Lobster Popsicle

Lobster popsicle. You spend more time looking at the thing than it spends time sitting in your mouth. It’s deep red. Blue gumballs for eyes. Maybe it’s strawberry flavored, but more likely, it’ll taste like cherries. What kind of bullshit would it be though, if you put it in your mouth, and you tasted lime? 

Your brother used to tell you that this world is full of shit. What he meant was, “You can’t predict what comes next.” 

God, it’s still so hot out here, you think to yourself. You woke up this morning in a sweat. The weatherman said it was going to be 107° today. Even with the fan on full blast, the heat was unbearable at home. Maybe I’ll have a better time at the park - next to the pond, under a tree, on top of the grass.

So you went to the park, bought a popsicle, and sat down somewhere. You don’t even like popsicles - you wanted the Neapolitan ice cream sandwich, but they had already run out. The ice cream man was already holding your dollar before you told him what you wanted. It was too awkward to ask for the dollar back, so you just opted for whatever he had left. Now you’re sitting here, with your purchase, thinking about how you should have asked for availability before you gave the man your money.  The vision of you enjoying this day at the park didn’t even cut close to the reality that you were experiencing now. 

Lobster popsicle starts to bleed. You watch a smooth drop of red liquid bubble up from one of its claws. It sags down, down....further down the body of the lobster until it gets caught into the wooden grain of the popsicle stick shoved into its ass. How long will it take for this entire thing to melt? Nobody ever buys a popsicle just to watch it drip. 

Your gaze is fixated on this popsicle. It’s almost counterintuitive to let this thing melt. But here you are, predicting taste before it even touches your tongue. 

Nondistinct words slide into one ear and out the other. Vowels, consonants, and silences between strings of noise. Did someone say something? You look around. There’s nobody there. You’re alone on a warm park bench that sits on the edge of a large pond in the park. A dozen ducks are paddling across you, quacking and occasionally submerging their heads beneath the blue blanket of water to look for food. The grass hills roll for miles outwards and you can’t see anybody close enough whom you would be able to hear.

“I said. Are. You. Gonna. Eat. That?” 

Huh. Who is that? This time you heard it. Turning your head and checking behind you - to your surprise, still, nobody is there. A small noise comes up from beneath. You look through the gaps of the old wooden slats to find a tortoise, gently scratching against the green metal legs of the park bench.

“No? I’m not.” You answer back, kind of confused. 

“Give it here, then.”

The tortoises’ claws scratch against park bench’s legs more excitedly. He’s on his hindquarters now, leaning against the metal for support, stretching his neck as far as it can go, aimed toward the hand that’s holding the dripping lobster. 

“You can’t have this.”

“Give it here! Humans are so full of shit.” The tortoise starts to snap towards your hand.  You just noticed that it is speaking in a Jamaican accent. 

“You don’t know what’s in here. It might be bad for you.” You say to him back. 

You’re trying to expedite your thoughts past the miracle that this tortoise is speaking to you, straight to the part of your head that might know exactly why he can’t have the popsicle. 

“Hmph.” The tortoise comes down from leaning on the park bench’s leg. You hear his elephant-like legs stomp on the blades of grass beneath as he makes his way in another direction. He’s murmuring something underneath his breath but it’s too muffled to hear. 

You watch the talking tortoise walk away as you settle back into the bench. You hoist your feet up so that you’re laying horizontal to the bench seat’s wooden beams. One arm is extended above and behind, cradling your head; the other is holding the lobster popsicle upright towards the sun. Breathe in, breathe out. Did that really just happen? Maybe the heat is getting to you. The leaves of this tree that hang above park bench do you no justice. Despite the shade, the hot air still lingers, reminding you of that magic number, 107°. 

At this point, your fingers are sticky and red. The popsicle stick is saturated in the juice. A gumball has melted off of the lobster. 

With your free hand, you dig into the melting mass of red ice to pluck off the other gumball. What does that tortoise even know?  You think as you toss it into your mouth. 

You chew the gum and mull it over. I don’t know, maybe he does know. You sit back upright and then stand. You stretch your spine this way and that; bringing life back into the bones of your back. They are sore from lying on the park bench. 

The tortoise was farther away than where you thought it would have been by now. You’re pacing toward him. 

“Hey, what’s in this popsicle?”

“Watermelon!” The tortoise replies. 

Watermelon. Why didn’t I think of that? 

“You still want it?” You say loudly. 

The tortoise stops and turns his head toward you. You squat down and place the popsicle in front of him. The sun glints in his eye as he takes big bites off of the popsicle. You watch him as he eats. By the time he is finished, there is a red ring around his jaws, all over his stumpy legs. By the looks of it, he could have just killed someone if nobody knew about the popsicle.