When Crabby entered the bar people would say, “Damned if it doesn’t smell like the Chesapeake behind Shurshut Island. Muddy bottom and lots of sea grass.” Others would swear they heard clicking outside, “Like blue claw crabs in a big tin bucket.”

            Crabby knew they were all staring at him. He had grown out his dark beard at the back of his jaw and tucked it forward knowing people would say it looked like two big claws tucked under his chin. He stared back at anyone who looked too long, went straight up to the bar, point to the tap, and slam two dollars down. When the conversation got going again, he’d smile and start tapping his nails on the counter.

            Thirty minutes later, he’d push his empty glass across the bar-top towards the tap and carefully layout three dollar bills under the coaster in front of him.

            When the bartender returned with his beer, he’d wrap his left hand around the glass and commence a beat on the rail with one arthritic finger.

            He’d chant:

       My old man had a mighty crabber,

       He had a kid but it wasn’t me.

       Ma pulled me up in one of them traps,

       Pa took a look and tossed me back.

       I missed grabbing the anchor chain,

       So Ma threw me a line and pulled me on board.

       She told Pa to let me grow.

       That’s all the words of this song I know.

            Then Crabby chugged his beer and clicked his way home.

Ken was a professor of Mathematics and did research at the University of Wisconsin. After that he worked in ceramics and welding before going to IBM. He was there for more than twenty years before being downsized in 2000. He now teaches yoga and writes.

Further information can be found on his website: www.kmkbooks.com.