Seafood dreams

Somebody is playing a bad trick on me. I went home today and heated up some leftovers for lunch. London Broil, potatoes and green beans. As Kate whirled around my lunch plate dusting the furniture, I sat there on the living room couch and turned on the television, setting the channel to WGN out of Chicago, so I could watch a rerun of Homocide: Life on the Streets, which was ordinarily filmed in Baltimore.

Except in this episode two of the detectives from the Homicide Unit were out of town, searching the streets of Miami for a suspect who was hiding out somewhere around Miami Beach. The two detectives looked rather uncomfortable as they walked around the sidewalks in their suits, dress shirts and ties. Ultimately, they had to give up their search for the evening, and ended up in a seafood place on the beach. At that point they were discussing the overall respective merits of the indigenous stone crab as compared to the Chesapeake Bay blue crab. At this point my overwhelming desire to be at the beach, eating seafood took over.

So here I am, sitting in my office, with a pretty blue sky above and a lot of grass and concrete around. Brick, mortar, sheetrock, asphalt. Nowhere near a beach. Covered up with paper, payroll, deadlines, client expectations. Papers to be filed. Causes of action to be filed. Bills to be paid. People to be satisfied. The never ending rumble tumble of an adult life.

Nowhere near the Gulf or the Atlantic Ocean. Just sitting here in my office, wishing I was eating seafood somewhere near the beach. On the water, perhaps. Boss Oyster. Crab Shack. Crab Trap. Crabby Bill's. Philthy Phil's. Woody's. Mandina's. Char-lou's. They just roll off the tongue.

With a beer in one hand and a fried shrimp in the other. Oyster shooters and Buffalo Oysters within reach. Not worrying about how much weight I am putting on. Not worrying about the next bill to pay, other than the restaurant check. Worrying about the amount of cocktail sauce on my plate, the disappearing pile of fried shrimp and oysters and the fluid level of my beer glass. The sweetness of the tea, the tang of the limes and lemons.

Enjoying the sun and the surf and the gulf breeze and the sand in my sandals. Greasy from the sunblock. Warm from the sunburn on my arms and legs and face. Dressed comfortably in t-shirt and shorts. Finding satisfaction in the environment in which I find myself.

Right now, I can hit Miles Davis' "Miles Ahead" on my ipod and catapult my body to an automobile driving over the bridge between Tampa and St. Pete. Windows open. Laying back, relaxed in the driver's seat. Watching the waves pushing the water from one side of the bay to the other. Fishermen in boats. Seagulls soaring overhead. Even a pelican. Right now. Immediate satisfaction.

I am back. The music is over.

Rescue me.