The boy off his meds plunges his hand into the lobster tank at Arthur's Chophouse and chooses a crustacean at random. He places it in a canvas tote stuffed with newspaper steeped in saltwater. Then he walks out the door. No one stops him. No one tries. No one calls the cops. Why would they? He is known around town. No one wants him to get hurt.

The Chophouse owner adds a few pennies to the "Market Price" and that covers the loss. The ma”tre d calls the boy's mother. She bartends at a tapas restaurant down the street. She also is known around town. A famous TV chef said that her mixology "imagined new worlds," that her Bloody Marys were "divine."

She thanks the maître d, tells her coworkers at the tapas restaurant she needs to go. Her coworkers completely understand and cover her shift. The mother of the boy off his meds can afford to leave during an emergency, because everyone at the tapas restaurant is paid a salary plus equity in the business.

She rushes out to locate her son. She finds him a few blocks over, at the beach. He stands to his waist in ocean, holding the lobster to his face. Its giant claws pinch air, free of thick blue rubber bands that held them shut.

Lobster smiles at boy, winks, says thanks for the ride. Boy says farewell, tosses lobster into frigid pulsating sea. Both know there is virtually no chance of surviving this return to wild, but neither can imagine it is worse than dying in a cauldron of boiling water.

Boy's mother leads him from the waves, hugs his shivering body. All she wants for him is protection, safety, security, happiness, none of which is guaranteed. She would guarantee it with her life, given the choice. He tells her not to worry. He is ecstatic. He is certain the revolution has begun.

Passersby on the boardwalk sense something going on, stop to watch with cotton candy and hot dogs and popcorn. A lifeguard approaches to check on the situation, recognizes mother and son, gives them space. They sit on a wooden bench, shivering, watching seagulls circle the water as the sun goes down, one glum, one in raptures, with no idea what to say to bridge the distance between them except, maybe, I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.



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