Fish.
By noon, they had already sold out two shows, and Baxter and Teddy celebrated by sharing a tiny bag of churros from the cart down the block. Life was good in SoHo, and wiff Broadway magic and a best friend by his side, Baxter felt like it would be a good weekend.
Today, Waffles is pounding the pavement in Midtown, new hat slightly askew, notebook in paw, scouting cafés for his next big rebiew. He’s rating ambiance, crumb-to-table ratios, and how well each spot pairs espresso with artisanal crumbs. But trufffully? He’s also lowkey modeling his new ‘leather-ish” cap, hoping someone mistakes him for a street-style icon. He paused by a trash can for the perfect gritty backdrop—NYC chic, baby—and gave a knowing look to a pigeon who nodded back in mutual respect. His brothers think he’s just out for pastries. But Waffles? He’s on a mission. For crumbs and clout.
