The exercise:
Write about: lobsters.
The below was one side of my morning. On the other was blue skies and sunshine. Each had their moments, though the below won out pretty much every time I was at the main beach today.
Back to starting at 7 tomorrow morning. With the long weekend during my last shift, I've started at 6 for my last five work days (I work 6 to 5 on weekends, 7 to 6 during the week). Ready for that extra hour of sleep.
Mine:
One of the local groups had their annual Lobster on the Beach fundraiser last night. Lobsters were flown in from Atlantic Canada, tents were set up in the park next to the main beach (right next to the washrooms, which had me a little concerned about how they would be this morning... but they were fine). It ran from 6 pm until 1 am and was sold out (I think I saw somewhere that there were 150 tickets).
Anyway. I'm sure it was a lovely event and yadda yadda yadda blah blah whatever.
My problem with it? When I showed up to clean the washrooms this morning there was a pile of about twenty garbage bags waiting for me.
That stunk of lobster.
And a lot of them were ripped and leaking.
Normally I'd leave something like that for whoever is doing the town garbage run that day, but now that we're past the busy season they've stopped doing runs on the weekend. And I wasn't about to let that sit there until tomorrow morning, especially with the sun going to be on it by early afternoon.
So I got half the bags on my truck (dripping I don't want to know what all over it), cleaned the washrooms, and drove to the nearest town dumpster and got rid of them. Then I came back to get the rest.
At this point I was already pretty pissed off. I knew the truck was going to stink like lobster for the rest of the day (at best). And I didn't really think it should have been left up to me to take their garbage away (I wasn't told it would be at any rate).
When I got back there was a crew working on packing up the tables and chairs and tents and cleaning up whatever was left to clean up. I will gladly admit to glaring at anyone in sight. Then a guy came over to add another bag to the pile.
"Sorry, I tried not to make too big a mess for you guys."
Guys? It's just me.
"Yeah," I said, without really looking at him, "the bags ripped."
"Well, there's whole lobsters."
I think I probably glared at him at this point as he walked away.
The event is called Lobsters on the Beach. Of f'n course there are whole lobsters. What were you expecting to be throwing away? Moose carcasses? Why would you not (at least) double bag that stuff? Or better yet, I don't know, maybe use heavy duty bags?
At the very minimum maybe don't stuff them so full that a) I hurt my back lifting them into the truck, and b) the bags are tearing apart because they cannot support that much weight.
Anyway. Dumped the second load. Hosed out the back of the truck. Mopped the back of the truck. Sprayed odor destroyer on the back of the truck.
Could still smell lobster in the back of the truck.
I did not return to the main beach until I was absolutely certain they would be done packing up and be long gone. No good would have come of me seeing them again.
3 comments:
Enjoy the extra hour of sleep tonight!
There's a definite tone of insincerity in your writing today (I'm looking at "I'm sure it was a lovely event..." especially) which makes think that, for some inexplicable reason, you weren't happy about the lobster party. I get the distinct impression your opinion wouldn't change had you been invited to the party first, too. However: well done on getting it all cleared up, and I (at least) appreciate that you decided to clean it up rather than leave out in the sun for the garbage collectors. And I'm sorry that there weren't any whole moose in the bags for you, to offset the lobsters :) The lobster-partyers (is it called a lobster-boil? Or is that a Down South term?) seem like a fairly inconsiderate bunch, but you do seem to find that when things are being done "for charity" -- it seems like the organisers expect everyone to do extra for free, without necessarily asking first.
And as final note, I now know what to get you for Christmas this year: lobster-scented aftershave :)
Lobsters
It was late afternoon; the sun was low in the sky and the clouds were already tinged with red and pink. The trees by the river were casting long shadows over the fast-running water and their leaves twitched and hissed in the breeze. The shadows danced and the fish in the river flicked back and forth, always seeking the darkest, most secure point. The dull roar of a motorcycle engine crescendoed and then stopped. In the silence that followed the pinking of the engine starting to cool was like a sharp-clawed creature picking its way across rocky ground. The smell of roasted coffee drifted across the water from the far bank, from somewhere or someone unseen.
There was a thud and then a sound like someone fighting to put a duvet cover on a duvet. A gasp, what might have been someone getting kicked in the stomach and then a rasping noise as though something heavy was being dragged.
Bill and Ben appeared by the side of the river, followed rather more slowly by the Henchling, who was (indeed) dragging a burlap sack behind them, the sack cinched shut by a rope as thick as the Henchling's arm. Bill looked out at the water, and smiled.
"Stop it," said Ben. "Smug isn't nice."
"I can say I told you so, can't I?"
"No."
Bill continued to smile anyway, while the Henchling dragged the bag to the water's edge, and then pushed it in. The river was shallow here and the water came up less than 3 centimetres around the sack.
"Further out," said Bill. "You'll have to get wet, I'm afraid." The look on the Henchling's face was a cross between resignation and despair. "Oh grow up," he continued. "Ben and I have both had to do this kind of thing when we learning the trade."
Ben nodded. "Do you remember when we had to wade through what turned out to be an amniotic sac?"
"I've still got the suit I was wearing. It's completely solidified and smells like turnips."
"Lucky," said Ben. "Mine got lost when I took it to the dry-cleaners."
"Dissolved in the wash?"
"Exploded. They found the washing machine in two pieces in the next town."
They paused, contemplating the past, and then Bill frowned.
"Aren't there river-lobsters here?" The Henchling, already waist deep and four metres from shore, tried to turn to see if Bill was joking. The fast-running water pulled their legs out from under them, and with a splash they were pulled downstream by the current.
"They're still holding the rope," said Ben happily. "Good work, Hench!" he called to the disappearing Henchling.
"No, it's not river-lobsters," said Bill. "It's fluorescent-green algae."
"That's the benign stuff right? Not like the red-tide bugs?"
"-ish," said Bill. "You wouldn't want to swim in it."
Lounging in piles
Over and under each other
Biding their time
Slowly losing hope as
Their numbers decrease daily
Every new shipment
Resigns themselves to their fate:
Supper.
Greg - lobster-scented aftershave. My goodness, aren't you the funny one? :P
Ah, Ben and Bill. Good to hear from them again. And their severely abused henchling...
Morganna - a great acrostic summing up life in the restaurant tank for lobsters. Poor fellas...
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