and, some more. i'll go back and title these later

i drove around.  looking for a way to the beach, not finding it.  when, at last i found it, there was no parking. and i didn't really care, didn't even want to see it.  i'll go back later, i said to myself.  i didn't really care about it except sunset, i needed the sunset.  maybe eat something.

i have eaten a couple of times at the little place next door to the motel.  once at the place across the street.  this doesn't seem an exploration kind of place.  the timbre is fine, legitimate, but without much range.  so the place next door and across the street seemed to offer representative, if not popular options.  i had tried to go to the popular place and there was a waiting list, but it didn't seem worth the wait.

i realize this is a fairly common trait for me.  i will wait.  but i don't like to.  for example:  when crispy cream donuts came to my town it was a huge deal.  people would wait in line for an hour to buy donuts.  i was never one of those people.  i run the math, i don't want it that bad.

i did wait in line for the freedom train when i was a kid.  i still remember that.  it was like the carnival coming to town in the thirties and the whistle stop presidential campaigns and yoyo contests before the old serial westerns and a myriad of other americana bonding events.  it was just the one available for my time and place.  and in a sense, i knew it would be that for me, that's why i wanted to go.

i drove by a place that had lazy in the name.  here, this'd work.  it was perfect.  a slightly commercialized version of the places i'd been, along the gulf coast throughout my childhood. maybe that's what was wrong with this place.  it seems too familiar, but different.  too much like places i'd been that had more contrast and drama.  this was beautiful.  safe.  closed in.

the, i can't help it, at-this-point-i-have-to-tell-you-it-was-a-flamingo pointed the way to the big outdoor menu:  walk up, read, decide before going in what's wanted, don't waste anybody's time menu.   three things looked good to me.

conch, i'd had bahamian conch chowder the first night.  this offered conch chowder and fritters for dunking.

grouper, which i like, generally.

or there was the pot, the one everybody loves.

well that was too good to pass up.  i'm mean, if your going to bother to come to this restaurant here's what we think you should get, and look, we still give you choices:  oysters and clams or either alone.  i mean i simplified it.  the original resembled things from elementary school in complexity and diction.

i had found the perfect place.

the inside reminded me of a place i went with my mom as a kid, called moby dick's. honestly i don't remember it well.  it was a bar.  my mom went out to a bar with her friends and she took me. her friends all thought it was funny.  i liked it, but then any time i mentioned it she got kind of weird.

do you want to sit inside or outside?

outside.

i order unsweet tea and ask about the pot.  they steam those shells in beer.  that sounds good, simple, with celery, onions, old bay.  all oysters, i like oysters.

you know your how to shuck your own oysters?

no.  oh, maybe i shouldn't get that.

i'll show you how.  it's easy, she says.  something in the way she says it makes me think of hard northern winters.  like maybe it isn't going to be easy after all.  maybe this thought showed on my face, because she said this:

if there are some you can't get we'll help you.

table across from me there were three roughly blonde women having drinks.  one of them starts screaming violently at what seems from her tone and demeanor to be a football game.  i look around to see how i missed the tv.  the table of women immediately in front of the tv, did not have my same reaction.  they thought she was yelling at them.  maybe.  i'm not sure i believe that, but maybe.

she's a cheese head.  her friends are glad she didn't bring her cheese head.

they left shortly after.  An old couple came in and sat down at the same table.

is this sun too much for you?

no.  we love it.  the man, he went further, he upped the ante:  we don't get enough up north so we're going to just soak it in.

ten minutes later they moved to another table.

i had an optimal amount of bright shade.  the air flow and temperature were also pleasantly like the beach town i grew up with.

an enormous dragonfly.
buzz...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

he is the color of tarnished silver, but gleaming.  his metallic quality doesn't seem possible;  i actually consider whether he might be fake.  clearly i am meant to notice.  ok, got it.  dragonfly. daydreaming.  that didn't seem right.  illusions, no.  all the associations i have for dragonfly, fail.


with martial movements, sharp, bright
this dragonfly, here
directs my future journey



the oysters came.  she showed me how to shuck.

she brought me drawn butter and lemon wedges.  what else do you like with them?

i don't really know, i said.

i'll bring you an assortment to try.  see what you like.

turns out horse radish.  pop open the shell, wipe the knife.  cut the oyster loose, dunk it in butter, put it back in the shell.  squeeze on some lemon, dollop on some horse radish, eat the oyster with the fork.  don't resist the urge to drink the remaining buttery horse radish slurry.

there were at least two women at the table behind me.  they were talking about her canadian clients needing to buy supplemental insurance to travel to the u.s.

there was something very rewarding about having to work for my oysters.  shells, enough to start thinking about a future driveway, they seemed so many.  at some point the old couple left.  one of the women at the other table had gotten louder.  a few minutes later she came up to me, slightly startled me, her face so quickly in my face, her eyeliner so hard and unflattering.

is that the pot?  she asked.

yes, with only oysters, i answer.

well.  is it good?  would you order it again?

yes.  it's very good.

do they open them for you?

no.

she looks slightly shocked.

but it isn't hard to do.


she seems to want more from me.  judging my veracity, perhaps.