Lobsterfest

“I … I … don’t even know what to say to that. It’s really none of your business, but no, no I’m not interested in taking it in the ass.”

He looked pensive. I knew he was mulling over what he could say to persuade me. He’d played all his cards and now he needed his grand finale, his last hope, la piece de resistance. Suddenly his face lit up with a smile as wide as his ex-wife’s hot tub. He’d figured it out.

“You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna take you to Lobsterfest.”

“I’m sorry … what? Wait, like Red Lobster’s Lobsterfest?” I was confused. Or was I on acid? That must be it. I was on acid and I’d fallen down a garlic shrimp scampi and cheese biscuit black hole.

“Hell yeah, that’s the one, girl! Lobsterfest! Me and you. This weekend.” He chuckled to himself and walked away, not even caring if I was in or if I was out. He sat back down at the table across the room and kept shaking his head and laughing to himself as if Lobsterfest was the funniest idea he’d ever had.

As I sat there alone, dissed by this Leon Redbone-sound alike and waiting for my friends to come back, I started to laugh too. Because, really, what’s more ridiculous than a first date at Lobsterfest?

“What’s so funny?” One of my friends asked.

“That man over there—he’s gonna take me to Lobsterfest this weekend,” I motioned to my suitor. He smiled and tipped his hat at the group.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Brown?”

To this day, I still I have no idea. Not one clue. But even now, as I conjure up his face, I can almost hear the shell cracking and taste the succulent, drawn butter.