The Egg Said Nothing (3 page)

“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 liquor 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.

I set the glass on the counter and pulled the wrapping off one of the wine bottles. A cork. I thought for sure there would be a screw top on such cheap shit. I went to the junk drawer and took out a hammer. Tilting the neck of the bottle against the counter’s edge, I gave it a tap, sending glass flying across the countertop.

After pouring a drink, I swirled the liquid around to let the aroma escape. Then I threw back the wine like a shot and smashed the glass on the floor, celebrating my first drink like a Jewish wedding. I wiped the back of my hand on my pants and picked up the bottle. The living room seemed inviting, so I sat down on the couch and stared at the empty television, looking at the reflection of my apartment behind me in the blank screen.

I took a pull of the wine, not caring to avoid the jagged glass. My eyelids drooped. My body was warm, and, for a moment, I didn’t feel alone.

~Chapter 5~

In which the narrator has a real conversation with the waitress.

Prior to the egg’s appearance, I did almost nothing. I would sneak out at night to loot fountains to pay for bills and sustenance. Other than that, I mostly slept a lot and stayed home. Late night television was a good friend of mine. I didn’t talk to anyone. My phone was almost exclusively ornamental, and my computer was only ever turned on to play a few halfhearted games of Minesweeper.

As odd as it all seemed, my life was going somewhere. I felt a desire for human contact for the first time in as long as I could remember. And I couldn’t help but think that the sudden responsibility I felt for the egg, combined with all the violence I had been experiencing, meant something. It was not only that my life was going somewhere; it was that something seemed to dictate its direction.

Deciding to go along for the ride, I left my apartment. I walked down the street and caught a movie. It was an old one, some cheesy sci-fi flick about radioactive weasels. I had no real desire to see it, but it would kill the requisite amount of time. As I left the theatre, I felt tightness in my chest. I was nervous. The heaviness in my feet only made the problem worse. I wanted more than anything to see the waitress again. But I was scared.

If I acted improperly, everything would be lost. All the happiness I fantasized about would be history, or rather, the opposite of history. If I did things right, I had a real shot at it.

Of course, that wasn’t going to be easy. I had no evidence at all that the waitress dug me in any sense of the term. I didn’t even know if she was interested in being a casual acquaintance, let alone a life partner. All I really knew was that she was beautiful, and I wanted her to spend her time with me. It didn’t seem so much to ask.

By the time I made it to Pete’s, my breath was difficult to manage. I was sweating profusely. Looking down to ascertain the condition of my clothes, I realized I was wearing the same ones from yesterday. It wasn’t too bad, I decided. I pushed my way through the door and sat down in the booth next to the one I ordinarily occupied. I looked around the place, keeping my head up for once, and saw a heavyset, middle-aged waitress coming toward me. Suddenly, I became very confused.

She fished a notepad out of her apron. “What’ll it be?” she asked with a slight Texas accent.

“Uh…” I stammered, looking beyond the waitress for a sign of the girl.

“What’s the matter?” She crossed her arms dramatically. Her pen waved like a fan between her fingers as she gave me an exasperated look.

“I’m looking for someone,” I croaked.

“Looking for who?” She turned around and ran her eyes over the entirety of the establishment. “Ain’t more than a handful of people here.”

“Well, waiting for someone, actually,” I replied. Then I exhaled, realizing that the universe was not going to change just because I wanted it to. “The other waitress. The one who usually works at night.”

“She quit. Can I get you something while you wait?” she asked, a little more patiently. “Could be a long time.”

“Coffee, I guess.”

“Coming right up,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen. I suddenly felt tired. This whole thing was going to be a waste. The effort, it seemed, was just too much.

I laid my head down on the table and closed my eyes. The tabletop was cool against my cheek, and it felt good to just stop moving. It seemed all I had been doing was moving from place to place, from emotion to emotion. I had experienced ranges of feeling I didn’t even know I had.

A thin plastic box with some weight to it fell onto the tabletop. I looked up to see the waitress—my waitress—standing there, covered insulated paper cup in her hand. She set the cup down in front of me. “It’s just a little cold, I think.”

I looked into her eyes, not believing what I was seeing. “That lady I just talked to said you quit.”

She swung down into the seat across from me. “I did,” she said nonchalantly.

I was starting to feel as though I was losing touch with everything real. “So, what are you doing here?”

“I thought you’d be back tonight. Seemed a pretty sure thing.” She tugged at a strand of hair in front of her face and twirled it in her fingers, eyeing it carefully. She let it fall and blew it away from her mouth.

“I…” I didn’t know what to say. To admit is to go out on a limb, and limbs get sort of thin the farther away you get from the trunk.

“Right. You come for the pie. And the coffee,” she said sarcastically. “But you never touch any of it.”

I felt my face get warm. “Ah, yeah. That’s about it.”

“Can I be honest with you?” she asked, sounding serious.

“Yes,” I said.

“I think you like me. I think I can tell. I brought you this pie and coffee because you don’t like what’s here.” She paused, gesturing with her hands toward her offerings. “And you look really familiar. Like I used to know you or something. What’s your name?”

It seemed like such a basic question, one we should be past by now. But I was also dying to know hers. To have a word in my vocabulary to indicate what she was.

“Manny,” I said.

“I’m Ashley.” She extended her hand across the table. “Want some pie?”

“Yes,” I said, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life. “What kind?”

“You’ve never cared before. I don’t see why it should matter now.” She unrolled a napkin, sending the utensils inside scattering across the table. She picked up a fork and stabbed at the pie. Pulling up a forkful of pinkish purple goo, she brought it to her mouth.

“Point taken.” I reached across the table and picked up the spoon lying in front of her. I jabbed into the hole she had made and pulled a glob into my own mouth. The sweetness and the tartness attacked my tongue like breath must hit the lungs of someone saved from drowning. I lifted the paper cup and took a sip. “This is hot chocolate.”

“Yeah, I hate coffee,” Ashley said.

“Me, too,” I admitted.

“You do? Why do you always order it?”

“You never gave me a menu. I had to guess,” I said. I searched her face for her thoughts.

“You could have asked.”

“I don’t think you’ve seen yourself,” I said quietly.

“What?” she asked, suddenly interested.

“You’re ridiculously pretty. You know that. I had a hard enough time simply not staring,” I confessed. “Attempting to speak to you was completely out of the question.”

“You’re talking to me now,” she said. “What’s the difference?”

“There’s no difference. I’m terrified right now.”

She smiled. “I quit my job yesterday. But I showed up tonight, with pie. I get bored easily, that’s true. But this is your audition. Wow me.”

“See, that’s the sort of thing I’ll always fail.”

“You’re not competing with anyone, and I already like you.”

“Why?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”

“You’ve got something going on. I have no idea what it is, but it leaves you all angsty looking. It’s kind of exciting. You look troubled, but I don’t get that it’s for the normal reasons,” she said. “And you’re hopelessly cute.”

My face warmed. “I’m glad you came back.”