Lobster Boil

 

 

I lived with my Dad from the time I was seventeen until I was twenty-three. I was drinkin pretty heavy for most of that time, and it was anybody’s guess who I’d be draggin home after a night out. My dad tolerated it as best he could; wasn’t much he could have done I s’pose. Thankfully most of the early half of the Eighties is shrouded in some sort of brown-out for me. I am spared some of the more painful memories. However one incident rises from the fog of that time with surprising clarity. It is a flash of vivid images and sounds that has stayed with me to this day and makes me smile even now.

I had stopped by the Eighth Day after work to lay my heavy burden down and find solace in strong drink and bad company. As was customary for me I left about the time that the bar closed for the night. I don’t remember anything about the night at the bar, but I remember fairly well the events that transpired immediately afterwards.

I left the bar with three companions – a midget named Chester, an Indian named Angel, and a drag queen named Cindy Lee who was rather notorious for her temper. We were all fairly well acquainted by Eighth Day standards, meaning we had seen each other at the bar before and had at least one or two drinks together. I apparently had suggested this particular night that we all go to my house and cook up something good to eat. I had some money that I had stolen from my dad that day, and I was driving. Nobody at that bar was ever gonna pass up a free meal unless they were one of the speed freaks, and they were too opportunistic to pass up a chance to case someone’s house. This group, however, was for the most part just friendly losers who liked to drink at the place.

We hopped in my truck and headed to the Old Town Tom Thumb. At that time it was one of the few large grocery stores that was open round the clock. It was in the middle of the Village – the largest apartment community in the country at that time – and it had a reputation as a place for straight singles to cruise one another, so there was usually a healthy crowd in there after the bars closed. I’m sure we made a pretty picture as we fell into the store in search of victual supplementation. We were wandering about awaiting the voice of whatever muse controls such impulses when I happened upon the lobster tank. I was inspired. I grabbed the tongs and snatched up every one of the lost old souls that lay in the water. I filled two large brown paper bags and headed for checkout.

I was driving an old 63 Chevy Suburban at this time. It was OD green and had a dumptruck engine in it. It wouldn’t go very fast, but it would pull stumps. And it had character. The area behind the front seat was devoid of any seats, so whoever ended up back there had to just hold on or fall about as I careened down the road with one eye open. As we headed home I turned on the radio and lit up. Cindy was lying on an old blanket trying to pass out, having decided apparently that it was easier to remain recumbent than to fight the bucking floor and stay erect. She was quickly out. Chester and Angel were talking amongst themselves while I drove and paid only enough attention to me to keep the joint circulating between the three of us. The lobsters were somewhere in the back. I had entrusted them to Chester’s care.

The joint was finished, and we were about halfway to my house when a sudden, gut-wrenching, toe-curling scream filled the truck and struck me sober.. A lobster came flying past my head and crashed into the windshield with a crunch that was audible over the sound of the stereo. I was all over the road trying to regain my composure before I tried to look over my shoulder to see what had transpired.

Chester and Angel had decided that it would be cute to place live lobsters all over Cindy Lee’s sleeping body. I can only imagine what it must have been like for her to come to with wet, foot-long insects crawling over her. The boys were lucky that she didn’t kill them for their prank. She was cowering in the back of the truck like a cornered baboon. Screaming and baring her teeth at all of us. Lobsters were all over the place and a couple of them hadn’t survived the episode. I picked the lifeless form of one crustacean off of my dashboard where it had lodged against the glass and handed it to Angel with instructions to gather up the other stragglers and get them into the sacks once more. Cindy eventually rejoined us, but she was in shock and didn’t shut up til we got to my house in Irving.

My father opened the front door as we approached. He was accustomed to my carousings at this point, but he still stared for quite awhile before he stepped aside and sleepily shuffled off to his bedroom and shut the door. He didn’t emerge for the rest of the night to the best of my recollection. We made quite a mess of the kitchen. There was lobster juice and bits of shell everywhere. We had a great time. Cindy eventually laughed it off, but I could tell that the incident had shaken her. There was plenty of booze and smoke, and a fog descended upon us as dawn approached.

Chester died a couple of years after that from AIDS, I think. Cindy Lee may be dead now. The last time I saw her she looked pretty bad. She was always one of the constants in my life around the bars. She began to lose her mind a few years ago, or so it seemed. I haven’t seen her in quite some time. She may have wandered back to Arkansas where she came from. I’ve seen Angel a time or two out walking his dogs in the neighborhood. We smile and wave at each other, but we don’t mix much. Such is the nature of my acquaintances from that period. There is a glance of recognition, but it fades and we go on our way. So much uncertainty in our memories.