not really a scream

    Larry the Lobster
    looks out upon the smear of color
    that is a crowd of human faces.
    his claws wave menacingly
    in a stream of bubbles.
    small children
    shrink back behind
    their moms -
    two smaller lobsters
    react self-protectively:
    2nd and 3rd prize.

    Larry weighs 14 lbs.
    and is older
    than anyone in Ishmael's
    Restaurant today, though
    Harry Melvin,
    who bought two chances,
    is almost as old.

    the customers have bought
    raffle tickets
    to win Larry the Lobster.
    827 chances have been sold.
    the customers await.
    there is tension, expectancy
    and garlic butter in the air.
    some wear bibs.

    some wear Birkenstocks
    or Doc Martens
    and will set Larry free
    if they win him.
    some are undecided
    but know they'll be on tv
    either way.
    they hold numbered tickets:
    the same numbers are painted
    on ping pong balls
    with red nail polish.
    next to the tank, the balls fill
    a large wire barrel
    mounted on a wooden sawhorse stand
    with a crank on one end.

    Ishmael Green spins the drum
    slowly. proudly. the idea, the raffle, the
    balls, the drum, the tv coverage,
    the free advertising, the recipe
    for clams casino, the wine list,
    the name Larry
    were all his idea.
    people spill out into the lobby
    and from there into the parking lot.
    the p.a. system crackles.

    Larry the Lobster
    was born off the coast of Maine
    the same year
    as Charles Bukowski,
    lived through three wars
    numerous police actions
    a dozen major changes of fashion
    and 10 presidents.
    a television reporter
    points her microphone.
    the camera pans.

    two numbers are drawn.
    the crowd moans.
    a woman nods enthusiastically
    her husband's eyes glisten
    and children jump up and down.
    bubbles slowly rise
    in thick clam chowder.
    in the next room salad is tossed.
    water boils.
    steam clouds the windows
    and Ishmael spins the drum.
    savors the moment:
    I was born for this
    thinks Ishmael.

    the rattle of the balls
    audible through the water
    in the big tank
    sounds to Larry
    a little like mating calls
    so long unheard
    and he turns
    tail raised high
    as his number comes
    up.
      Michael McNeilley
      © 1997


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