Lips Like Oysters
By the end of my Saturday night shift at the Oyster Bar I look like some kind of filthy nurse, striding around in my white uniform and thick-soled white shoes filling ketchups like it's an emergency, my front splattered and smeared with cocktail sauce, butter, oyster juice, and mud.
I am trying to get out. Trying to make it to Cooley's in time for last call. The guys there look a little sick to start with, faces slack-jawed, mouths hanging open, their pale lips loose and wet like the oysters I spent all night opening. When one comes up to me and says "You a nurse?" I say "Yeah, at Mercy," and I smile and let my jacket fall open to show the red and yellow splotches all over my front, the thick brown streaks the muddy oyster crates make across my middle when I dump the oysters into the ice bin. The oyster juice smells like old pee and the guy backs off fast.
It's not like I made a career choice to open oysters and clams all night every night, not like I want to watch people slurp the things down every time I look up. It's ugly. And the sounds. They alone will drive you crazy if you let them. Mouths turn into big open drains pulling hard. Oh and that reminds me, all you men who come in and eat two or three dozen oysters on the half-shell, don't think I don't know exactly why. I laugh at you guys behind your backs. And the thought of going to bed with you with all that oyster goo sloshing around in your bellies makes me, well frankly, makes me want to puke. That's why I'm always so nice to your dates.
I stay here for the money, but the work is hard. The crates of oysters and clams are heavy, made of chicken wire and shitty wood that gives me splinters and at first it's a struggle to get the oysters open. But then opening them gets easier, and then it's as easy as breathing. It's not like I have to twist the knife at an exact place either. I can put it in anywhere and break the suction. I hear the air escape or maybe my fingers feel it and they open right up.
I don't hold on too tight. Those oyster shells would slice my fingers like razor blades if I did. And when I open clams it's easy to jab the oyster knife into that tender part of my hand between my thumb and forefinger. To tell you the truth that place stays sore, that place where my palm spreads out like a wing.
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Author's Note
A dramatic monologue, my favorite form.
Published in D&B I think. Might have been riverbabble. It was a while back.
Other stories by Dianne McKnight-Warren
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I love the urgency and imagery! Makes me hungry! Lol
I like the paragraph about the men gulping down those oysters. Humorous and quite repulsive.Bravo for doing a job like that! Terrific description!
Great piece about work, the underexplored subject. I agree with Erika, that paragraph in particular is tough, funny and telling--how we look to others in all our vanity.
"I laugh at you guys behind your backs. And the thought of going to bed with you with all that oyster goo sloshing around in your bellies makes me, well frankly, makes me want to puke."
Perfect. These descriptions are frankly, right on the money.
Excellent.
Masterful, Dianne, It oozes, unsettles, reverberates, and amuses.
"To tell you the truth that place stays sore, that place where my palm spreads out like a wing."
Wonderful, creative.
Thank you for the lovely comments. Thank you for reading. Here's hoping the queue moves soon.
So neat, Dianne!
Thank you, Kitty. Great to see you here. Loved your latest post.
Nicely done, Dianne. Enjoyed this work.
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Thanks Sam!
I tried and failed to write a story about being a dishwasher, how much work it really is, how the fatigue turns to numbness then the "dishwasher's high" that gets you through a twelve hour shift. Your language here is inspiring. I'll try again! Nicely done.