The Steve Special

A man. His refrigerator. Voices. Omelets. I was asked to write a story about a talking egg for my writing fiction course. Here is the result.

 

The Steve Special

            For the past four nights, I have been hearing voices. Well, one voice is more appropriate, because I have yet to hear a reply. Four times now I have gotten out of bed and crept downstairs, following that faint sound, and four times I have stopped in front of the refrigerator, perplexed. It’s coming from in there. Of course, this is impossible, so I don’t know why I keep walking down here.

            I haven’t opened the door yet when I hear this voice, because I keep imagining some gnome or something tampering with my food, which then leads me to think that I’m probably out of my damn mind. There isn’t any history of mental illness that I know of in my family, but I guess it has to start someplace. Why not with something talking in my refrigerator?

            Other than thinking that I’ve gone soft in the head, I also haven’t had any milk for my cereal, any jelly, no lunch meats… I have a collection of pizza boxes growing next to my trash bucket. That milk is going to go bad soon, and man do I like cereal.

            So here I am again, standing in front of my fridge. My cat is here too, sitting next to me and staring at the door. If she is staring at it, then maybe she hears it too. Or maybe she is just staring at nothing like cats like to do. I don’t know. But here is my problem. Its three a.m., I’m probably going crazy, I’m hungry, and nothing is open. Everything that I have at my house requires something inside this fridge. Butter, milk, jelly, eggs… its all in there, and I’m all out here. So, assuming I’m not crazy and something is living in my fridge, what I’m hoping for here, and this is a long-shot, is that I’m going to open the door, and whatever boogeyman in there tries to jump out at me, my cat will attack with ferocity and save the day. Or at least give me enough time to run screaming out the front door of my house. So, here goes.

            The door is open, and nothing in there is moving or talking. So, there you have it, I’m just bat-s**t crazy. That’s wonderful, I guess it just means my life will slowly deteriorate and I’ll wind up talking to myself on some street corner. But I’m going to make a ham and cheese omelet before that happens, because if I’m going nuts, I’m at least going to eat well before I eat out of dumpsters.

            So, here they are, the eggs, the ham, the milk and the cheese. And a small bit of butter for the bottom of the pan. Now lets just see here, get out some eggs, and---

            “Hey! What’s the big idea! I was sleeping in there, what’s your problem buddy? Do I keep you awake at night while you’re trying to sleep? NooOoooo… Cut a guy a little privacy, will ya?”

            And so, I shut the carton of eggs, and sat there for a minute. Well, I screamed a little first, but then I shut the carton. There was an egg in there, that stood up, on these almost crudely drawn stick legs, waving little stick arms around that yelled at me for waking it up. So, yes. Crazy. That’s what I had suspected all along.

            I opened the carton again.

            “Pal, listen. I don’t know about you, but if I don’t get 8 hours of sleep, I get really cranky, so why don’t we just can the light out there, and we can be on our way to dreamland. Capiche?”

            “Um. Hm. You can talk, and you are an egg. And you have arms and legs.”            “Well, thank you captain obvious, now put me back in the fridge and lets get on with our lives, eh?”

            “Uhh… talking eggs… hmm… well, I’m just gonna take one of these other guys here and I’ll let you get back to sleep. Say, do you know any good psychiatrists, by any chance?”

            “Buddy, I live in the fridge. Do I look like I know any psychiatrists?”

            “No, I guess not. Ok, well, um... Ok.” I said.

I took one of the non-verbal eggs out of the carton, and cracked it on the side of the frying pan, dumping the contents into a bowl with a dash of milk, and dropped a thin slice of butter into the pan, where it sizzled and started to bubble. I started to whip the egg and milk with a fork, getting it ready to pour into the pan.

The egg in the carton turned around and put its nose, or, well, its… top… part into the air and moved around some.

“Hey what’s that smell? And that popping noise?”

The egg got out of the carton and walked towards the stove, and then it saw the empty shell lying on the paper towel I had put out.

“Jesus Christ! Steve! What the hell did you do to Steve?? Is that… Oh my god! What are you doing to him?! I’ll kill you, you son of a b***h!”

And with that, the egg ran towards me, yelling and cursing the whole way. When it got to the edge of the counter, it leapt at me, and made it all of four inches before falling all the way to the floor, smashing everywhere.

I stared at that egg, until the smell of burning butter brought me back around. I made my omelet and ate it, and cleaned up the mess on the floor, thinking about whether I had committed some form of egg homicide. But you know, it was a really good omelet.

Then I got out the phonebook, and turned to psychiatrists in the yellow pages.

Author's Note

This was made for a writing fiction course, with the theme of "talking egg."

Reviews

[Sarah Graves]

Haha, I just read this again... great stuff. I feel like making an omelet

-sarahapapa

[Montilee Stormer]

I have to say - I'm not big on humor, but this was pretty funny. I'd clean up a little on some of the subject/verb-agreement, but that's about it.

I hope the teacher liked it because I sure did.

[AmericanPsycho?]

I am having a hard time not peeing myself. I have never imagined A talking egg, but he sounds like he's from New England, that scary b*****d. Very hilarious and well written, I enjoyed it thoroughly