Last Night at the Lobster

by Stewart O'Nan

The whole place may be disposable, and everyone in it, but you can always find a use for a rubber band.

He’s done everything they asked, yet there must have been something more, something he missed.

He tramps out to the end of one wing where Dom’s and Roz’s cars sit in exile and works back toward the Lobster, the illusory movement of the colored string through the front doors and the glow from the windows and the candlelit faces of people eating inside all suddenly, surprisinglybeautiful to him, as if he’s still stoned.

He’s been counting on this one last shift for so long, as if it might hold some final answer. It can’t, he knows, yet he feels threatened by the idea of losing his last chance.

When the last of them are gone, he notices an ornament on the floor by the live tank, an ancient pink-and-cream-striped bulb cracked in pieces like a bird’s egg, the largest showing its shiny silver insides. It’s something that might have come from his abuelita’s tree. Someone must have brushed against it and not heard it hit the carpet. The irony bothers Manny: something so delicate that had survived so many Christmases; one more day and it would have made it. Or maybe what bugs him is how sentimental he’s getting, seeing his own fate in every little thing, as if he’s helpless.

Back at the main station, Nicolette says he shouldn’t have given them anything. “Bet you twenty they don’t tip me.” “Too easy,” Manny says, and then is wrong. The grandmothers leave Nicolette a single penny—a penny Nicolette runs to the front door and flings into the storm after them. “Fuckin’ old biddies, I hope you crash!”

“Good luck,” he says as she pushes into the storm, and gives her a stiff salute of a wave. Watching her go, he thinks it’s wrong that instead of sadness or anger, all he feels is a selfish, indifferent relief. It feels—in this case, at least—like he’s admitting defeat.

If one of the Powerball numbers hits, that’s the only way it could happen, that last second miracle. Or maybe it already has. Maybe it was just everyone showing up, and everyone still being here. It’s possible that he’s missing the whole thing.

He scans the foyer for more decorations, but there’s only the marlin.

And now, with no one around and the Regal screening the front door, he wonders, nearly seriously, if he should steal the marlin. He can see himself driving away with the beak poking out a window. It’s got to be held on with bolts, and he doesn’t have the right tools. He can’t just leave a big hole in the wall. Plus there’s mall security circling the lots constantly. They’re probably watching him, sitting here looking suspicious with his windshield busted in. The regular cops would probably think he’s drunk. So no. The drive home’s going to be a bitch as it is.