Confessions of a Lobster Killer
on 1/10/2009 (0)
It all started on a wind whipped wintery day in Maine…
It’s only been a few days since I’ve been able to talk about it…I mean talk openly and soberly, and not in a rummied up state at some sleazy corner ginhouse. I kept my secret from my wife and kids for years, although I think my youngest, Valencia, knew my secret, because it’s always kids that see things that adults try to hide.
I am a lobster killer.
Yes, you heard me. You read that right. I am a lobster killer. It all started at the Copacabana Club, simply because it almost always does. I mean, with a name like Copacabana Club, where else would something so tropical in flavor start? Anyway, there was this tank full of rock Maine lobsters, I mean the primo blue banded kind, and I instantly knew what had to be done. Something welled up inside me. It was as if it were programmed into me just like the way it's programmed into you to check your car door 3 or 4 times after you’ve locked it just to make sure that you locked it even though you know you did anyhow, and I took the first plunge. I claimed the life of my first crustacean, and it’s been like popping green M&M's ever since.
I just can’t seem to get enough of it.
I try to get the prized Maine lobsters at the Pawtucket fish market, although Canadian will do if I’m jonesin’ and in a pinch. I’ll poach 3 or 4 on a good day, 7 or 8 on a bad. I try to hide the shells, but I always miss a crusher claw or swimmerette or two. It just comes with the territory, I guess. I keep telling myself that this will be the last one…the last one…but I know better. The fishermen, they know how to play me, you know. They are the enablers. They keep me hooked up. Damn them all to hell.
So that’s that. I know that admitting to a problem is the first step, but how it gets any better from this point out is still a fur piece away for me. In the mean time, I’ll continue tossing back sea roaches until the money bleeds dry. It just has to be that way for now. That's just the way it is.
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