In Stockton, CA there is a crayfish man.
I learned of his legend from an ex. Her mom wanted to have a crayfish boil and just happened to have connections in the Cambodian food community. So, we drove 3 hours to a specific park in Stockton.
“Isn’t this kind of far?” I asked.
“Yeah, but that’s where the crayfish man is.” She answered.
Apparently, he comes every other Wednesday during the summer to a park. He shows up when he shows up and leaves when he runs out. The information for this cryptid of a man also came with an ominious warning.
“Don’t ask where the crayfish came from.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re already asking questions. Stop that.”
The park was nondescript. A large field in the middle of a residential neighborhood. No fences, no playground equipment, no baseball diamond. Just grass and, thankfully, trees. Stockton, like all of central california, is miserable in the summer. While not quite the affront to god that Las Vegas or Phoenix is, it’s still my deeply held belief that a witch must have cursed this land in retribution for some horrible deeds committed by cruel mortal men. The trees, at least, prevented me from melting under the sun’s vindictive glare.
We walked to one edge of the park and sat against the trunk of a large fir, facing the street. About a dozen other people were similarly situated, apparently awaiting the arrival of same apparition.
How would he make himself known? Would he walk? Bike? Surely, that was too mundane for the crayfish man. He’d probably he driving a sled pulled by crustaceans the size of clydesdales like a mud-bug Santa Claws.
We continued to wait. The sun had moved past it’s zenith but the heat hadn’t received the message yet. More people arrived at the park, playing, walking dogs, kicking a soccer ball around. More people also clustered near our vigil as well. There had to be twice as many people now than when we arrived. How could everybody get their crayfish at this rate? My suspicions of magic deepened.
Finally, he arrived. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but this wasn’t the first rodeo for the patient cohort around me. It was… notvwhat I expected.
A van pulled up. A white one. One that had seen better days. One that probably made a guest appearance on Unsolved Mysteries back in the day during a reenactment. Out popped a man. Just an ordinary man. I realized that part of me was hoping that he would be dressed like the Gordon’s Fisherman. My expectations of magic were quickly falling.
The man walked around to the back of the van where a queue was already forming. He opened the large doors wide, revealing burlap sacks stacked halfway to the roof. Several crayfish who had already freed themselves from itchy, brown confinement, some the size of modest lobsters, used the opportunity to escape their execution. Those at the front of the line chased after any that tumbled off the bumper. Men, women, and children all quickly descended on the fugitives. Every one that was recaptured was then returned to their warden, the crayfish man, like a ritual offering.
He started pulling out the burlap sacks and handing them off to those who awaited in supplication. He grunted as he bent over and pulled them to the open van doors so someone else could extract their portion of the treasure. Everyone who took a bag had some family member leave behind some cash. Then it was our turn. I got the bag and thanked the man. She left the cash and thanked him in Cambodian. I threw the bag over my shoulder, and we walked to our own vehicle together to reconvene with the rest of her family.
“Well, that was an experience,” I said as I carefully dropped the wriggling burlap sack into the trunk. “This has to be about 50 pounds, I’m not sure if we can even eat this much.”
“You say that now, but it’ll be different after we cook it.”
“How much did it cost, anyway?” I asked.
“$20,” She answered.
And with that, my belief in magic received a hearty boost.
submitted by /u/PonderousPenchant
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