The Egg Said Nothing - Caris O'Malley [1]
So, while there was nothing to suggest I had laid the egg, I nevertheless felt it was mine. When you lay an egg, you’ll understand.
I went over to my closet and pulled out more blankets. I piled them on my bed and made a nest, then picked up the egg—a good three or four pounds—and placed it in the middle. I considered sitting on it, but also worried about breaking it. Mother birds seem to have softer bottoms. And I’m a father, not a mother.
I wrapped it up in my sweatshirt to keep it warm, careful not to jostle it about too much. I had no desire to scramble my egg.
Picking up my phone off the hanger on the kitchen wall, I dialed a 0. The operator tends to only be marginally more useful than a librarian. At the time, however, she seemed like the best resource.
“Operator,” she answered. “How may I direct your call?”
“Hello,” I responded. “I have a situation and hope you can help me.”
“Okay.”
“It’s like this: I laid an egg this morning, and I’m not sure what to do.”
“You laid an egg?”
“Yes.”
“Like a chicken egg?”
“It’s most definitely not a chicken egg. It’s bigger. And I laid it, not a chicken. It’s a people egg, and I need to know what to do with it.”
“Is this a joke?” she asked, muffling her giggle, I imagine, with her chunky paw.
“Can you direct me to someone or not?”
“You’re serious?”
“Quite.”
“Uh, well, I would suggest calling a doctor. Or maybe the humane society.”
“Please connect me with the humane society.” I have a doctor and already know his number.
“Okay, hold please.”
The line rang. And rang. And rang. And fucking rang because the humane society, which I have since learned is the dog pound, doesn’t have an answering machine—which I wouldn’t have left a message on anyway—and doesn’t staff their goddamned establishment. Of course, they wouldn’t have known what to do with an egg. Dogs don’t lay eggs. I hung up the phone.
I walked over to my bed and uncovered the egg. It looked kind of like me, I think. As much as such a thing can look like a person. It looked like an introspective egg.
“What do I do with you?” I asked the egg.
The egg said nothing.
I reached my hands out and placed them on the shell. It was slightly cool to the touch. This alarmed me. I ran to the bathroom and grabbed a bunch of towels. I soaked them under the hot tap and brought them back to my bed. Wrapping them around the egg, I went in search of my space heater.
I found it in the bathroom, tucked behind the door. I carried it over to my bed and set it down. While I don’t own any chairs, I do own cereal boxes. I hate cereal. Won’t eat it. But I only buy things that are on sale, and cereal is always on sale. I was worried about putting the heater on the bed for fear of it catching fire. It looks like the sort of heater that would catch your bed on fire. And, while I wanted my egg warm, I did not want it to cook. So I went in the kitchen and gathered seven cereal boxes and one box of enriched macaroni product. I stacked them up and put the heater on top. I plugged it in; it whirred to life. After making sure the heat was aimed at my egg, I removed the wet towels and tossed them on the bathroom floor. The phone rang in the kitchen, so I headed for it, watching the egg over my shoulder as I left.
I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey,” a voice said, sounding familiar and foreign at the same time, like when you record yourself speaking.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Oh, give me a break. Who else would call you?”
“Lots of people call me. Who the fuck is this?” My hand felt clammy against the phone’s plastic casing.
“You laid an egg,” the voice said, the accompanying smirk almost audible through the earpiece.
“How do you—” I started.
“It’s not important. You just need to listen.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Your interests are my interests. Pay attention.”
“Wait,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Shut the fuck up, Goddamnit,” he said, his impatience growing.
“How about you shut up? You call me, tell me to listen to you and admit