Two weeks ago, Abe Moscowitz dropped dead of a heart attack and was reincarnated as a lobster. Trapped off the coast of Maine, he was shipped to Manhattan and dumped into a tank at a posh Upper East Side seafood restaurant. In the tank there were several other lobsters, one of whom recognized him. �Abe, is that you?� the creature asked, his antennae perking up.
�Who�s that? Who�s talking to me?� Moscowitz said, still dazed by the mystical slam-bang postmortem that had transmogrified him into a crustacean.
�It�s me, Moe Silverman,� the other lobster said.
�O.M.G.!� Moscowitz piped, recognizing the voice of an old gin-rummy colleague. �What�s going on?�
�We�re reborn,� Moe explained. �As a couple of two-pounders.�
�Lobsters? This is how I wind up after leading a just life? In a tank on Third Avenue?�
�The Lord works in strange ways,� Moe Silverman explained. �Take Phil Pinchuck. The man keeled over with an aneurysm, he�s now a hamster. All day, running at the stupid wheel. For years he was a Yale professor. My point is he�s gotten to like the wheel. He pedals and pedals, running nowhere, but he smiles.�
Moscowitz did not like his new condition at all. Why should a decent citizen like himself, a dentist, a mensch who deserved to relive life as a soaring eagle or ensconced in the lap of some sexy socialite getting his fur stroked, come back ignominiously as an entr�e on a menu?
