01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

02. Theme
–

Resentment

03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Ryota Kozuka:
Camp Ichigaya

04. WRITING
–

     When I woke in the morning, there was a large black egg resting on the kitchen counter. It was chalky and scuffed, like an oval-shaped chunk of moon dipped in dark ink. The sight of it was jarring among the rest of my tiny apartment in a way that made it difficult to register. It looked wildly out of place here, but I can’t imagine a place where it would look like it belonged. 

     I carefully lifted up the object and found the touch of it surprisingly warm. It was about the size of a squash and equally heavy. You’re certainly not a rock, I thought, and I don’t think you’re a seed. But you’re no sort of egg I’ve ever seen. What are you?

     My mind started backtracking, running through any and all possible explanations as to what this was or how it got here. Was it some sort of prank? Did I bring this home in a drunken stupor from some strange vendor? Did I simply forget that this object has been here with me this whole time? The problem was, of course, that none of these explained it away. There was no sign of entry--no windows or doors left open or unlocked, nothing stolen, nothing else out of place. I wasn’t drinking last night, so my memory was in fine shape. I had a perfectly normal day. Worked, grabbed a few groceries on my way home, and read in bed until I fell asleep. 

     I wracked my brain further, but it got me nowhere. Besides that, I didn’t have time to think about it now. If anything, I was now a few minutes behind schedule and I found myself unnerved by the sudden appearance of this thing I couldn’t deal with. I scarfed down a quick breakfast (a slice of toast, an orange, and half a cup of coffee), and got ready for work. As I hurried out the door I thought I saw the object on the kitchen counter wobble ever so slightly, but I could have been mistaken as I was in a rush and didn’t get a good look.

     The subway was crowded, too crowded to find a seat. I stood between a man who kept sniffling loudly and another mouth breather with a bad case of morning breath. At least I could drown out some of the annoyance with my headphones--if I didn’t forget them at home while I was frantically trying to get out the door. I groaned. The ride lasted too long and everyone seemed to be on edge the entire way, packed away tightly like gunpowder ready to go off.

     As soon as the doors opened I pushed my way through. A brisk walk later and I was at work, slightly out of breath. Nobody said a word when I rolled in, so I assumed I wasn’t late. This was a mistake, of course. As I was draping my coat over my chair and getting ready to start, someone coughed behind me. It was a “trying-to-get-your-attention” cough. Nothing good ever follows those coughs. I contemplated ignoring it. My day would be objectively better if I didn’t receive whatever news was coming. I knew this wasn’t an option, however.

     “Morning, Mr. Brock,” I said.

     “What time is it?” His question came the split second I had finished saying his name, as if these few precious seconds were being stolen from him by having to interact with me.

     I glanced at my watch. “8:02, sir.”

     “What time does your shift start?”

     “Right now, sir.”

     “No,” he said firmly. Brock barely moved a muscle when he spoke. It was like watching an old statue learn how mutter sounds. “It starts at eight o’clock. Don’t make a habit of this.” And then he left.

     I sat down and began taking calls. 

     Most of the people I talk to fall into one of three categories. There’s the abhorrent, horrid customers. These are the ones that have a knack for exploding over things that are wildly out of your control at the bottom of the proverbial food chain. Then there’s the casually-cold, unfriendly types. They won’t curse you out or raise their voice, but you can tell they’re just looking for a reason to. And finally, there’s the ones that prefer to make the calls as quick and painless as possible. These types still aren’t a joy, but they at least get it over with fast. 

     The vast majority fall in the first and second categories.

     Selling insurance is the equivalent of being a punching bag. Follow the script, take your blows on the chin, and keep it moving. Nothing more than bodies to take the verbal abuse that the higher-ups deserve. 

     It’s a gig, right?     Several hours later and I’ve been berated enough to nearly forget about the black egg that appeared on my kitchen counter this morning. Can’t really stop and worry about it when I have to keep the calls, and the money, coming in. Worry about being able to pay your bills first, I tell myself. And then worry about your boss, about whether you’re expendable (I am, we all are), and what you’d do if something happened.

     Treading water, indefinitely. That’s what it feels like.

     My brain is cluttered enough with other things to worry about. There’s no room left for whatever it is that’s back at my house on the kitchen counter, waiting. I take another call and am immediately drowned out by the angry wailing of an old man, upset over something several leagues out of my control.

     For some reason I stop for groceries again on my way home despite the fact that I went yesterday. I tell myself I’m just being responsible, that I had forgotten a few things, that it’ll save me a trip later. It works to an extent, but deep down I know I’m putting off going home for as long as I can because all that awaits is one more problem to deal with. 

     The egg is still on the kitchen counter when I return. It hasn’t moved an inch. The sight of it, especially after today, makes my stomach sour. I realize now I didn’t truly have any time to process its appearance this morning, almost as if I could have imagined it in a groggy haze this morning. Now that I’m home with time to digest this fact I feel a thick, syrupy claustrophobia just being around it. Like I’m trapped in a sinking mire, slowly plummeting with nothing to grab hold of. Without even putting the groceries away I feel the object again and wonder if I’m just imagining things or if it really is warmer than when I felt it this morning. 

     I don’t know what to do with it so I don’t do anything. It stays where I found it. Perhaps it’ll suddenly disappear as quickly as it showed up. I tell myself this over and over knowing that it’s foolish, but right now I’m home and I only have a few hours to myself to let my brain shut off and not worry about anything else. The mind only has so much mental energy in a given day and once it’s gone it’s gone. By the time I get home every day I am drained and empty, and you can’t argue with emptiness. 

     I watch movies all night. The images flash over my eyes and I register the sounds coming from my tv, but it all washes over me like raindrops down a window pane. I absorb none of it. At some point in the middle of the night I hear a muffled pecking noise, but I ignore it and try to go back to sleep. 

     I arrive at work the next day at 7:57, three minutes before my shift starts. Mr. Brock remarks that I am “cutting it a little close” but turned and left before I could respond. There is no pleasing that man, I realize. It’s the same with sales. Bad sales are, obviously, upsetting. But good sales are just an excuse to push harder and further. They don’t bring contentment or celebration or a moment’s rest. They bring new goals that must be met, but at the same pay and with the same amount of workforce.

     These days it feels like my coworkers converse even less than normal, like anything spoken to someone other than a customer is forbidden. Maybe it is, to an extent. I am not close with any of these people, but I wish I had some meaningless small talk to keep my mind off the crack forming on the outside of the egg I saw this morning. I try to keep my mind off of it but it permeates my every thought, and I fumble several calls as I am unable to focus. Words become noise and lose meaning and these people do not like to repeat themselves if you don’t listen correctly the first time. It’s not that I’m not listening, it’s that I’m listening to too many things at once and I can still hear that muffled pecking like a metronome in the back of my head. 

     After work I desperately need a drink. I tell myself I deserve it, that it’ll help ease my mind for a moment. The dive bar is dark and mostly empty and I spend a good chunk of my night nursing a couple drinks and munching on the complimentary nuts while reading a book I had with me. I don’t want to be at home, so I drag out those couple drinks for as long as I can. A baseball game murmurs on the television and the bartender doesn’t make much noise except the occasional scrubbing of glasses. It’s a decent way to put off things I’d rather not deal with. 

     The crack has grown by the time I return home, splintered like cobwebs around the top of the black egg. I assume it won’t be long before whatever is inside finds its way out. The sight of it makes me dizzy so I turn off the kitchen light and retreat to the couch. Its oval silhouette is still visible against the darkness in the room, a disfigured shadow amongst other shadows. It makes me think of a home intruder hiding in the darkness. I ponder this and decide it’s an accurate description.

     A week passes by in a hazy blur. Mr. Brock reminds me every day that I’m cutting it too close when I arrive just a minute or two before my shift, the calls all blend together, and I barely manage to pay my bills with anything left over. One night I come home to find a paper tucked inside my apartment door. It is the landlord of the complex, thanking his residents for their continued punctuality on rent payments followed by a statement explaining that rent would be going up again in a couple months. This happens once or twice every year. All of the residents here, including myself, have come to expect this.

     Forever treading water. Always back to square one. Nothing on the horizon except more horizon.

     I’m becoming a regular at the dive bar. This should concern me but it’s become the “highlight” of my day. I find that this is when my mind is most shut off, and that’s all I can hope for these days. I order the same thing every time, sometimes mindlessly watching the tv, sometimes perusing my phone, sometimes reading. I still have barely heard the bartender speak a word, and this is fine by me. 

     At the end of the week the cracks have spread down the sides of the strange black egg. At night I hear whatever is inside pecking away, muffled and monotone, keeping me awake. The uneasy feeling it gives me is coagulating with viscous resentment. That gunpowder feeling beneath my skin. I don’t have the time or energy leftover to deal with this burden. 

     In the following afternoon I daydream solutions to this problem in between phone calls. I devise a plan to take the thing far away and leave it. Maybe some woods, I think. Leave it and never think of it again. Effectively turn this entire situation into nothing more than a bad dream that I can forget ever happened. 

     The day goes by normal enough until Mr. Brock announces we have to stay late tonight for a meeting.

     “And before you ask, it is not paid overtime,” he states. 

     The meeting is pointless fluff. All the basics are covered--how the company is doing, things we can do to make the work environment better (none of which include better wages, better hours, vacation time, etc), how to get sales up, and so on. It is painfully obvious that our boss is only doing this because his boss required him to so they can at least pretend to be communicative and care about their employees. Despite making ourselves miserable just to scrape by, the takeaway from these meetings is always that we haven’t done enough. After some time I zone out, my mind having spent all its energy for the day. Maybe Mr. Brock noticed this, and asks me a question that I don’t hear, probably some roundtable fluff where I’m supposed to give a generic answer about the work environment or the company. He calls my name again, snapping me out of it, and I ask him to repeat his question.

     “Are you with us?” he asks instead. “Or has your mind left the building?” His voice remains a lifeless statue-esque tone. “Let me tell you something--these meetings aren’t for me. They’re for you. For all of you. I’m doing this because I care. I want to see the company improve. I want to see you all improve. I already know all the numbers and graphs and data that I’m sharing with you all today. You don’t. So again, let me be clear. I’m doing this for you. Be grateful. And pay attention. Or, I can get someone else to take your spot. It’s that simple. Is this clear?”

     The entire ride home I am too livid to think straight. I resent my job and my boss and the black egg at home. I resent and I resent and I resent. I change course for the dive bar instead. It isn’t until after I’ve slammed a couple drinks and pay my tab that I get a notification on my phone that I’ve overdrafted my account and now have to pay a fee on top of everything else. Being poor is expensive, I realize. I leave feeling even worse than when I arrived. Treading water.

     I stumble inside my apartment, buzzed and angry and ready to pass out and forget the entire day ever happened. Without even bothering to turn on the lights I head straight for the couch, half asleep before I even make it. As I walk past the kitchen something catches my eye in the darkness. I stop. 

     On the counter are large chunks of something I can’t quite identify. They are nearly indistinguishable from the darkness of the room. I pick a piece up. One side is rough and chalky, the other is wet and dripping with something viscous. I realize I am a fool for not piecing it together sooner. The bottom of the black egg rests there like a bowl with jagged edges, the top half of it shattered, its pieces scattered around it.

     From the other room I hear a faint noise. Something like a wheeze, but more guttural. Painful. It happens again and again, as if forming a tempo. 1, 2, 1, 2. In and out. I’m frozen and wondering if I shouldn’t just leave now and never look back. The croaking continues, the only noise or movement in the house. I am unsure how long I stood still. My head and stomach were spinning and I had to grip the chair just to stay up.

     I crept into the next room, following the noise. A shape stood out in the darkness, rested on the floor in the middle of the room. The thing that was wheezing must have noticed my presence because it started to get louder, and the inky black shadow seemed to shift its look towards me. I fumbled against the wall for the light switch and flipped it on. 

     It was all mouths, and no eyes. Gaping holes with a gumless teeth were dotted around its entire elongated head like spots of disease had eaten away at it. The mouths surrounded a crude, ancient-looking beak in the center of its face, all of them painfully wheezing in and out like every breath was causing intense strain. Its skin looked like it was made of tar, still wet and dripping from the embryonic contents of its egg. It crawled on all four, its body somewhere between bird and reptile, like its shoulders should have wings but they didn’t grow properly while the rest of the body was designed to crawl and slither. Some of its digits were talons, others were like half-formed glumps of tissue and muscle that looked like weren’t yet ready for the outside world. Its tail lazily furled and unfurled as it looked in my direction. 

     The creature cocked its head to the side as if it were curiously pondering a question, and then struggled its way over towards me. This thing had only existed in the outside world for moments, but it looked like every second of its existence was agonizing. It moved slowly across the floor, every reach forward like it was climbing uphill and desperately trying to hold on. I froze. It wheezed and wheezed. It struggled on, its belly sliding across the floor as it moved, leaving a trail of fluid behind it as it went. The mouths clacked in between exasperated breaths, like it was hoping to eat anything that came its way. 

     When it finally reached me, it clung to my leg and wouldn’t let go.

     I let the boss call me for several days before I finally answered. The thought of Mr. Brock becoming increasingly angry day after day, wondering where I was or why I wasn’t showing up for work, gave me a certain sense of joy. When I finally answered he seemed unable to speak, perhaps surprised to finally hear from me.

     “Where have you been?” he asked after a pause.

     “At home,” I said as simply as I could while laying out a plate of food on the floor.

     “You had better have a very good excuse as to why you have been missing your shifts.”

     “I’ve been busy,” was all I said. I knew he could catch the petty cheerfulness dripping from my tone. The creature clawed at the pile of raw meat on the plate, and then stuck it in its many mouths, starting with the beak in front. 

     “I--you--this, this is not a very good excuse. But, as you know, I’m a level-headed and understanding man. Generous, you could say. Come in right now or you can kiss your job goodbye. This is your last chance. You need this job.”

     “I have everything I need,” I said, and hung up. 

     The creature had already grown over twice its size in under a week. Through trial and error I’ve found it prefers its diet to be raw. Sometimes I let it outside at night to feed on whatever it can find (it has learned to move fairly quickly already, and, despite its lack of eyes seems to be perfectly capable of finding whatever it needs). After a few moments it has cleared the plate but continues clawing at it, perhaps in hopes that I’ll notice and refill it. I pick up the plate and the creature nips at the sleeve of my shirt, which I now notice I haven’t changed in nearly a week. Its beak catches a pinch of skin and I start to bleed but I am sure this was on accident. The dishes are overflowing in the sink. I add one more to its tower. The creature scurries off, its mouths clacking away. Even its breathing has grown exponentially stronger, the wheezing decreased.

     The fridge is nearly empty, but this causes me no worry. In a few weeks more bills will arrive, but instead of wondering how I will handle them I find myself wondering how much more the creature has grown by then. My priorities are shifted, and this excites me. My entire life has been without purpose; nothing more than treading water. But this has changed. I have found something to hold onto. Something that needs me. I am no longer treading water. I have everything I need.