Many years ago, while pondering my future after college graduation, I found a temporary summer job posed like Rodin's The Thinker atop a lifeguard's chair on the shore of an unpopular Massachusetts coastal resort. When not perched at my post on the seaweed strewn beach, or perambulating around the headland in search of peace and quiet, I spent my free time rummaging around the so-called attractions at the local marina. Essentially a parking lot for half-sunk and unseaworthy yachts, this mile of waterfront also served as the town's high street. Everyone eventually wound up at the marina. There was nowhere else to go and the people watching was fantastic for students of abnormal anthropology.
Despite my palate's firm conviction that Guinness stout does not pair well with bouillabaisse, I often found myself at the Green Lobster; an infamous dockside Irish pub featuring an extensive seafood menu and a drunken fiddle player from seven pm until whenever he passed-out. It was the largest but least popular restaurant in the marina, mostly due to "Catch of the Day" clearly being from the deep freezer rather than the deep sea. Some cynics even suggested the eponymous green lobster was not that color because it was Irish but thanks to unsanitary conditions in the kitchen. Needless to say, the only things fresh off the boat were the inexperienced staff, all of whom came from unpronounceable towns in Ireland and spoke with incomprehensible accents. Nevertheless, I loved the place, and spent many evenings sitting at the bar, drinking Bushmills while nibbling on a basket of onion rings, watching disgruntled patrons nervously come and furiously go.
One particular evening, three morbidly obese tourists wearing brightly colored elasticated shirts and shorts hauled themselves up the steeply narrow restaurant staircase. They progressed slowly, one ungainly foot at a time, one bellowing breath at a time, their bulbous pink fists grasping the metal banister for support so fiercely I thought it might be torn away from the wall. It was like watching a group of novice mountaineers struggling to scale Everest in the face of gale-force winds. Eventually the three men reached the summit, peering into the dimly lit dining room in search of a section expansive enough to accommodate their collective, still wheezing bulk. No easy task as the Green Lobster prioritized customer capacity over customer comfort, so the trio were forced to wriggle on tiptoe through an obstacle course of occupied and empty tables to reach their corner booth. Once seated, a performance not dissimilar to circus clowns cramming themselves into a tiny car, the men began discussing the menu loudly amongst themselves, ostentatiously agreeing they would each order the Captain's Platter, as if that were the obvious and only choice for any self-respecting seafood connoisseur.
The Captain's Platter, I knew from experience, was a pile of anonymous fish incinerated in grease, combined with whatever else the chef found in the back of the fridge that could be fried to a crisp and described as calamari. I'd witnessed vinegar instantly evaporate on contact with the Captain's Platter. Steel cutlery would break and snap trying to saw the turd brown husks of battered scrod into edible chunks. If an inmate on death row demanded the Captain's Platter as his last meal, the executioner need not bother lethally injecting his prisoner since salmonella and e-coli would eventually do his work for him. Nobody in their right mind got the Captain's Platter at the Green Lobster. After rip currents, red tide, and great white sharks, it was number four on the local guidebook's lists of seaside dangers to be avoided. Dehydration and skin cancer from sun exposure were fifth and sixth. Meanwhile, a pitcher of pale lager and three glasses was delivered to the mens' table. They should lace that with a powerful antacid, I thought, otherwise Irritable Bowel Syndrome will surely kill all three of them before they can consider the options for dessert. I didn't want to be included in the coroner's inquest so swallowed my last onion ring and left for home.
My worst fears were not realized, however, and I saw two of the morbidly obese men again the following day. They were slumped precariously on a little bench outside Long Neck Lighthouse, a two-mile, dirt-road hike from the marina. They both were exhausted, repeatedly mopping their sweaty brows with what for most people would be a lifetime's supply of wet-wipes. Their friend was presumably inside the nearby public restroom, locked in combat with last night's still undigested feast. It didn't bear thinking about. Nevertheless, the men deserved credit for walking this far, although their only reward was catching their breath and relieving themselves at New England's least picturesque lighthouse. The building was short and squat and derelict, situated atop a grey cliff overlooking s listless tide below, and Long Neck peninsular itself was neither noticeably lengthy nor much of a neck. In fact, 'No Neck' would have been a more accurate name, as even all three morbidly obese men had more clearly defined necks than the ground beneath them. Local rumor claimed Edward Hopper once visited the Lighthouse but hadn't bothered to unpack his easel. It was certainly a tourist attraction not worth writing home about, especially not on the back of a boring postcard, available at the lighthouse's gift store, where the restrooms were also located.
From here the third of the morbidly obese men finally emerged, not only having successfully emptied his bowels but apparently his wallet too, as he cradled a large, ceramic souvenir diorama of the lighthouse that was also a working table lamp. He staggered towards his horrified friends like a proud father presenting his new-born son to the world. 'I have no idea where I'm going to put this,' he gasped, a doubt I thought he should also have raised regarding his portion of the Green Lobster's Captain's Platter. 'But I couldn't resist.' Clearly he was a man who acted on impulse and without discretion or any sort of plan. How, for instance, did he intend to haul his purchase back to wherever they were staying? The sheer weight and unwieldiness of the diorama would make it difficult to carry, especially along the dirt road. His best bet would be for all three men to take turns balancing it on their heads all the way back. But his friends were unamused by his kitschy purchase and refused to help. Then, out of nowhere, a horse-drawn carriage arrived on the scene. A tourist trap, literally, but nevertheless I'd never seen one that far out of town before. They usually just circled around the marina, catering to couples scraping the barrel of holiday romance in a very unromantic destination. The man's fairy Godmother must have waved her magic wand and transformed the remains of his Captain's Platter into a magical mode of transport, because for twenty bucks plus tax the man could ride back to the marina like an overweight Cinderella. Meanwhile, his ugly sisters still slumped on their little bench, mentally preparing themselves for the more arduous, less glamorous return trip to their motel.
And that was the last I saw of the morbidly obese men, but not of the ugly Long Neck Lighthouse. Many years later, I encountered the diorama again, prominently displayed in the window of Boston charity shop. There was no mistake. It was the same stumpy ceramic tower supporting a sixty-watt bulb, stuck on the same base of papier-mache rocks and lumpy green felt. Surely two such handicraft monstrosities could not exist in the same space-time continuum without bringing our ever-expanding universe to a shuddering halt. I wondered how long it had been in the storefront window. Had the lighthouse bulb provided illumination in the morbidly obese man's house until now, a domestic beacon guiding his thoughts away from the hidden hazards of his gluttonous appetite, saving him from potential heart-attack and diabetes? One could only hope so. Prompted by these nostalgic conjectures, I went inside and explained to the clerk how I had been present when the lighthouse was first purchased. Perhaps he could add to the story; knew who had donated it to the store and when? But the clerk wasn't that interested. 'It's ten bucks,"' he said. 'We're trying to get rid of it. The bulb still works. I can find someone to help you carry it out to your car.'
Only ten bucks? It wasn't much money, even for a second-hand souvenir of New England's least picturesque lighthouse, bought on a whim from an unpopular coastal resort, where I'd been a lifeguard never called upon to save anyone's life. My only mementos of that summer were vague recollections of painful sunburns and terrible hangovers courtesy of the Green Lobster. I'd spent my time making unkind judgments about other people's poor decisions instead of concentrating on my own. If only I'd been more serious about considering my future back then perhaps I wouldn't be standing in a charity shop now. But at least I could afford the ten bucks to buy this ceramic testament to foolish life choices from the past. Who knows, it might even remind me to take a drive up north one of these days, to see if the Green Lobster had survived Covid and the attentions of the food inspector. 'I'm parked over there, I told the clerk, handing him the cash. 'The dark blue Honda Civic.'
