Sunday, September 11, 2011

The Result of Bribing my Muse

So, as I said this afternoon, it was time to bribe the Muse again by writing some Creative Non-Fiction. - Here it is.

Lobbing Lobsters at Red Lobster

You would think that a woman allergic to seafood would avoid going to a place which specializes in shell fish. Well, my mother is not one of those women. Allow her body or physical limitations to stop her from doing something? Never. Well this particular day she was tempting fate, it decided to give her a solid Bitch Slap (and I do mean that with a CAPITAL B).
So we’re sitting there in the booth, just beside the live lobster tank and she murmurs, as if in true sympathy, “Aww, they tape their hands closed.”
“Claws, ma, they’re called claws… and it’s to stop them from fighting.” I tell her.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever,” Dad replies.
“Well, if I were to go over and snatch one out of the tank and lob it at you, you’d be damn glad they had their claws taped up,” I say.
We all laugh, and then my imagination takes over… hmmm lobbing lobsters at Mom… it holds possibilities.... 

I look around the restaurant and wonder… what would everyone do if I plunge my hands into that frigid water and come up with one lobster in each grip? Only one way to find out… I leap up from my seat and dash to the tank. I push my hands into the icy wetness and snag a lobster in each grasp. I spin around, facing the filled entryway of shocked faces and gasps. I laugh maniacally at them all. Wide-eyes and open mouths greet me.
“Jo, what the hell are you doing?”
I twirl to face my mom, brandishing my wrapped-clawed beauties. I toss one in her general direction. She snatches it out of the air.
“En garde!” I holler. She is learning French, after all.
I hop onto a chair, my lobster swinging in my hand in front of me, ready for her to come at me. She charges, letting out a battle cry that Genghis Khan would envy, and it’s on like Donkey Kong. We slap lobsters together, the wet, hard clank reverberating through the hushed cavernous restaurant. Her lobster’s claws pull against the thin paper keeping my baby’s claws contained. They spring open, snapping and mashing at his opponent. I’m going in closer for the kill, almost there and…

“Jo… hello! Jo – your order?”
I blink my eyes rapidly, bringing the booth back into focus and stare blankly at the waitress.
“Oh, I’ll have the lobster.”

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