Relativity & the Lobster

by R J Dent

This story is dedicated to the memory of Samuel Beckett

First I swam.

          Whilst swimming – which for a lobster means just walking along – I ate, drank, slept, saw many things, grew, met other lobsters, mated, explored the crevices in the rocks, learnt things, stayed below the water mark, had fights, kept out of the way of predators, and generally had a good time.

          Then I got caught.

          It was my own fault – I knew all about lobster pots, but I thought I was smart enough to get into this one without it hurting me. I’d seen other lobsters go into pots and become trapped. I’d be damned if that was going to happen to me. Of course, I’d taken a really good look at it, circling around it, seeing how it worked, making sure it really worked the way I thought it worked, reflecting on how it looked so open and unthreatening. And I’d gone into it, unable to resist the bait.

          The thing with lobsters is that they can – out of curiosity – get into anything. But the moment they start to panic, they flail around with their mis-matched razor claws, snapping at anything that moves, even peripheral stuff. And that’s what I’d done – I’d gone into the pot and eaten my fill, then, when I’d tried to turn, I found that I couldn’t. Boy, the shit really hit the fan then. My claws would have destroyed anything that stood in my way. The ropes of the pot weren’t even in my way. Nothing was in my way. The way I’d come in was still open to me – but because of my panic – therefore my flailing, it had become too small to get through. Not being able to get out fuelled my fear; my fear meant I couldn’t get out. I was stuck.

          Later I got lifted out of the water. That wasn’t nice. I thrived in water. I’m a water creature. Dry land holds no attraction for me. None at all. I love my natural environment. After a while, I was dumped onto a wooden table with many other lobsters. They were all different, some I liked, some I didn’t. I didn’t know any of them – lobsters aren’t pack or herd creatures. I chatted to a barnacled old decapod named Ezra, then exchanged a few short sentences with a young Homarus, aptly named Homer. A middle-aged Vulgaris named Armitage pretended to know things about our situation, but didn’t. No one knew anything.