The Egg Code

by Mike Heppner

  So, twenty-two, twenty-three. She’s still got a few years left to go. Good kid. Reads all the time. Derek Skye this, Derek Skye that. I’m sitting there, looking at the back cover—I want to say something but I figure if I give her the Skyes’ home number she might feel obligated to return the favor, and I don’t want to put her in that position. Women, they interpret everything as, you know, you’re trying to seduce them. So I just play dumb. She reads a few sentences out loud. The Derek Skye philosophy. It’s okay, but some people get too into it, and they kind of lose their minds. I’m thinking why don’t you read the monthly sales sheet if you want to get motivated about something. Still, I was pleasant about it. I just finished my snack and went back out onto the sales floor. Nice girl, but a little on the kooky side. That happens a lot with these beautiful types. They get guys coming on to them all the time, thirty marriage proposals a month, and they start seeing the world in a weird kind of way.

  Five o’clock rolls around, I’m all set to take off. Right before a zone visit, I’ve got to get some sleep. You got Cam Pee, who’s only the CEO of the whole cotton-picking organization, coming over with a bunch of advertising executives, said they wanted to use my office. I’m no fool—I said sure, go ahead, whatever you need, man. I know how lucky I am even to be here, the way I was going, working four jobs a night, trying to keep Lydia in diamonds and pearls, pushing a broom, selling cotton candy at the circus, shelving books at the public library—got to be a real drag. I feel sorry for the kids today. It’s hard! Even for the smart ones.

  What I’m saying is, I think I got it pretty good.

  This ain’t bad. This ain’t half bad.

  For a guy of my skills. I’ll take what I can get, man, I know what it’s like out there.

  My dad, good ol’ “Barndoor” himself, thought I was the biggest idiot known to mankind, bet he never guessed I’d be making forty G a year, got a beautiful wife, a son just turned eleven now, a nice house, a bunch of junk in the basement I don’t even look at. I mean, yeah! This is what it’s all about!

  Lord of all you survey.

  The only thing I don’t like is the commute. I’d prefer living closer to town, not that anyone cares. Kay Tree, may she rest in aytch-eee-double-toothpick. Didn’t even ask us if we liked the place. Just take it and smile. Hey, I’ve got no problem with that. Free house, heck. I know when to keep my mouth shut. It just makes for a long drive, and by the time I get home, I’m usually pretty tired, and it would be nice to occasionally have a wife sitting there ready with dinner on the table, but I guess that would be too good to be true. What she does with her time, I have no idea. Actually, I’ll tell you exactly what she does, she pulls Simon out of class and carts him down to these crazy casting calls, all these batty housewives standing in line, thinking their kid’s gonna be the next Telly Savalas, meanwhile poor Simon’s scared out of his pants, he just wants to stay home and play ball with his buddies. I know how it is. I get home, the lights are off, the cat’s going nuts, should’ve been fed three hours ago. I think, fine. I’m gonna pour myself a soda and sit down. I don’t mind! Not this guy. I can take it! I’m sitting around, watching TV. Nice TV. Nice sofa. Everything’s real good. Know what? I’m gonna take my shoes off. Six o’clock, I start making supper, I’ve got the whole meal prepared, the pasta, my mother’s recipe, it’s getting cold, an hour goes by before they finally show up. Where were you? No answer—they just head straight for the food, and no one says hi or even asks me how my day went. It’s enough to make a guy feel like he just doesn’t matter.

  Dinnertime was another lovely thing. Let’s all get in a fight! That’s just what I need to round out the day. I don’t like to go to bed with Lydia mad at me—two a.m., she wants to apologize, well I’m sorry too but I got to get some shut-eye, I got Cam Pee pounding on the door at ten in the morning, and if I’m not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by sunrise, I’m gonna be out of there faster than a ton of bricks. Jeezo-pete, use your mind, lady! We’re passing the salad around, she starts in on me about this television commercial they’re putting together down at Corporate, like I’ve got some direct line running straight up to the nineteenth floor. Yeah Mr. Pee? Hi, this is Steve Mould over at Store #731, we met once, I was standing in a crowd of, oh, I don’t know, eight million other people, you happened to look over for, gee, must’ve been about one point two seconds, anyway, my son, he’s a cute kid, his mother wants him to be in the company’s next commercial, you’re only sinking something like six trillion dollars into the campaign. Yeah, that’s a great idea, if that doesn’t get me canned I might as well torch the store, run down the street screaming with my hair on fire. Finally, just to get on with it, I said all right, I’ll do it, I’ll take care of it in the morning, let’s just eat. No, she says, I don’t like the way you said that, don’t talk to me that way. I say what is this junk? I come home, I want to see nice happy faces and this is what I get. My kid’s staring down at the plate, all set to cry, his mother’s pointing at him with a knife like she’s going to stick it right in, I say don’t point that at him, she says a dirty word, Simon asks to be excused, I don’t blame the kid, I say sure, go, do what you gotta do, then Lydia gets on a rant about how he hasn’t finished his supper, I say what do you care, you’ve been nagging him all night, oh but we can’t have that, now I’ve hurt her feelings, let’s go, the big eyes, the pout, everything just the way we like it, and that’s when she says all you ever think about is your job, you don’t care about me and you don’t care about your son’s career.

  That’s it. I just blew my lid, man. I said—this is what I said, word for word. I said I’m fed up. I’m fed up, I can’t even stand it anymore, and if he wants to be excused, then that’s his right as a man of the house, and if he doesn’t want to eat his supper, then that food’s going right straight down the garbage disposal, GOSHDAMNIT!

  And I don’t curse. Ever . . . at . . . almost at all.

  Threw my napkin down. Better believe it.

  Now I can’t talk to my son. Lydia doesn’t care—she’s got her purse out, writing a check. Got the pen in one hand, she’s eating with the other like there’s no tomorrow. I said heck, enough of this screwing around, people getting angry at each other for no reason. I’ll tell you what, I’m gonna clean up, shampoo my hair and work on the train set for a few hours, just see if I don’t. Now she’s not talking to me. I’m trying to keep the mood as light as possible. I say what on earth are you doing, you know, just making mild conversation. She doesn’t even answer, just holds the check up, puts it about two inches in front of my face and says here. No, I don’t play that game, lady. Not my style. You’ve got your money, I’ve got mine—I get it. If the ol’ lady wants to buy my family, she can move to another cemetery. Just don’t screw around with my son. I hardly ever see the kid anymore. He spends most of his time with his mother. They’re usually out with people I don’t know, going to one function or another, I’m totally out of the loop. It’s like, hey guys, I’m here too. Just once, wouldn’t it be great . . . everyone’s in a good mood, and we go out to get some ice cream or check out a movie? I mean, that would be dynamite and I’d be all for it, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen any time soon. My old man, now. He ruled that family. No question. It was his way or the highway, and if you didn’t believe it, he’d bust you right in the chops, boy. Good ol’ “Barndoor” Mould, man. Hard. As. Nails! ’Bout the meanest guy in the world. Hoooo, I didn’t argue with the man, I just said yes sir, no sir, watched my P’s and Q’s and to this day I’m still grateful to him for giving me that particular kind of upbringing, I mean it really worked out for the best. Heck, if it wasn’t for him, I’d probably still be sweeping floors, making three bucks an hour, Lydia would’ve taken off by now and I never would’ve had the chance to experience firsthand what it’s like to have a child of your own, which is something that, if you haven’t been through it yourself, I can’t hardly explain how wonderful it is. The best is when they’re still babies. I even like the cryi
ng. It’s just noise. The back talk is what I can’t stand. Once they start talking, once they start saying words. That’s when it gets rough.

  And one more thing. All you men? Watch out. ’Cause once the baby’s born, that’s when the woman changes. And that’s just totally a fact.

  V

  The Terrorist

  I Want Some Answers

  http://www.eggcode.com

  FACT: The Internet is a diverse place. Very little binds us together, except for our—perhaps random—decision to visit this site. That said, let us celebrate what little we do share! All across the country, roads join our cities, connecting families with businesses, churches and schools. The traffic jam is part of modern Americana—long waits, angry faces, construction cones on the highway. The naive reader would accept these inconveniences as simply the price we all must pay for smoother roads and faster commutes. Good-natured fools would hardly suspect the federal government’s true intentions, the insidious motive behind every blocked lane, every orange flag. Ah, yes. The Egg Code knows, though we have been threatened under pain of death to keep our silence, to protect those who would do us harm. For this reason, we would ask our subscribers to please excuse the bits of conjecture and allusion. It is for our own personal safety that we must hide behind such clever subterfuge.

  The history of the road extends back to ancient times. With the greater speeds and braking capabilities of the automobile, modern highways required a better means of guiding fast-moving traffic along a set course. Two competing technologies grew out of this need; of the two, most engineers preferred concrete over asphalt. This method held on into the postwar years, when freeway construction was at a premium. It was in this context that the United States first established the U.S. Interstate Highway System—or, as it was originally called, the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways.

  The reader might wonder what a transcontinental series of roads had to do with defense in 1956, but the answer, sadly, is everything. This was the height of the Cold War, when federal agents envisioned a network of military convoys shuttling weapons to the suburbs. Well-connected, the American people stood strong against the Russians. The defense rationale had another, perhaps more cynical purpose. In those days, scientists believed that the only way to obtain federal funding was through the Defense Department. This phenomenon was certainly not unique to the United States. England and France were both reluctant to establish major road-building initiatives in the aftermath of World War II, and in both cases it was the military argument that finally won the day.

  With the money finally in place, the U.S. Interstate Highway System began digging across America. It was definitely a learn-as-you-go operation. Thousands of miles of ineptly laid road eventually had to be torn up and reconfigured, pushing the project well past its tentative 1971 completion date. Frustrated engineers— their eyes still glassy with visions of bold “Freeway of the Future” campaigns staged at World’s Fair conventions—had not anticipated such high speeds, such chaos on the roads. Neither asphalt nor concrete had provided any real solutions to the titanic demands of twentieth-century mass transportation. Moreover, as the eighties became the nineties, the federal government showed signs of withdrawing support from the project. The Interstates were a financial bust.

  At about the same time, an interesting discovery was made, namely that bitumen—critical in the formation of asphalt—was a natural by-product of petroleum. The other major by-product just happened to be gasoline. Whammo! Faster than you can say “heinous misuse of appropriations,” road commissioners throughout the states, in concordance with their federal bosses, recognized the beauty of the system. As the demand for gasoline increased, the production of bitumen likewise increased, lessening the cost of purchase and deployment. The fact that asphalt was considerably less resilient than concrete was an added bonus. Faster wear increased the need for maintenance. Cars stuck in slow construction zones burned more fuel than cars cruising along a slick road. More gasoline meant more bitumen meant more asphalt meant more construction meant more gasoline. A perfectly closed circuit. An economist’s dream.

  Only one question remained. Where would the money come from to pay for all this? For our answer, we must return to the Roman Empire, to the golden days of a statute known as the corvée. The corvée, unpopular in its time, was a kind of tax paid in the form of enforced labor. At this very moment, officials in Washington—with the full cooperation of representatives from all fifty states—are busy drafting a plan that would reinstate the corvée as an option to heavy taxation. Because it would be “unconstitutional” to demand this kind of service from its constituents, all the government can do is offer it as a handy alternative, knowing that the only people who will take the bait will be members of the lower class. They will also try to make us feel grateful. Can’t pay your taxes? Grab a shovel! We at the Egg Code refuse to participate. This is imperialism of the highest order, and the only reason why we haven’t burned our 1040 forms in protest is that it’s just so fucking clever.

  The Fear of Being Touched

  1998

  Shirtless, Olden Field stood at the edge of the lake and stared out over the horizon. His face was clean-shaven, his lips sienna, his hard and bony chin marked by a slight groove in the middle. Long black hair blew over his shoulders. A tendon in his neck throbbed with energy, a constant pulse. At age twenty-nine, he’d given up on everything—junk food, television, regular sex—in exchange for a well-conditioned body, tight muscles, the ass of a quarterback. Living alone in Big Dipper Township, he saved his words like pennies, resting his voice for days at a time. His longest conversations were rehearsed bits of patter, the same five or six themes revisited in endless cycles. He was even quieter around women, choosing never to discuss his strange occupation. Left to guess, most interested young ladies—and most were, indeed, interested—pictured him spread across the pages of a Manhattan fashion magazine. Olden on page 48, shirt torn, belt loose. The clothes are for sale, by the way.

  A big crappie cartwheeled over the lake, striking the water with its tail. Overhead, a line of warblers raced toward the horizon. Thick clouds brooded in the sky, standing apart like guests at a funeral. Olden peeled off his shorts and stepped into the water. Crossing his legs, he dropped to the muddy bottom. Water filled his ears. He opened his eyes and saw long weeds and flecks of debris illuminated by something pale and green. His own hands looked puffy and distorted. Standing up, he swiped his hair back and tasted the water on his lips. A big shrub rustled near the far shore. He’d disturbed the boy, evidently. The naked boy. This happened sometimes, always around dusk. The child belonged to the couple across the lake; he’d grown bolder over the past few weeks, staying outside for minutes at a time, far from the secret place where he’d stashed his clothes, his balled-up socks and red cotton underwear. Olden’s hard-on was an automatic response. Remembering his own childhood, he felt drawn to proto-freaks such as these: troublemakers in the making. He wanted to be the boy, to be naughty and alone like the boy. Following his erection out of the lake, he stepped back into his shorts, then started up the hill to his cabin. The trail was rocky, and it hurt the bottoms of his feet.

  At the top of the hill, he peered across the basin, the steep slope of pines running all the way down to the water. With its rough stones and empty windows, the tower in the middle of the lake recalled the turret top of a submerged fortress. Its vaguely medieval architecture suggested a castle built centuries ago. Over the past three years, Olden had proposed many theories, none of them conclusive. An old utility station. The crumbled remains of a massive stone bridge. But a bridge here, in Big Dipper Township? It would have to be enormous, an absurd waste so far from the city. So, neither a bridge nor a castle. A mystery. Olden’s little obsession. He planned his days around this pointless ritual. Every evening, he paid his respects to the enigma, then turned and walked home. The walk, the look, solved nothing. Feeling the shadow of the tower at his back, the same thought always troubled his min
d. I did not come here by choice. I was brought here by an outside force. A man named Bartholomew Hasse gave me this place, and now he is dead and my father is still not free.