M.P. Powers

Lobster Bob 

I was sitting at the bar listening to mark 
telling 
me about his roommate, lobster bob. 
“he brings home a different 
whore
three or four times a week.
“bartrolls. nothing but bartrolls.” 

“still,” I said, “three or four times
a week? it’s not easy to pick up 
anything three or four times
a week.”  

“yeah it is,” said mark. “you find the grossest 
chick in the place… 
at 2.a.m. I mean the grossest… 
that’s what he
looks for, and gets…”

as he was saying this, lobster bob came sidling out 
of the bathroom. 
he was about 45, with a loose-hanging
aloha shirt and a limp mop 
of lord Fauntleroy hair framing his bloated
pink face. He looked a bit like a lobster, 
but that’s not
how he got the name. 

we watched as he nuzzled up to some lady 
at least ten years 
his senior, her broad beam spilling over
the barstool.

“and look at him now,” mark went on. 
“he’s at it again… 
the disgusting
fuck… and i’m gonna have to listen 
to it through the wall.”

we both 
shook our heads. I was 
laughing… lobster bob 
was more 
of a man
than either of us
could ever be.