Tag Archive for: Erin McLaughlin

The Lobster Heist by Erin McLaughlin is out now, wherever you get your books. On October 6, Astoria Bookshop in New York hosted an event in honor of the occasion. If you missed Erin reading, here’s what you missed (in part): the first chapter of The Lobster Heist.

Josh picked up the phone at Hot Dawggy Dawgs and said, “City morgue, how can I help you?”

Big Jim slammed his IPA onto the mustard-clouded counter. “Josh, I told you 10 goddamn times—you can’t just say that to people.”

Josh sandwiched the phone between his shoulder and ear, his black ringlets serving as a cushion. He couldn’t hear the woman over the wopwop-wops of the Pac-Man machine, but he had a 60% success rate at guessing what people wanted. “What’d ya say? Oh yeah, the Hot Dawggy Dawgs’ Big Dawg comes with ketchup and mustard on it. No sauerkraut, though,” he said. “Don’t worry, baby—I would never do that to you.”

Josh hated sauerkraut and wanted everyone to know it. He hung up the phone, tossed it onto the beer fridge, and lunged into his sketch pad that was bound together with duct tape. He erased the coconut bra on the sexy lobster from his dream the night before and then began to sketch one that was at least a triple-D.

Big Jim peered over Josh’s shoulder, his big eyebrows raised, his big neck muscles strained. He scratched at the flaking, rosy skin on his hand, and then yanked the beer-stained order pad from under Josh’s wrist. Josh did not move to make this process any easier because he had an important, sexy lobster to draw. As Big Jim watched Josh contour the lobster’s cleavage, he sighed a confused sigh. A confused sigh with a hint of arousal. A confused sigh with a hint of arousal with a hint of shame.

“Big tits on that lobster,” he muttered.

“Thanks, I know.”

Big Jim slapped the scribbled order onto the warm metal counter scattered with stray sweet potato fries. He turned around and said, “Josh, you have to hand the order to the kitchen. Remember?”

“My bad.”

Josh noticed a mustard stain on the floor between two Pac-Man machine makeshift tables and hoped that Big Jim wouldn’t tell him to clean it up. He loved that Hot Dawgy Dawgs was the size of a subway car, but he hated how it made messes more noticeable.

The bell above the door dinged and Big Jim threw back his hunched shoulders. All employees were trained to stay behind the counter, which meant that the bell was only useful when someone was in the bathroom peeing, in the bathroom snorting cocaine, or in the bathroom having sex. Whenever the bell rang, most every counter server stopped what they were doing to assume their position, prepared to recite the hot dog counter server script that Frank Buoygett-Conway force-fed to them. Josh, three months on the payroll, decided instead to sketch the sexy lobster’s antennas.

The early-April chill crept behind Pierce Buoygett-Conway as he strolled through the door—a stroll so slow that it seemed he took pleasure in watching everyone’s fingers fall off. He gingerly moved the frozen piece of black hair from the hump of his red, aquiline nose.

Josh’s charcoal pencil slipped from the paper and onto the Violent Femmes sticker taped to the counter. He groaned and rustled his curls with his jagged fingernails. “Goddammit, I loved that sticker!”

“Oh yeah? Name three Violent Femmes songs then,” said Pierce. He crossed his arms, both of which were inked with misspelled pop-punk lyrics.

Josh snickered. “Ah, go back to carving anarchy symbols into toilet seats or some shit.”

Everyone who worked at Hot Dawgy Dawgs hated Pierce Buoygett-Conway, but he was Frank Buoygett-Conway’s son, and Frank Buoygett-Conway owned Hot Dawgy Dawgs, so no one could say that they hated Pierce Buoygett-Conway. But they did.

On his first day, Big Jim learned that Josh wasn’t like everyone else in Williamsburg. Josh didn’t whip out Infinite Jest when a blue-haired girl approached the counter, nor did he explain the entire plot to her instead of taking her order. Josh didn’t waterboard someone with craft beer when they walked in wearing a Coldplay t-shirt. Josh didn’t ask if he could wear a faded orange sweatshirt and basketball shorts to work every day—he just did. Josh didn’t believe that the customer was always right, and he made that abundantly clear. Josh gave him the nickname “Big Jim” five minutes after the interview and clarified that it was because of his 6’7″ stature, not because he was heavy-set, even though he was about 10 pounds overweight.

Josh looked up. “Or better yet, Pierce,” he said as he wagged his pencil like a schoolteacher, “go organize another ‘live forever rally’ or whatever bullshit you do in your free time.”

“It’s an immortality awareness rally, asshole,” sniped Pierce. “I would think that a 24-year-old would have a better memory.”

Pierce founded the Immortality Awareness Society of Williamsburg and couldn’t be prouder of himself. He once protested outside of the White House when the government prohibited the sale of CBD. Pierce was the only one there with a sign about CBD’s age-reversing properties. He once organized a rally in front of the aquarium to try and score an octopus sperm donation for immortality research. Pierce ran when the guards pulled out their tasers. Pierce once rolled into a suicide support group wearing a “SUICIDE IS FOR SUCKERS” t-shirt. Pierce kicked and screamed about the value of eternal life as security hauled him to the sidewalk. At the next Immortality Awareness Society of Williamsburg meeting, he argued that everyone can raise immortality awareness—no matter the situation.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Josh.

Big Jim chuckled as he topped off his apricot-brewed beer.

“You think something’s funny, Jim? Bet you don’t even know that beer leads to early death, Jim. Especially for a guy your size, Jim.”

Big Jim cocked his head back and placed his hand on his chest. “Who, me? Oh, uh, no, Pierce. I was…laughing at something I’d heard earlier, something that my cute little daughter did.” He shuffled his feet.

A serpentine smirk slithered across Pierce’s thin lips. “Oh yeah? What’d your cute little daughter do?”

“Well, see, she had a tutu on and…she was dancing, all cute, to a…song on the TV, such a stupid song, too, man. Ah, what song was it again? You know the song,” he said as he snapped his sausage fingers. “The one with all the talking fruits—you know, the one on Toonland. Real cute, though.”

Pierce scoffed. “Talking fruits. Hilarious.”

Josh sketched the shadows below the lobster’s tits and let out a sneeze, a kind of sneeze where all the snot goes everywhere. A kind of sneeze that made all the beanie-wearing customers look up from their vegan hotdogs to inspect him with their scrunched, septum-pierced noses. He shook his head like a wet mutt and resumed sketching the shadows under the lobster’s tits.

“Nice shadows,” said Big Jim.

“Where’d you learn to draw?” Pierce asked. “I presume not at an institution.”

Josh smirked. “You know what, Pierce?”

Pierce let out a shrill sigh. “What?”

Josh rested his cherub chubby cheeks on his fists. “You’re just—really fucking weird. ‘I presume not an institution.’ Like, who the fuck talks like that?”

Pierce leaned in close, sharp-nose-on-bulgy-nose-close. He searched his eyes as if he had a warrant. He found redness, owl-heavy eyelids, and the beginning of what might have been a stye. Whether he had a stye or not, Pierce found Josh to be stoned. Very stoned.

“You’re stoned. Very stoned,” said Pierce, as he threw his rail thin arms to the ceiling. “And at work, too? Ridiculous!”

Big Jim dropped his big hand onto Josh’s shoulder. “Listen, Pierce. No disrespect but, it’s Williamsburg. Pot’s legal here now, right? And Josh has been doing a great job. Just, I mean—just please don’t be too hard on him. It’s just…weed.”

Pierce hauled his scrawny leg onto the counter. He pulled his skinny jeans up to his knee. He glared at them with his turquoise, maniac eyes. “See these socks? See the green leaves on these socks? Proof enough that I smoke weed every day. I have nothing against weed. Studies show that weed makes you live 5% longer. But unlike Josh, I don’t smoke it at my fucking job. This is a business, Josh. What the fuck do you think you’re doing, smoking weed at a business?”

“Weed socks,” said Josh with a chin nod. “Nice, bro.”

Pierce pursed his lips as his face assumed a ruddy hue. The customers in the back stared and held back their laughter.

“Sorry,” Josh muttered. “Anyway, did you want a veggie dog or something?”

Pierce buried his face in his hands as he pretended to hide his rapid hyperventilating. His nails were bitten down to the bed, aside from his painted black thumb, which he hoped would grant him access to local punk shows.

Pierce inhaled and exhaled a few times. Josh and Big Jim bit their lips as they looked at each other with smiling eyes. Both knew that if one of them broke into laughter, the other would, too. Big Jim hoped that Josh didn’t cave and laugh, as Josh had told him that day that he only had $350 in his bank account and owed his landlord eight hundred and fifty on the first of the month.

“My father will be hearing about this,” Pierce growled. “And he will not be happy.”

Pierce popped the collar of his denim vest. He stormed between the condiment tables and made his way to the bathroom.

Josh snickered. “Aw, how sweet,” he said. “He’s gonna tell his dad that I bullied him, and then I’ll get called down to the Pwincipal’s office.”

A mousy gasp escaped the cerulean blue door.

“Ugh,” said Josh. “What now?”

Big Jim looked down at the ashes on the register. “Uh, I dunno.”

Pierce stormed out and pointed at Josh. “You!” he said.

Josh tapped his pack of cigarettes onto the counter. “Who, me?”

“Get the fuck over here.”

Josh tried to remember if he had left a joint on the ground the night before, but then remembered the burn hole in his front pocket. Yet still, he followed.

Pierce pushed open the door and it slammed against the barely fastened sink. Josh peered behind Pierce’s bony shoulders to see two soggy condoms, a crushed beer can, and a pair of boxer briefs with a Dead Kennedys logo on it.

Pierce squinted his eyes as he shook his head. “You did this!”

“What? No! I hate the Dead Kennedys.”

Josh looked over at Big Jim, who was slowly swirling the cash register ash stains with his finger.

“Don’t worry,” Pierce said. “My father will be hearing about this too. And he won’t be happy.”