Beach Dream And Lunger Head

crabs circleA plate of cooked crabs. Ok. What/Where is the problem with that? The beach was screeching. Two horseshoe crabs were half buried in the foam left by the churning waves. Horseshoe crabs are a freak-show. They have blue blood. Later I turned over the crabs and one was empty of its self, the other looked as though someone had stepped on it, cracked it, broke its back. What a way to go, I thought. Crushed by the rushing crowd during a hot beach day. Did they kill the horseshoe crab out of spite, fear, or just plan curiosity about how life ends–and wanting to control the moment? Nomatter. I had just woke up from a dream. Ironically I dreamt about crabs on the beach. But I slept too long. Luckily I caked on lots of lotion, 30-weight or so. I knew with the lunger-head I was carrying all day that a quick nap on the beach would do me good. Just don’t want to leave it/moi looking like a fresh cooked lobster. Not an appealing site to watch a middle-aged lobster man leave both his hang-over and his skin on the shores after prolonged exposure to someone’s sun-god. But again. Nomatter. I slept for about three hours. It did moi good. I was finally awake from the night before–took all day to get here. To get where? I got up in the morning puking and barfing and coughing my lungs out. Hence: lunger-head. The head part aching. Who knows what I consumed to get me here. My only worry about it all was the tip I left Shelly. Another waste of money. If only I had a tad more of it. I would tip the world. Tip it to leave me the hell alone. Except for these waves. Or was the bartenders name Diane? No. I think her name was Jackie. Yeah, that’s it. Jackie and she worked with someone named Diane. Remember the song? I remember the song. It was a hit the first time I slept on the beach to rid myself of lunger-head. How long ago? Forty years or so? The same beach, probably the same drinks, the same damn females–but this time my body was prepared. Well, it was almost prepared. And that’s not even what I want to worst-write about today, dear worst-reader. Indeed. While I was recovering from a lingering night, taking a late afternoon sleep-over next to the pungent and sometimes sweet but always green Atlantic, I had a dream. It was a dream about Beautiful Swimmers. That’s why, upon waking up and seeing a plate of cooked crabs next to me, it could only mean one thing. I had missed something while sleeping. Something happened around me and my only evidence to that happening were the crabs. But do I need to know what happened? I could deal with my curiosity just as I dealt with my lunger-head. Rid myself of it. But the crabs. Who brought them. I remember talking with Diane about eating some crabs. The perfect fix for a drunken night–but not so good for breakfast with a new-found mate. Maybe it was Jackie and not Diane. Either one saw to the pain that would come the next morning but they couldn’t have known that I would sleep it off on the beach. Unless I told them. Unless I told them everything. I told them about all the money I had recently stolen, I mean stashed at my mother’s house who I was visiting after a world tour of beaches–and robbing banks. They knew I was most recently in Marrakesh and before that Mauritius and before that the Maldives. I remember the girls working their shift, waiting for it to end, so as to take advantage of all I was offering, saying they would bring me some crabs. But when I reached over the crabs were still warm. Baking in the sun-god’s light? No. They were freshly cooked. And I hate butter on crabs. I told them specifically that I eat crabs with a little apple vinegar and extra spices. They delivered them to me on the beach with butter? That won’t do at all. Had I taught them sin already? The thought occurred to me once or twice, just as I was about to leave, to leave the plate there. It wasn’t mine, didn’t belong to me. It belonged NOT even to the ocean. These were the gems of the brackish waters of my Bay, beloved as she is, but I would leave them because they are not mine. What a sacrifice. For they are contaminated by butter. I COULD leave them. Seriously. As though the cook had cooked them after they had died. Out of spite I would go out and buy some fresher ones. For sure. That’s the ticket. With all that stolen, bank heisted money. And while doing just that I’ll figure out the sequence of this dream–especially the part about robbing. Maybe.

Rant on.