“That walrus is speaking," was my only thought. To be fair, he did look a lot like a walrus. Beady eyes glistened under the dome of his functionally bald head. His mustache was magnificent. A portly man, he galumphed along, possibly beached, in short shorts and a floral Hawaiian shirt. I watched with growing terror as he snuffled the air and turned towards me, eyes fixed.

“What do you want?" cried the walrus, with a Jersey accent. All I could do was stare, wide-eyed, dumbfounded, as he harrumphed over and released another primal cry.“I… I'd like to apply for a job," I managed to stammer. I quickly thrust my arms up to ward off a blow, maybe a bite, unsure as to the walrus first line of attack.“

"Well, you're in luck, 'cause I own the place. I'm Scott Swanson." He thudded into the seat across from mine. I watched his eyes -- those beastly eyes -- roll from across the great expanse of that blue picnic table. I overcame my fear, coaxing myself into mimicking normal anglo-walrus interaction. I took a calming breath and reached out my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Scott. I'm Br-“

He snatched my half-filled application form from where it had been lying quite forgotten like some kind of rectangular polar landmass afloat in that azure, picnic-ey vastness.

“Let's see here -- Brogan, I like that name. Brogan. Brogan went to… goes to Boston University. What brings you to the Shore this summer?"

It was May. I had just finished my freshman year of college and was living unfettered, solo-like, in my own little basement apartment in Belmar, N.ew Jersey. The Shore. A little late on the summer job-seeking game, I'd been doing the smalltime landscaping gig up and down the block from my place. Each night, after the grass was mowed and the edging neat, I'd been trying my luck applying at every eating establishment with pave-front property. I'd had my hopes up for a job waiting tables; I heard a fella could rake in $200 a night, high season. I hadn't had any real serving experience, but hey, how hard could it be? My job search eventually landed me at Swanson's - a disorderly, nautical, ocean-blue eatery.

“Never mind. Ooo, better question: why are you covered in dirt?"

The walrus proved shrewder than I'd anticipated. From my feet – sneakered, sockless – to my mud-spattered face and leaf-strewn hair, I looked like I'd tunneled my way over.

“I've been doing some landscaping while looking for a job."

“Ooo. Do you like landscaping?"

“Not particularly."

“Not afraid to get dirty; I like that. I make a habit of hiring landscapers. Most of my kitchen landscapes, actually. Speaking of which…"

At this point, the walrus jumped up quickly (a commendable feat for any walrus), and yelled, “You're hired!" Spinning around, he harrumphed back inside, perhaps after a tasty mackerel or cod, or whatever walruses eat.

Unsure of how to proceed, I took a gander at the place. I was seated at a blue picnic table, surrounded by a slew of other blue picnic tables, arranged in rows upon the outdoor front patio of the restaurant. The ceiling overhang had Christmas lights wrapped erratically around its edges and down the columns in the corners. Small American flags were stapled along the front columns. A patriotic, pothead sea captain must have been in charge of setting the décor.

I half-considered taking off and forgetting this place ever existed, when out strolled a long, cool woman in a black dress. She looked about Scott's age, and stood a full head taller. And I mean a large head, like a Neanderthal. Her form was the complete antithesis of the walrus who'd just walked out on me.

She introduced herself as Sharon Swanson - Scott's wife – and said she would show me around. I followed Sharon into the mostly empty restaurant. Two or three girls, all blonde and attractive (“You'll see some waitresses over there," Sharon pointed them out; I felt like I was on safari), were windexing tables and mopping floors and cleaning windows. The long bar was the first thing I noticed: stools poised right in front of the polished wood surface, liquor bottles stacked high behind. Many leafy palm or spider plants were hanging from the rafters, all over the place. Their more sedentary brethren stared up at them from pots along the floor. The ocean-blue motif continued indoors, and the dining room was graced with paper lanterns and some more Christmas lights. A large table piled high with what looked like an assortment of oceanic and far-eastern knickknacks stood just outside of the dining room. A lobster tank, empty, bubbled quietly next to the table. I was told I'd be shown the kitchen later, which I was alright with; I thought I heard the walrus tinkering around in there.

“So, when can you start?"

“Tomorrow, if you like."

“Scott'll like you, I can tell. We could use a good omnibusman. Come at 10 am, no need to bring anything."

Before you could say “Odobenus rosmarus," I was in my truck, driving back to the basement lair to spend the night with Stephen King, a few beers, and an ocean view-

“Goddamn!" I roared, pounding my palm against the steering wheel. I thought I heard it yelp in pain. Even Steve Miller sounded a little unsettled, warbling “Jungle Love" over the radio.

“Omnibusman? Damn. I bet that means I'm bussing tables."