Stewart ONan - Last Night at the Lobster

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Table of Contents

ALSO BY STEWART ONAN

FICTION

The Good Wife
The Night Country
Wish You Were Here
Everyday People
A Prayer for the Dying
A World Away
The Speed Queen
The Names of the Dead
Snow Angels
In the Walled City

NONFICTION

Faithful (with Stephen King)
The Circus Fire
The Vietnam Reader (editor)
On Writers and Writing, by John Gardner (editor)

for my brother John
and everyone who works the shifts nobody wants

All the vatos and their abuelitas
All the vatos carrying a lunch pail
All the vatos looking at her photo
All the vatos sure that no one sees them
All the vatos never in a poem

Luis Alberto Urrea

Darden Restaurants, Inc., raised its outlook and expects full year 2005 diluted net earnings per share growth in the range of 22% to 27%....

MSN.com

HOURS OF OPERATION

Mall traffic on a gray winters day, stalled. Midmorning and the streetlights are still on, weakly. Scattered flakes drift down like ash, but for now the roads are dry. Its the holidaysa garbage truck stopped at the light has a big wreath wired to its grille, complete with a red velvet bow. The turning lane waits for the green arrow above to blink on, and a line of salted cars takes a left into the mall entrance, splitting as they sniff for parking spots.

One goes on alone across the far vastness of the lot, where a bulldozed mound of old snow towers like a dirty iceberg. A white shitbox of a Buick, the kind a grandmother might leave behind, the drivers-side door missing a strip of molding. The Regal keeps to the designated lane along the edge, stopping at the stop sign, though theres nothing out here but empty spaces, and off in a distant corner, as if anchoring the lot, the Regals destination, a dark stick-framed box with its own segregated parking and unlit sign facing the highwaya Red Lobster.

The Regal signals for no ones benefit and slips into the lot like an oceanliner finally reaching harbor, glides by the handicapped spots straddling the front walk, braking before it turns and disappears behind the building, only to emerge a few long seconds later on the other side, way down at the very end, pulling in beside a fenced dumpster as if the drivers trying to hide.

For a minute it sits with the ignition off, snow sifting down on the roof and back window, the heated glass seeming to absorb each crystal as it hits. Inside, framed by the bucket seats, a gold-fringed Puerto Rican flag dangles from the rearview mirror. The driver bends to a flame, then nods back astronautlike against the headrest and exhales. Again, and then once more, as the smoke lingers in a cloud over the backseat.

The man flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, paranoid. Its too early and hes too old to be getting stoned easily thirty-five, double-chinned, his skin cocoa, a wiry goatee and sideburnsor maybe its his tie that makes him look strange as he guides the lighter down to the steel bowl. He could be a broker, or a floor associate from Circuit City taking his coffee break, except the nametag peeking from beneath his unzipped leather jacket features a garnished lobster above his name: MANNY. In his lap, tethered to one belt loop, rests a bristling key ring heavy as a padlock.

More than anyone else, Manny DeLeon belongs here. As general manager its his responsibility to open, a task hes come to enjoy. While Red Lobster doesnt license franchises, over the years hes come to consider this one hisor did until he received the letter from headquarters. He expected theyd be closed for renovations like the one in Newington, the dark lacquered booths and mock shoreline decor replaced by open floor space and soft aqua pastels, the Coastal Home look promised on the company website. With their half-timbered ceilings and dinged-up fiberglass marlin and shellacked driftwood signs for the restrooms, they were way overdue. Instead, headquarters regretted to inform him, a company study had determined that the New Britain location wasnt meeting expectations and, effective December 20th, would be closing permanently.

Two months ago Manny had forty-four people working for him, twenty of them full-time. Tonight when he locks the doors, all but five will lose their jobs, and one of those fiveunfairly, he thinks, since he was their leaderwill be himself. Monday the survivors will start at the Olive Garden in Bristol, another fifteen minutes commute, but better than whats waiting for Jacquie and the rest of them. Hes spent the last few weeks polishing letters of recommendation, trying to come up with nice things to saynot hard in some cases, nearly impossible in others.

He could still take Jacquie if she came to him and asked. Not really, but its a lie he wants to believe, so he repeats it to himself. Maybe it was true a couple of months ago, but not now. Jacquie said herself it was better this way, and, practically, at least, he agreed. After tonight he wont ever see her again. It should be a relief. An ending. Then why does he picture himself begging her at closing to go with him, or does he just need her forgiveness?

He exhales a last time and taps the spent bowl into the ashtray, stows the pipe in the console at his elbow, cracks the window an inch, flips open his cigarettes and lights one, blowing out a curling smoke screen over the dope. He closes his eyes as if he might sleep, then pushes back the cuff of his jacket to check his watch. All right, he mutters, as if someones bugging him, then slowly opens the door and rocks himself out, the cigarette clenched in his teeth. Though theres no one around, hes careful to lock the car.

Theres no wind, just some overlapping road noise from beyond the neat picket of pine trees, flakes falling softly on the cracked asphalt. As he walks across the lot, a crow takes off from the loading dock like an omen. He stops in midstep and watches it glide for the pines, then keeps going, palming the keys, sorting through them deliberately, the cigarette sticking from a corner of his mouth like a movie wiseguy. When he finds the one he needs, he takes a last hit before ditching the butt in a tall black plastic ashtray shaped like a butter churn beside the back door (noting on the ground several butts from last night hell have to police later).

Inside its dark as a mine. He props the door open with a rubber stop, then chops on the lights and waits as the panels hopscotch across the kitchen ceiling. The brushed steel tables shine like mirrors. The brick-colored tile is spotless, mopped by Eddie and Leron last night before closing. Eddies coming to the Olive Garden; at least Mannys able to take the little guy with him. Leron can always find another joband Leron drinks, Leron has car problems, while the Easy Street van drops Eddie off and picks him up right on time, rain or shine. And while Manny would never admit this, since theyre friends, Eddie, being eager to please, is that much easier to boss around.

Walking along the line, he passes his hand like a magician over the Frialators and the grill to make sure theyre off. The ice machines on and fullgood. He crosses to the time clock and punches in before he hangs up his jacket, checks to make sure the safe is secure, then pushes through the swinging door to the dining room.

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