The Egg Said Nothing - Caris O'Malley [2]
Rattled by the conversation, I returned to the bedroom, sat down in front of my egg. This was too much. I had laid an egg, for fuck’s sake. How could I be expected to deal with telephone psychos and the very real issue in the middle of my bed? For lack of anything better to do, I reached out and touched it, feeling the shell with my fingers.
I didn’t experience any real tenderness toward it, more like a sense of responsibility. The egg was akin to a child, an unwilling, unknowing collection of matter, thrust into a nasty world. Imagine, for a moment, what it’s going to be like for whatever’s inside that egg. Even if it’s human, life is going to be hard. How do you explain to a kid that he was hatched from an egg? After they’re like ten, I mean. Before that, it doesn’t really matter what you say.
The phone rang. I stood up and walked into the kitchen. “Hello?” I grumbled.
“You should eat it.”
“You’re an asshole.” I hung up the phone.
Reluctantly, I left my apartment. I didn’t want to leave my egg. What if it hatched? But it was a risk I had to take. Call me negligent. I don’t know you, so I don’t care what you think of me. And, honestly, I wouldn’t care if I did know you.
As I moved along, I wondered if anyone on this street had ever laid an egg. Had anyone in the world? Had anyone here killed anyone? It’s probably more likely. On a big enough scale, everything is less weird than something else. It’s more probable for me to have laid and egg than for me to have laid a perfect twelve-inch replica of the Statue of Liberty. Which, in itself, is a thousand times more likely than laying a perfect functioning replica of Ivan Raimi.
But no one here had laid an egg. It’s lonely knowing you’re the only one living your life. When there’s no one to commiserate with, there’s no one who can possibly understand you. Even the guy who spawned the mini Lady Liberty has no idea what it’s like to lay an egg.
I fished about forty-five dollars out of the fountain in front of the bank. Not enough to cover the bills, but enough to postpone termination of services. Especially when you talk about your new baby and the effect it’s having on your finances. You can do this a lot because the electric company has no idea how many kids you have.
When I returned home to check on the egg, there was a message on the answering machine.
“Salt, pepper and chives. Add a little cream to make it nice and fluffy and eat the goddamn thing. You must destroy it. All of you—”
I pressed the delete button and walked into my bedroom. The egg was still there. I turned the egg on its axis, so that the other side could get some heat. It seemed content, that egg.
Leaving my apartment again, I headed downtown. I hit the fountain on Broadway and Fourth. Sixteen dollars and seventy-five cents.
I walked along the street absentmindedly, watching cars drive by.
After a few blocks, I turned around. Sure, a part of me wanted to forget everything, to clear my head, but there were things to be dealt with, decisions to be made.
* * *
When the elevator didn’t immediately respond to the call button, I took the stairs. They’re not properly maintained. Half of the bulbs are burned out, and the ones that function don’t really compensate. The walls are coated with cheap, dark wallpaper that only soaks up more light.
I almost didn’t see him. He was leaning against a wall, crouched down in one of the darker corners on the third floor landing. The hair on the back of my neck pricked up.
“Hey,” I said, letting him know I knew he was there. He said nothing, but stretched to his full height. He was at least as tall as me, perhaps more so. And he carried a shovel.
I quickened my pace, keeping my eyes on the stairs in front of me, certain now that I was going to get mugged in my own building. His steps were muffled by the thick layer of carpet, a stark contrast to my own on the barren stairs.
I stopped ascending and listened. His steps quickened and got