The Egg Said Nothing Read online

  I went down the sidewalk slowly, trying not to think. Walking by the Laundromat, I looked up. The place was nearly empty, its fluorescent lights exposing a desert of laminated flooring and thirty-year-old machines. A single figure stood near the front door, facing the street. He looked familiar. I paused momentarily, not long enough for my feet to adhere to the sidewalk. Not long enough to consider getting caught in a conversation. Staring at my feet, I carried on.

  I felt the cement beneath the soles of my shoes and the breeze on my skin, brushing gently against me like someone else’s lover. Urging me. Coaxing me. My body wandered until it found a patch of grass next to a gas station, an odd little piece of ground that seemed to resist the impending urbanization. I leaned back on the grass, the blades tickling the nape of my neck. I might have fallen asleep.

  My body stirred. It climbed to its feet. The night was unbalanced, a balloon with a marble inside. Anything felt possible. If I were to lift right off the ground, I wouldn’t blink. If my egg were to hatch, I’d expect it.

  I walked into Pete’s Diner. I often do. It’s the only place open all night long. Sometimes I can’t sleep and can’t stand my own company; Pete’s offers the anonymity of a public place late at night. It’s like a bus station or the parking lot of a casino. I slumped down in a booth near the door and closed my eyes.

  A rustling lifted my eyelids. I looked up and saw pale blue eyes on a pale white face, framed in lustrous black hair. Her lips were like a silent film starlet’s, plump and pink. She opened her mouth to speak, lifting the curtain on straight, braces-in-high-school teeth, but one of them was chipped. The left canine. Chipped like ice crags on Everest.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, flipping the page on her order pad. Remnants of food were crusted on the front of her apron.

  “Uh,” I started. I reached deep in my pocket and grasped at the change. Pulling it out, I set it on the table like an offering. “Coffee?”

  “Just coffee?” Her eyes met mine; I died six times.

  “Um, yeah,” I replied. “And pie?”

  “Pie? What kind?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said softly. I looked away, fearful that if I didn’t I’d lose myself. Then I looked back quickly, realizing I just didn’t care. Her face was the last one I ever wanted to see.

  “Okay,” she said with no hesitation. She walked away, and I watched her do so. She had good balance and control over herself. She slid more than walked, like fluid. She moved like summer wind. Her hair ended just above the middle of her back, the bounce of her step sending a shimmer like a stone skipping across a still pond. I closed my eyes then, trapped her in my head:

  The waitress slid into the booth next to me. Her thigh hit mine. I felt her warmth, like a campfire in the snow. She reached out and separated the coins into dollar increments. Her fingers with their flaking polish danced across the table, bringing order to disorder. “Coffee and pie,” she said. She walked back to the kitchen and came back almost instantly. Her apron was gone, in its place a black tank top. She sat down two plates and a cup. The caramel colored coffee was sweet and warm. I slid my hand behind her neck, underneath all that hair. Pulling her close, I smelled something I couldn’t identify, something wonderful. Her lips met mine. I inhaled her exhale and ran my hand up the side of her leg to the small of her back. She let her jacket drop to the floor and eased onto my bed. I watched her come toward me, her eyes on my eyes, sky blue nightmares boring into me like barbed needles. She unbuttoned her pants, and I kicked them off with my feet. In the moonlight streaming through the window, I saw the creamy flesh of her legs respond to the chill of the room. She pulled the blankets over herself and pushed her body into mine. She touched my chest with both hands as I let my fingers explore her back, the taut, trim muscles alive just under her skin.

  “Here you go,” she said, sliding a plate of pie and an empty mug in front of me. She filled the cup from a carafe, which she left on the table. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks.” I said quietly, giving her all the smile I could muster. I looked down at the pie, the gelatinous filling spilling over microwaved crumbles. I took a sip of bitter coffee. The pool of liquid in my mouth cooled before I swallowed it. I watched the waitress and took a tentative bite of pie. As I chewed, she wiped off tables, brushing errant crumbs to the floor.

  The remainder of the pie glared up at me like a bad decision. Like a carpet stain. Like an impossibility.

  I set my fork down on the edge of the plate. Rising from my seat, I looked in the waitress’s direction. She caught my gaze and smiled.

  “Night,” she said, her back bent slightly as she rearranged the saltshaker and bottle of ketchup. I smiled back at her and turned towards the door. No bell jingled as I walked out, though I felt that one ought to have had. The air was cooler on my face than it had been on my way there. I walked across the street and paused upon reaching the other side. As I turned, I saw her pick up my dishes. Her face was as blank as if she were at work, cleaning up after a stranger. I headed home.

  My feet carried me to my building. I walked straight for the elevator and was on my way to my safe haven, the place where I could sit and think. Elevator doors slid open, revealing the dimly lit hallway and—

  “Oh, fuck.”

  The mugger. Waiting outside my door with his goddamned shovel. He looked surprised to see me. I was surprised as shit to see him. He grinned and lifted the tool, testing its weight in his hands. He rushed toward me. I pressed the elevator’s down arrow and the doors began to close. He jabbed the head of the shovel into the elevator. Instinctively, I grabbed the business end and pulled up and away. It slid easily out of his hands.

  Baffled, he looked down at his empty paws before charging me. I pirouetted out of the way, pretty fucking gracefully for a guy with a shovel, and darted out of the elevator. The asshole turned around, made another run at me. I wound up like Jose fucking Canseco and clanged that motherfucker right in his forehead. His legs swung from underneath him, all pendulum-like. He lay still on the ground.

  I took a step away and helped myself to a deep breath. The garden tool felt familiar, like an old friend. I walked around the motionless body.

  “Hey, you stupid fuck, apologize for frightening me so.” I kicked his leg. “Apologize or I’m gonna clang you in the fucking teeth.” He didn’t respond. I clanged him in the fucking teeth.

  I dropped the shovel and bent over his face. Whatever he looked like before, he was a Picasso now. He’d have to steal a lot of purses to pay for the reconstructive surgery he’d need. I reached over and flicked him on the nose. Nothing.

  “Huh,” I said aloud. “Maybe you’ll think a little harder before you try to fuck with somebody you don’t know.”

  I soon reconsidered my brash statement. It didn’t appear he’d be thinking about much of anything, ever again. He couldn’t stay there, all lifeless and soaking into the carpet. Taking hold of his feet, I dragged him down the hallway. I leaned him against the back wall of the waiting elevator and tossed his shovel in after him. After pressing the down button, I watched as the doors closed and one of my problems disappeared into the bowels of the slum I called home.

  Should I call the police? I wondered. Nah.

  I shrugged my shoulders and walked into my apartment. Locking the door behind me, I immediately started telling the egg about the waitress.

  ~Chapter 3~

  In which the narrator calls a telephone psychic.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” I said quickly and quietly to the egg. “She was so beautiful. Like Clara Bow.” I sat on the edge of the bed and grasped the egg with both hands. Carefully, I lifted it from its nest and cradled it gingerly in my arms.

  I carried the egg over to the couch and placed it in the corner. It looked very comfortable. I hurried back to the bedroom, grabbed a blanket off the bed and wrapped it securely around the egg’s exposed surface.

  Sitting down, I reached across the coffee table with my fo
ot and kicked gracelessly at the remote.

  After looking over at the egg, I flicked the television on. We sat there in the dark, the egg and I, answering television game show questions incorrectly for a few blissful minutes. I smiled, feeling like something was going right.

  “Do you have questions about the future?” the television asked. “Do you want to know what fate has in store for you?”

  I blinked.

  “Don’t hesitate, call now. Qualified psychics are standing by.” The shot panned out to reveal a heavily made up woman in front of a crystal ball. I glanced over at the egg, stood up and ran to the phone in the kitchen. Squinting at the television screen, I punched in the phone number.

  It rang.

  “Thank you for calling American Psychics Limited. Please hold the line for your personal, qualified psychic.” There was a pause, then the line started to ring again. I looked into the living room; the egg was still sitting there.

  “This is Madame Rain. What do you want to know about the future?” asked a thickly accented voice on the other end of the line. Eastern European, I thought. I was quiet, not knowing what to say.

  “Hello? Is there anybody there?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said.

  “Ah, there you are. There is no need to be nervous. Is this your first time?”

  “First time calling a television psychic?” I asked. “Yeah.”

  “Do you have a question you’d like answered, or do you just want a general forecast?”

  “General forecast.”

  “Well, okay. I sense that you’re nervous. You have a big secret that you’re keeping hidden inside. You’re going through some changes in your life.

  “There’s even more to it than you comprehend. There are others who know about what you’re going through, people you don’t know but who you’ll meet in the near future. They’re aware of your situation and are looking to harm you. But you must not be afraid. You have the power to overcome the obstacles you will soon be facing.

  “Your love life is picking up, I see. You’ve recently met someone? You will have a tumultuous relationship with her. Try confiding your secret to her. You can trust her. And telling her will only bring you closer. It will take more than that to scare off someone so devoted to you.

  “In the very near future, you will be involved in some very stressful situations. I see that, deep inside, you have the strength and power to overcome them, but you must call upon that strength yourself. No one else is going to do it for you. It is most important that you listen to what I am saying.

  “I am sorry I have gone on for so long. There was so much to tell you. Your future is most exciting. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Lottery numbers?” I asked, looking for a pen.

  She sighed. “Seven, five, thirteen, twenty-seven, and four.”

  “Alright, thanks. That’ll do.” I hung up the phone, returned to the living room. Be honest, I thought, looking at the egg. There are people who mean me harm.

  Reclaiming my seat on the couch, I stared up at the ceiling. It would be worth it if I ended up with the waitress.

  “Should we tell her about you?” I asked the egg. Could she possibly understand? Could anyone? I wasn’t even sure yet if I did.

  I stretched out on the cushions, placing myself as a barrier between the egg and certain doom. “We may be fucked, Egg, but if we are, I’ll get fucked first. I promise.”

  ~Chapter 4 ~

  In which the narrator keeps his egg warm and kind of weirds out the waitress.

  The egg was surprisingly warm when I woke up. My arms were wrapped protectively around it. With some shoulder work, I was able to untangle my sleeping arms from their treasure. The egg rolled lazily into the corner of the couch, safe and secure.

  I moved to my bed and rebuilt the egg’s nest. The heater went back to the top of its stack of boxes, set on low. I gathered the egg and its blanket from the couch and tucked them in.

  Searching the floor, I found an unwashed button-down and a pair of jeans. After dressing quickly, I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Not much of anything.

  I picked my keys up off the table, walked into the bedroom and gave the egg a kiss on its shell. I rotated it and left, locking the door several times behind me.

  When I got to the street, the sun was starting to set. I had slept much later than I thought. Cutting away from the main thoroughfares, I took to the alleyways that run parallel to it, through nearby residential neighborhoods. The makeshift roadways were devoid of life, beautifully empty like a junkie on detox.

  I stalked through the internal organs of the neighborhoods, one after the other, like a ghost. I glanced through windows and took note of everyday human life. As I walked, I realized where I was. Looking to my right, I saw Pete’s.

  Inside, the waitress seemed concerned. Not for me, but for her safety. She bit the inside of her lower lip, betrayed only by the subtlest of movements in her soft flesh. Her eyes jerked back and forth between me and the path away from me. Her breath came slowly and deliberately, like an animal listening for a predator’s footsteps.

  “Just coffee and pie, please.”

  “Um, what kind?” she asked, relieved that I’d said something for which she was prepared. Her hands quickly scribbled on her notepad, too many words for what I had requested.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said and ran both hands over my hair. Staring at the table, I listened to her footsteps fade away. I didn’t look up.

  For the first time, I smelled her. I can’t describe the smell. Flowery, yet somehow musty, like a beautiful woman with the soul of an old book. The plate slid in front of me. Cherry pie. She set a mug down and filled it with coffee.

  “Anything else?” she asked, somewhat nervously. Her hand gripped the coffee pot.

  “No,” I said, looking up at her. I met her pale eyes with my own. She looked back, and I thought I saw a hint of something other than revulsion behind her self-protectively glassy stare. As though she might have the capacity to understand what I felt. She gave me a tight-lipped half smile and broke the connection, walking away quickly.

  I didn’t bother to pick up the fork. I wasn’t going to eat. I didn’t blow the steam off the coffee. I wasn’t going to drink.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty and laid it out on the table, anchoring it with the mug. I slid across the bench seat and stood on weak, wobbly legs. Turning my body towards the door, I started my move, walking slowly, deliberately, determined to appear, even from the outside, like I had a place to be.

  Pausing in front of the door, I stood for thirty seconds or so. Through the glass, everything looked better. The place my body occupied suddenly felt cheap and transient, a temporary dwelling in a disposable world. I caught a faint reflection of my own dark brown eyes, and that was enough for me to push forward, to leave my confines and move on.

  “Hey,” a soft voice said from behind me. Rapid footsteps approached. I stopped and turned halfway. I was confused. The waitress stood there, bathed in her interesting smells, looking like she just stepped out of another world. The light from the diner glowed behind her.

  “I left the money on the table,” I said. My eyes fell on her shoulder—covered in the white cloth of her shirt—then moved up to her face.

  “You forgot your receipt.” She extended her hand with all of its perfectly sculpted fingers. I wanted to reach out and take the slip of paper, to graze her knuckles with the pads of my fingers, just to touch her skin.

  “I really don’t need it,” I said with a sigh. Her brow relaxed, as though she was bracing herself for something. Her arm was still outstretched. I looked at her, perplexed. I reached out and accepted the ticket, careful to not let my hand touch hers. “Thanks,” I said, finally.

  She smiled her half smile and turned away, moving back through the door into the restaurant. I watched her figure pass by the large window before continuing on my own way.

  I stopped off at the li
quor store and bought two bottles of cheap red wine and carried the paper bag home quickly.

  Once there, I put the bag on the kitchen counter and wandered into the bedroom. The egg was sitting where I left it, looking comfortable and cozy. I ran my fingers over its top.

  In the kitchen, I took the two bottles out of the bag, opened the cabinet and pulled out a wine glass. I felt it in my hand. It was a gift from my mother. She has Alzheimer’s and isn’t aware of anything I do, so I take things out of her apartment to save them. She already threw away all of the family photo albums. My entire photographic past sits in a landfill, buried beneath diapers and coffee grounds. This glass was part of a set my grandmother treasured.