Last Night at the Lobster Read Online Free PDF Page A

ham of a face and a greased-down comb-over. Living twenty more years as a widower hasn’t helped. He’s a regular, with his own window booth. He’ll order the broiled tilapia and a cup of coffee and quietly read the Herald, then leave Roz a three-dollar tip. He wheels the big ’98 wide and noses into the first spot.
    “Hey, Coach.” Manny waves, though it’s impossible for Mr. Kashynski to hear him through the windshield. Manny digs a finger under his cuff to read his watch (and there’s the rubber band again, like a reminder), then holds the same finger up to let Coach know there’s still one minute. Mr. K. waves back, dismissive, no rush, and breaks out his paper.
    Inside, Nicolette informs him that Crystal isn’t in yet, as if he hasn’t noticed.
    Jacquie’s sitting in the break room with Roz, refilling salt and pepper shakers. He breezes through, just long enough to thank her for coming in.
    “My car died,” she apologizes.
    “That’s okay,” he says. “You made it.”
    “Good thing too,” Roz says. “It’s all-you-can-eat shrimp.”
    “No,” Jacquie says, like she can’t believe it. “Hell no.”
    “What am I supposed to do,” Manny says. “They’ve been running the ads all week.”
    In back, Eddie’s still filling tins with biscuit dough, and Manny tells him that’s great, that’s more than enough, and sends him back to the dishwasher. Rich is mixing tartar sauce. Leron’s draining a basket of fries.
    “So this is it,” Ty asks.
    “This is it,” Manny says.
    “Better pray we don’t get slammed.”
    “Coach is out there already.”
    “Tilapia,” Ty tells Fredo, who hesitates before opening the reach-in, then hesitates again. “White tub, second shelf, right. It’s marked right on it.”
    Manny can see this is going to be an all-day thing, and leaves them to figure it out. (In his confusion, he’s entirely forgotten about calling the plow guys.)
    From here in it’s all checklist. He turns up the house lights, turns on the fake stained-glass lamps over the tables in all four sections. He powers up the sound system and dials the house music to the approved volume, and there’s Bonnie Raitt singing “Something to Talk About” for the millionth time. Window by window he gently tugs the cords of the blinds and lets in the gray light of day. On cue, Mr. Kashynski hauls himself out of his car and starts up the walk. Nicolette retreats to the break room. Dom gives him a thumbs-up from the bar. Kendra’s ready, hair just brushed, lips painted, a stack of menus waiting on the host stand, two dozen pagers neatly ranked in the cubby behind her in case they get overrun.
    “Here we go,” Manny says, to himself as much as anyone, and for the very last time he flips the breaker for the neon by the highway, then slides the tab of the plastic CLOSED sign on the front door to the right to let the whole world know they’re open for business.

WHICH NOBODY CAN DENY
    They come in pairs and threesomes and the rare four-some, mostly wives and young mothers this time of day, escapees from the mall. They come from West Hartford and Farmington and Simsbury and other suburbs Manny’s only driven through summers on his way to Barkhamsted Reservoir, and driven carefully, wary of gung-ho cops. Their SUVs chew through the snow and plug the parking spots, for one day justifying their pricey four-wheel drive. They track in clumps of snow, pausing to stomp and read the specials on the chalkboard, then follow Kendra to their booths, sliding in, dumping bags and gloves and jackets, relieved to sit down and gather themselves and compare their loot. They warm their hands over the single cupped tea light, ignoring Manny as he cruises through. They want their waitress. They want their lunches so they can get back out there and get their shopping done.
    In the corner, Mr. Kashynski hunches over the splayed-out sports section with his coffee, occasionally picking at his tilapia, his plate pushed to the side.