November 01, 2004
Democracy and Lobster
I departed Brooklyn this morning to hit the Philadelphia pavement and get out the vote. Needless to say I had a lovely companion in tow, a certain Miss S, a sun-freckled Rocky Mountain flower on her first visit to the eastern seaboard. Miss S. is a Colorado native, a river guide and pilates instructor, the kind that wears plastic wraparound sunglasses and looks good in ski outfits. As we sped up and over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, we discovered a brilliant autumn morning, the leaves quivering and the colors in riot. I'm driving the Corolla, a modest sedan that allows me to travel in anonymity and bolsters my patriotism, for while I jaunt across the countryside, my contribution to the oil coffers of the enemy are negligible.
"Crab shack," said Miss S, as we passed into New Jersey. On her sight-seeing hitlist was a trip to the Jersey shore where she envisioned she'd find a clapboard seafood seller windbeaten in the fall gusts. I was supposed to begin my civic duty at 2 pm, and I agreed with Miss S. that a content citizen is a productive citizen. So we detoured over to the shore, sunlight pouring through the windshield, and drove into Asbury Park.
We found no crab shacks. In the stench of treated sewer we found boarded-up pleasure palaces, the skeletons of condominiums abandoned during construction, and mid-day drunks weaving along the boardwalk bellowing at no one in particular. We skedaddled southward and lo and behold, there on Shark River was a mom-and-pop seafood bistro, where although crab was scarce, the lobsters were live, and Miss S. called for two of them, as well as a crock of lobster bisque.
"Duty to country," I observed, fastening my bib, "requires that we love our country, and all the fine meals it has to offer. Waitress: a chilled bottle of pinot grigio when you have a moment."
"This is a bring-you-own type of place," said the server, returning to a booth where her toddler was wailing.
The shellfish arrived and we tore into them, splashing butter across the table. The bill arrived.
"Let me treat you," said Miss S.
"Oh no, allow me. "
"That's sweet of you."
"But if you insist," I relented, pushing the bill her way. "I always let the lady have her way."
By two thirty we were back on the highway, headed to Philadelphia, our Republic's fate awaiting the arrival of its native son, Travis LaFrance.
