Krazy Krab

I went to eat dim sum in Chinatown. The hierarchy between the dim sum ladies still exists. What it is broken down into is a kind of terrible ranking system in which the young and attractive dim sum ladies are in charge of the glass carts, filled with the crisp fried balls of dough filled with shrimp and pork, the taro rolls, spring rolls, egg tarts. The delicate, onyx eyed raven haired Lucy Liu beauties push the sumptuous carts containing the steamer baskets, filled with whiter than white pork buns and translucent shrimp shu mai. Then the metal carts, filled with scary shit that nobody wants, like chicken feet or broccoli rabe, the funky gluey rice cakes that need to be fried at the table, are given to the older dim sum ladies, the ones who are long in the tooth, soon to be put out to pasture, about to be made into glue themselves, proving yet again, sex sells. Even dim sum.

I like this particular restaurant, even with their Menudo/Taliban style waitress rotation, because they have these tanks in front, filled with salt water and live fish and shellfish of massive and scary proportions. White snow crabs, orangey and familiar Dungeness crabs, baby navy soft shell crabs that you cannot believe you can eat the shell and all, tiger shrimp that look like they will kick your ass like Tiger Woods, goeduck clams, almost obscene with their muscular foot hanging out of the shell like a wrinkled ten inch limp dick about to slap you in the face, fiercely maroon black lobsters on lockdown, plastic handcuffs on their claws, algae grown on their exoskeleton in formations resembling tattoos, bobbing and waiting for a call from the governor or at the very least Woody Allen. It is fish death row, and in the center, the jewel in the aquatic necropolis crown, is the crazy crab. Ok. It is not an exaggeration. Y’all this crab is clinical. It is one fucking KRAZY KRAB!!!!

About three feet wide, a good foot and a half tall, this crustacean don’t play. He is spiny. White teeth like needles cover his entire body. His eight legs seem like more and he spreads them like the wings of the now extinct California Condor. His cell is larger than the others, owing to the sheer magnitude of his size, and it’s a single. Krab is in isolation, however, it is not entirely for minor infractions of fish tank regulations, petty brawls with a gang of prawns, an alleged affair with a rockfish, but also, the separation of Krazy Krab from the general populace is for the safety of all who work the days and nights of Ocean Seafood. Krazy Krab is legendary. Krazy Krab is dangerous. Krazy Krab is fucking Krazy.

Krab has visitors often. Some stay for a long while, asking him questions. Krab is the underwater Hannibal Lecter. There are young women in blue suits and good sensible shoes who ask the Krab about the snakefish, if the notorious new illegal immigrant killer fish, with no natural predators and the ability to walk on land, will move from the Wyoming lake killing spree to another body of water. Krazy Krab adores the attention, but becomes unreasonable at times, with demands to see Hermit Crab, not remembering the violent falling out they had, leaving Hermit Crab afraid to come out of his shell now for weeks. That Krazy Krab has burned bridge after bridge yet expects to be able to cross them sideways when he wants to.

Krazy Krab gives out elusive clues, helps the environmentalists who want to preserve the wildlife and aquatic balance in the still fairly untouched areas of the country, the amateur and professional Walden Pond posse, who attempt to save what we have left of this land from the snakefish, who at press time still seems unstoppable. Krazy Krab speaks in riddles, confusing haiku, baffling allegory, which wind up being enormously helpful to the naturalists, the marine biologists, and for this Krazy Krab is in return given special attention and books other fish have no interest in, such as Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” Although he is crab, he understands the cockroach. After all, they share the same calcified exoskeleton and know what that is like, for to live as a minority in the water, or on land is not easy. Your shell is all you have and the inside of you is soft jelly that will spill out of the tiniest crack and you will be dead.

Krazy Krab is force fed a diet of numerous psych meds which seem to somehow warp and bend his intellect, making him less useful to the snakefish hunters. When dosages are increased or altered, fights break out in the tanks, as the Krazy Krab slams his claws on the plastic that contains him, shouting demeaning insults to the soft shell crabs, small and defenseless, as Krazy Krab, in his insanity, still remains somewhat of a coward. The clams are usually shut tight, as are the mussels, yet the lobsters go wild, straining against the ties on their huge claws, threatening to snap off Krazy Krab’s spiny arms. Even the tiger prawns, usually pacifists, refuse to accept Krazy Krab’s behavior. They, the shrimp, the most peace loving of all the shellfish, who only seek to unite the underwater world, rather than divide it, are tested by Krazy Krab’s insolent behavior, and lose their pinky patience and refuse to tolerate it. A few tiger prawns even organized a hunger strike, that proved unsuccessful, as they were eaten by restaurant patrons before the act of nonviolent protest had any real impact on the fish and shellfish community.

Krazy Krab was not born insane, but made so by the system of tanks, the water that was not properly oxygenated, the lack of privacy, the meds unnecessarily prescribed, increasing his paranoia, as his huge body is constantly on display, not knowing when the day would come that it would be time for him to leave the tank. The boiling vat awaits him. It could be a wedding, a funeral, an office party. It could be any day now. Krazy Krab attaches numbers to the days, making the world turning on its axis, each revolution, incredibly important. Krazy Krab lives life to the fullest for he knows not how little he has left, as do none of us, whether we live in a tank, or a penthouse.