I am the walrus

After a particularly fitful attempt at a night's sleep, I awoke by taking a hot shower, which fogged things up a bit. To my great surprise my bathroom mirror's reflection was of maritime proportions, with a walrus framed in a snapshot of a deserted beach. I dropped anchor and was preparing to scuttle the ship in reaction to what I observed, feeling that perhaps I was still dreaming.

I kept on blinking as I tried to focus on the image in the mirror, but could not break my fixed gaze upon the cartoonish figure which appeared to be right out of a nursery rhyme or some whimsical verse. As I studied the corpulent creature, words from long ago washed across my mind like an incoming tide: "The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing wax — Of cabbages — and kings — And why the sea is boiling hot — And whether pigs have wings."

During the previous month I had been trying to balance too many projects within the confines of a cart-wheeling clock and had only succeeded in losing traction as the hours roared by like a runaway freight train. I clearly was on the wrong track, as confirmed by my most noticeable walrus-like mustache, which had evaded trimming for far too long.

Then it hit me like a gale wind atop a lighthouse: I was scheduled to have dinner with my friend Lewis, who is an expert carpenter and adept conversationalist. His interests were many and varied, but he did have a predictable weakness in his constant hunger for oysters €¦ on the half-shell, baked, pan fried or in a shot glass. He was about the size of the walrus that stared back at me in the mirror and had a keen ability to skate his speech between being nonsense and being understood, which, of course, I found both rare and interesting.

Fortunately, it was Wednesday and anyone with sea-legs and a bit of salt knows that every week on this day The Black Sheep has an oyster and beer fest, where celebrating a love of Fresh Pacific Oysters & Pacific Northwest Brew fills the air with sizzling smells from the sea and wafts from exotic hand-crafted pints of liquid languidness.

I jumped into my work, keeping a fine eye on the clock, not wanting to be late for the 5 p.m. launch of oyster festivities. I soon found myself whistling sea-shanties while clogging about the house from my laptop to another project, then dancing with the vacuum cleaner all without losing sight of the torturously slow turning of the clock hands.

I ventured into the side yard and, under the shade of the English walnut tree, I practiced tying nautical knots, which reminded me of the Gordian-sized problems invented into existence by local government ever in search of more doubloons to slake the ever-thirsty city coffers.

I arrived on the Plaza at exactly 5 p.m., patted the head of the stone lion guarding the doors to oyster heaven, then ascended the stairs to engage Lewis, who, in keeping with his trencherman's habits, had already ordered a plateful of his favorites on the half-shell. Soon we were at a table attended to by a train of waiters, each heading our way with oodles of oysters.

We traded stories and belly-laughs as the bivalve mollusks slid home backed up by a slug of suds.

"Oysters," said the Carpenter, "you've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none — And this was scarcely odd, because We'd eaten every one."

Indeed it was true, along with the brew; all was tucked away for the night.

"Shucks," I managed as we arose to leave, stepping over a large pile of shells. "What a tidy mess."

(Lance was last seen at the swimming pool at the YMCA, slipping through the water with a newfound ease. You may extend a flipper to lance@journalist.com.)