There was steam coming off the pavement as seafood trucks and cars with out-of-state plates rolled by. Brown pelicans watched me and noisy gulls greeted me as I parked by the mulberry tree. Salty air was heavy and pungent. Several folks stood around outside, smoking cigarettes and talking.
Lynn’s, my favorite little oyster bar and seafood market was quiet that day - a nice change from the busy summer months before. I entered the cool air conditioned room, thankfully, as beads of sweat rolled down my neck and soaked my shirt. An iced display case was filled with fish, shrimp, and oysters, while beer signs glowed suggestively.
Just then, a white cadillac pulled up out front, and an old woman emerged from the driver’s side. She came in the door looking like she was lost, wide-eyed and curious. Her thick glasses emphasized her blue/gray irises and she began to look like a mullet that had just jumped into a boat and didn’t know where it was.
“You got any oysters?” she inquired in a slightly unsure voice.
“Sure do!” replied the young man behind the counter. He was a jovial, handsome fellow with a smile that could warm up a room. She began to look a little more comfortable as she tottered around, looking over the display of seafood and shelves full of sauces and seasonings.
“I’d like two dozen on the half shell to take with me,” she finally announced.
“I’ve got them in the shell or already shucked out,” offered the young man.
“I think he eats them on the half shell. My husband - not me!” declared the elderly lady.
“Do you want to take some with you to shuck out when you get there?” asked the man.
“Oh, we don’t know how to shuck them. I think we’ve only seen them once before, at a restaurant in Nashville,” muttered the woman.
“I’ve got them in a container, already shucked out for you, then,” suggested the patient young fellow.
He held up a plastic container full of oysters for her to see. “Where’s their shells?” asked the lady.
“We take them out of their shells,” answered the man, who was growing increasingly frustrated by the minute.
“Where they at, then? Can’t you put them back in?” she inquired, looking even more confused.
“Those things don’t even look like the ones he ate at that restaurant in Nashville. I sure wanted to surprise him. They’re supposed to have special effects on a husband,” she continued, with a sly look in her eyes.
The young man could barely contain his laughter at this point, and the old woman began to giggle at her own bluntness. “Why don’t you bring him in and we’ll serve him some on the half-shell,” suggested the man, who was obviously getting tired of trying to explain things.
“He’s back at the condo and won’t come out because it’s too hot,” she shrugged. “I figured I’d just bring him some. He don’t do nothing but sit and watch television anyway. He does the same thing back home. Beats me why he wants to go on vacation just to watch TV. I was hoping for a little excitement this evening,” she went on.
“Why don’t you get some saltines and hot sauce and a pint of these shucked oysters, then?” the young fellow urged.
“I don’t know. Let me see them things again,” the elderly lady demanded. She held them up to the light and shook her head. “They look all squishy. Can’t you put them back in their shells?” she asked.
“We throw them out there in the driveway. Been runned over a few times by now,” he explained.
“Okay then, maybe I’ll take them … but … are they still alive?” she inquired hesitantly.
He took the pint from her and appeared to be inspecting it’s contents very carefully. “Well,” he grinned, “they ain’t moving!”
