by Alice Kinerk

You get high.

Yesterday you told yourself it was the last time, which you’d said before, but yesterday you meant it. Nevertheless, today, as soon as the boat anchored, away you went, squelch-squelch through the mud, to the farthest bed, separating yourself from your fellow oystermen. Oysterpeople. Casual, as if you just for some reason felt like slogging over to the far side while everyone else crowded together. As you walked you raised your face to the wind, which just happened to be blowing in the ideal direction. Affirmation.

You stood, back to the group, pulling off your Uline Super Grip Kevlar Cut-Resistant Gloves slowly, finger by finger, laying them on the oyster bed. You unzipped your raincoat and dug around inside your corduroy jacket, hand closing around your secret in the inner pocket, beside your chest. What’s an inner pocket for except holding onto secrets?

You keep your bubbler in a purple Crown Royal bag with a yellow drawstring, pulled tight. The bag doubles as a placemat for prep work on the oyster bed. Pipe, lighter, ice. Plus a Ziplock to keep things odor-free.

Now, in the crowd, someone begins shrieking. A joyful shriek. A female somebody. Probably Tisha. Probably Erik’s told her a dirty joke, or he’s taunting her with seaweed, or he’s snuck up and yoinked her off her feet again. Doesn’t matter. Tisha’s attracted to bad boys. Can’t help it, it’s who she is. Erik has to put in all sorts of work. All you have to do is lower your lids and make kissy faces, and she’s swooning. You two will be fucking by September, no question.

Still, it annoys you, Erik taking this opportunity to woo. You get high. You put the lighter to the pipe, spark it, shelter it from the wind.  You watch brown bubbles form. Much anticipation. Finally, you inhale. Try not to cough. Fail.

Even high, oystering sucks. Low-tide, muck, sea spray, rain. There you are, you and the other waterproofed ones, pockmarks on the seabed, detaching the mesh cages before harvest. It’s an idiot’s job, which fits as you yourself are an idiot. Six whole months of community college before dropping out.

Still, over the months, you’ve come to understand the oysters. Spineless blobs with an ugly shell, seaside prisoners inside a mesh cage. At low tide, they’re immobile, merely sharp slimy rocks in the sun. But oh, the first sweet taste of seawater! It must feel like the first breath of smoke entering the lungs.

In a few hours these oysters will be hauled off, sprayed clean, cracked open.

That’s you too. Someday they’ll want to haul you off, spray you clean. But you won’t go. When that day comes, you’ll crack yourself open. Simply find the nearest boulder and throw yourself upon it.

Watch the clouds change shape. Let the gulls feast on your entrails. Let Tisha mourn your poor lost soul.

Go out of this world on a high.

Photo by Mandy Henry on Unsplash