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Peace, Love and Crabs I was waiting tables at Joe’s Crab Shack on a rainy Wednesday afternoon when my life changed forever. The whole affair began eighteen years earlier when we were high school seniors assigned to sit next to each other for the commencement ceremony because her last name was Hanigan and mine was Haplin. The daily rehearsals brought us together at two o’clock; that and the unpleasant smell that exuded like clockwork from Bobby Hampson’s body during the humid Mississippi afternoon. Jenna Hanigan was also attending Rice University and we began dating when her first college boyfriend cheated on her with her dorm master, and we married our sophomore year after we found out that condoms are not supposed to be worn after a decade of sitting in one’s wallet in the warm weather with the heat of a lonely body. I dropped out of school before the baby was born and got a job at a local hardware store on the outskirts of Houston while Jenna kept her softball scholarship and finished college, eventually earning her nursing degree. At nights I delivered pizzas and after a couple years Jenna was pregnant again. I hadn’t seen my ex-wife in more than a decade, but I had seen pictures of our daughters by befriending them on Facebook under the guise of being the steamy teenage model I found in a Mexican magazine at the check cashing place. I could recognize my two baby girls anywhere and here they were sitting before me, braless, with Bobby Hampson, at a booth below a shark tooth and a surfboard with a sizable portion missing from the corner where the fins were. The chunk was carved in the kitchen with a crab cracker to give the ramshackle restaurant a more rugged feel, like the Outback Steakhouse next door, which always attracted more diners and got awarded a better inspection score than our trendily decrepit seafood dump. Daphne and Jackie sat across from Bobby Hampson. I knew it was him; I could recognize that smell anywhere. There was someone else, a young child at Bobby’s side tearing the foam from one of the plastic booths. I think it was a boy. I didn’t bother to warn him about the asbestos. We both had been reckless as children, but as teenagers our girls inherited their mother’s promiscuity. I could tell by the necklace bouncing on Jackie’s cleavage that she was no longer a virgin. Daphne was struggling with acne, but this only further verified her sexual urges. She was producing more testosterone than most boys her age, even though her face looked like a pepperoni pizza. If I weren’t prohibited by the restraining order to speak with them I would order them both to go home and change their clothes. “Welcome to Joe’s Crab Shack,” I said. I was sweating as I began my spiel. “My name is Harold—Darrel—uhh’m going to be your server today. Would you care for something to drink?” The girls giggled at my error and thought it was because I was looking at their boobs—which I was. They shouldn’t be in public dressed like sluts. There was nothing I could do about it. “Well Harold-Darryl,” Daphne said. “I’d like a big iced tea, with large ice cubes and a big straw to suck it all down with—” “Daphne,” Bobby snapped. I could see sweat stains growing underneath his arms and I tried to hold my nose without him knowing it. “One iced-tea,” I wrote in my notebook, “and for you ma’am?” Jackie had a nose piercing that I had never noticed. It was very small, and I wondered if she had done it recently and what her mother thought about it. “I’ll have a cream soda or cold lemonade,” she said. “We don’t have cream soda,” I told her. “Not yet,” she said as both girls erupted into laughter like an estrogen volcano; their boobs the lava flow and their lips the ash fall. I turned to Bobby. “Can I get you anything sir?” “Diet Coke please,” he said. This was typical, as if those reduced calories in the beverage would offset the enormous amount of crabs he was about to eat. “And a Dr. Pepper for my li’l monster here.” I walked into the kitchen, beneath the wood carving that read: Peace, love and crabs. I had a feeling that my girls knew a little bit about all three—if not they certainly would soon if they didn’t change their ways. Some of their private messages on Facebook were provocative and borderline disturbing, but there was something in the center of their eyes that said: “I have no father… you can do me if you’re hot and have a cool car.” I returned to the table with their drinks. The restaurant was nearly empty so it was my only table and I intended to give them my best service. In other words: I would be spying on them like a guerilla soldier from behind the hostess stand and the fake plants. “You guys ready to order?” I asked. “Do you have crabs Harold-Darryl?” Daphne asked. She was looking at the uniform pin across my heart that said: We have crabs! “Of course we do,” I said. Both girls snickered at this predictable answer and the little boy pulled a Milky Way chocolate bar out of his pants. “Would you like to try any appetizers?” I asked. “Bucket of Shrimp, Great Balls of Fire, Crab Stuffed Mushrooms? They’re out of this world.” “We’ll have the Crab Nachos and the Crispy Calamari,” Bobby answered. “Good choice,” I smiled. “Are you ready to order entrees, or do you need a few more minutes?” “We’re ready,” Jackie said. I knew they were. “I’d like the Crab Daddy Feast,” Daphne said. Her eyes lit up when she said “Daddy.” “Great choice,” I said. “Thanks Harold-Darryl,” she smiled. Jackie was next. She read the menu in silence and danced her index finger in the air just above the surface of the table as if she was conducting an orchestra, her lips moving in perfect symphony with the little nipples poking through her purple halter top like pencil erasers. “I’ll have the King Crab… definitely dried rubbed barbecue flavor.” Bobby squinted, obviously deep in concentration, staring straight into my eyes as if he was contemplating whether or not he had seen me before, but he didn’t seem to think so and eventually ordered: “Chicken Fingers for the li’l monster… Seafood Enchiladas for his maker.” “Very good,” I said. “I’ll put your appetizers in right away.” “Gracias Harold-Darryl,” Daphne said. She winked at me as I closed my notebook and stuck my pen inside the pocket of my apron. I punched their orders into the computer screen and crawled underneath a nearby table hidden by a plastic drunken flamingo with a bucket of shrimp on his head. I listened as they argued about curfew and who was driving them to the movies tonight. Jackie said she was “on the rag” and would need an extra hour to make up for the time she spent “being a bitch to my boyfriend.” “I’ll be back in a minute,” Daphne said. I watched her bare ankles walk past and the back of her legs growing longer as her tanned calves and pale thighs came into view. I slammed my head against the table when I saw the pink thong poking out from underneath her hip-hugging jean shorts like the tail of a peacock. “What are you doing underneath the table?” the manager asked. “Just cleaning up some spilt salt,” I said. He looked at me funny as I rose to my feet and wiped the grease and garlic butter from my knees. “Your appetizers are ready,” my manager said. I strolled over to the kitchen and put the two steaming dishes down on the big brown tray, preparing them for the public with the proper garnishes; the delicious seafood wearing the toppings with more elegance than the flimsy layer of clothing across the top of my daughters’ breasts. I walked over to the table and found the two young ladies with their crab bibs on. At least they were covered appropriately while they stuffed their mouths with crab meat. Their mother must be so proud.
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