The bulbs glinted across the styrofoam containers: Eggland. Charles knew well from experience that underneath these soft, yet protective, exteriors would be small, unfertilized embryos, marked with a red E, encircled in ink. In another time, maybe, a glyph. Today, the comforts of mass production. He thought often about what effect this marking was supposed to make. Initially, the warmth of the artisan glows within, marked for me. And then it dawns that the labor cost to mark each egg would probably be exorbitant for the artisan, and thoughts of long lines of robotic markers fill Charles’ head. What a strange machine it must be, the egg marker. Mechanical, yet delicate enough to not crack a single egg. Charles consciously elided the many eggs that do get wasted in these industrial processes, sacrifices to a greater god.
On a typical day, Charles took the time to open the carton to inspect each egg for irregularities, sometimes cracks, or discoloration. Today was anything but typical. He had been in a minor car accident, a standard fender-bender and the jackass was on their phone, and his insurance agent could, or would, not answer their phone. He sat there for several tens of minutes before exchanging information with the other and driving off, one tail light less, towards the grocery store, his original destination. Of course, where a policeman was nowhere to be found before, they found him now, indicating with flashing lights that he ought to pull over, which he obliged. He was ticketed for the busted back-end, notwithstanding Charles’ protest. Another 200 bucks he didn’t have, for something he didn’t need. Today was a day, in a long line of days, that gave Charles the sense that something had gone wrong. It might be in the air.
One, then, could forgive Charles’ blind grasp for the nearest carton, its obvious wear blind to him. He grabbed the scant few necessities he would afford himself on the weekday trips like these: enough green things to touch the edge of the food pyramid, enough rice to stretch each meal, and one Snickers, for his drive home from work tomorrow. A common sugared habit of the office worker, Charles often repaid his skipped lunches by a shameful scarfing of candy in the parking lot. On Tuesday, he had bought a Milky Way, but the lack of peanuts left him wanting, even if the velvety mallow center fed a deep, if ingrained, pang from within.
The checkout aisle featured its typical images. Brad and Angelina on or off again, the queen is dying, midwest mother births 12 at once. A somewhat benign byline caught his eye: “I Lost Everything.” After a quick check for prying eyes, Charles thumbed to page B13. It was the story of an elderly man and his leveled house on the Gulf. It seems beach front property is riskier than he expected during hurricane season; Charles grinned coldly to himself and returned the magazine. He then quietly scolded himself for his cruelty.
The rubber treadmill hummed as Charles loaded his few goods. Its hum rang in harmony with the many other dull, constant noises of the local supermarket. The rill of the refrigerator fans, the light twang of wire on wire from shopping carts, the electronic woman trapped inside the self-checkout machine: “don’t forget your receipt.” For Charles, they often induced a soothing somnambulism. When a visit was done, it was as if no time was spent there at all, less 40 bucks for produce.
His teller was familiar, he may have asked their name once, and may have been provided it, but he certainly did not know it now.
“Find everything you needed?”
“Never need much.” Charles quipped, and a sullen chuckle hollowed from the teller. Charles always was unsure about riding the line between professionalism and humanism in these small connections. He then remembered how deeply he loathed most conversations in the office, and would settle on a quiet head nod in response to further questioning. It was paper, then, and he left with his wares.
Later in the evening now, and the sun had given way to violet dusk. The way was now lit by amber streetlamps. Charles thought contentedly of his dinner. There were several left-over slices of shepherd’s pie. His father had always crusted his shepherd’s pie with mashed potatoes, a turn that Charles felt was perhaps indulgent, but nonetheless, has stuck with him across the generation. He parked his car and entered his spartan home thinking of the best way to reheat the dish.
He awoke from his day-dream to his fridge, the prospect of ushering his groceries into it, and the dawning realization that he had not checked his eggs. With a gossamer touch, he removed the carton from the bag, and unsheathed them. In the center of the back row, an egg had cracked. Its contents had ran across several of its neighbors. On a typical day, his teller would check, as a back-up, for any broken eggs, but that was not today. Charles sat, struggling to breath. In his mind, the air had gone soupy.