Preps, Ports, and Pots

     I violated nature in Massachusetts. I have family living on Cape Cod, famous for summering, the birthplace of a beverage, and an out of control mechanical shark. Cape Cod is built on two layers of complaint. In the summer, residents whine about tourists and the traffic and naivete they bring. The winter brings piles of snow and sour faces.
     It being summer, my only nutritional sources are seafood and ice cream. Thank god I love both. There are approximately three creameries per port town and approximately everyone visits them.
     Like when Jesus walked on water or when everyone stopped listening to Fall Out Boy or like the after taste of chocolate above 70% cocoa, my mom arrived, without collective plan, on the East Coast. She is the day bringer. The Aztecs would have loved her. She is like that group of stretched and smiling people that double fist cups of water smack in the middle of the race. This long sojourn. My path. Rendre hommage a Twain.
     We stayed with a friend of my mother's who lives in a spiral staircase. Robin, like my mom, enjoys life and doesn't consider inhibition a balk. She graced my ears with one of the only accents I've heard on my trip. It is in her house that my transgression was to take place.
     In her sink, acting like a cell before the gallows, four brown and blue lobsters sit. The South Western corn bread is cooling. The clams have been consumed. The linguica and potatoes are soft. Judgment day is upon us. I am suddenly thrust into the eternal moral dilemma of Christian thought. I harbor infinite omnipotence but my glowing hands are slow with apprehension, for with power comes the deep and basic caring of a shepherd. In a moment I feel like the Sistine chapel is painted in my skull. A silent "fuck it" escapes my lips as I force the head of a crustacean into boiling water. I suppress kicks and squirms and, becoming misty eyed from a friendship only war could cultivate, I end the misery of a fallen comrade. He was motherfucking delicious.