Vicariously Clubbing

This evening, I brought home a half-dozen crabs to make crab dip for the Fishy People at work. As the best crab dip is made with love, not magic (like Krabby Patties), I enjoy picking the steamed crustaceans myself, not just purchasing a tub of jumbo lump. Thus, I bring them home and pick them late into the night, just me, and sometimes Mum, and always the radio.

Tonight I tapped into a distant station broadcasting from Jersey, where the DJ was at a nightclub, spinning tunes for a live and radio audience. He made it sound like so much fun that I imagined I was in the city, partying it up on the dance floor. I imagined dancing with friends, or strangers, or nobody, and semi-considered just driving away to the nearest city, and enjoying a Saturday night on the town. I wondered what I would wear, and what I would drink, and whether I should take the time to shower the permeating sting of crabbiness away.

Then the radio program ended and the DJ disapeared. I finished picking the last few claws. I set the crab meat on ice, and opened a book, turned on the computer, swept up the empty shells.