Our next door neighbor happened over one afternoon
after my wife had gotten into the better part
of a bottle of wine. He had 66 large white eggs,
3 cartons of 18 and another dozen, and he thought
we should have them. “Oh, thank you,” she said,
just as if she were completely sober. “Thank you so much.
We could really use these!” She seemed so excited
that he came back with another 12. She sobered up
before I got home. We had 78 eggs. What
could we possibly do with them all? We couldn’t eat them
all, could we? For three days we tried.
Scrambled for breakfast, poached for lunch, and Eggsaronious
for dinner. The children started turning sickly shades
of yellow and white. We bickered. “Why can’t you make the eggs
tonight?” “You do it, I’m tired of making the eggs!”
“I’m about to stick eggs up your goddamn ass!”
“. . . I’m sorry.” “I love you . . .” but the bliss
didn’t last. With 3 kids, there’s no time
for make-up sex. We became agitated.
Started thinking that the eggs were in there,
in the fridge, plotting against us, planning
to come out and take over the house, rub us out,
adopt the children and ship them off to Catholic
boarding school where every day is Easter Sunday.
We finally gathered them up one Tuesday night
just as they were starting to turn bad and after the kids
were in bed, walked across the yard and lobbed
them one by one by one again, against the front
of the offending neighbor’s house, our anxious nerves healing
with every shell-crack against the painted aluminum siding.