I was cleaning out my Word documents the other day when I stumbled across a strange bit of fiction I composed back in college. Like many of the things I wrote in college, it is a bloated thing, and somehow self-important. It also is ridiculous. As I read over it, I was reminded of the reason why I wrote the thing in the first place. As it happened, there was a guy in one of my early morning English literature classes who always managed to look tired and dejected. Everyday in class, he sat in the same seat, in the same ill-fitting clothes, and stared ahead in what I interpreted as mute horror. Or maybe horror is too strong of a word. I am struggling now—as I did then—to describe exactly the kind of look this guy etched—seemingly indelibly—onto his mug.

In fact, the only way I can begin to sum it up now is to present to you, in full, that very piece of fiction I wrote in college that I recently stumbled upon and which attempts to posit some reason, some plausible situation that might have inspired the abysmal expression on this guy’s face. Of course, as I was wont to do back in those days, I take considerable liberties describing this look, and make every effort to disorient the reader, perhaps in the same manner that the subject of the piece was disoriented, such that the expression all of you will be wearing on your faces upon completing it is the very same expression worn on the face of our subject. But probably not. But enough of my yapping. Ready?

Ursula, the Egg Witch

You see, he looked like a man, our hero did, who had just woken up early, albeit groggily, perhaps for work, perhaps for some other venture that no one will ever know now except him and the maker of the donkey vending machine that he patronized that very same day, the fateful day on which he dropped his sandwich, which is the grand conclusion of this narrative. But I am getting ahead of myself, which, taken literally, is just as impossible as getting head from myself—but I’m back to the donkey again, aren’t I?

To begin at the beginning (which is much wiser than beginning before the beginning, or after the beginning), our protagonist looked strangely like a man who had just woken up early, stumbled downstairs, unless his kitchen was upstairs or even on the same level as his room in which case he would surely have made the necessary adjustments, although I don’t want to assume, which would entail, as they judiciously say, being an ass to my dear friend and confidant Ume, which is something, along with raising my hand against him in anger, I promised Ume’s father I would never do, unless it was part of a strategic move in that most noble of party games, perhaps played by Napoleon and his merry men at the Round Table, Twister, or my favorite version, Cherry Twislers.

You see, our character, our every-man, on this fateful day, for whatever reason, decided that instead of his normal breakfast of Special K (even men must, on occasion, eat healthily—damn those mercenary love-handles!), he would prepare an egg-wich of sorts, not to be confused with an “egg witch” which, according to Celtic mythology, was an evil creature, not unlike Barbara Bush, who, perhaps like Prometheus, was doomed for eternity to egg houses and donkeys. It is either that or a faux-witch made entirely out of egg yolks and used for certain ritual celebrations in that greatest of Pagan countries, Russia.

And, you might ask, just what sort of egg-wich was our brave hero making? Thank you for asking, I shall gladly describe it to you: It consisted of a bravely toasted bagel, with cheese, not toasted, but placed on top of the toasted bread, thus warming the cheese considerably and causing it to melt down the sides of the circular bagel, a fried egg over well, let us say, and a piece of pig-flesh cut from the loins of the dying beast itself, cooked in the same pan as the fried egg, and this exact arrangement surely took place that morning and, for all you the collective reader know, you who are sheep, he may very well have thought, even in his tired state, that a man who is crazy enough to cook ham in the same pan as an egg needs and very well deserves love-handles, even mercenary ones, so that those around him might hang on for dear life and enjoy the, as they say, ride, and then that very same man, our hero, might have thought, as your merry narrator certainly did, that that thought seemed better left in its unfinished form, as a mere fancy, than in the clumsy form he and I put it into afterwards, but that is, again, neither here nor there as thoughts, per se, cannot exist in the material world but only in the mind of a man (or any person for that matter who might be hypothetically preparing an egg-wich of sorts consisting of one fried egg, ham, toasted bagel and cheese not toasted yet placed on the warm bagel so that the edges kind of drop down like the jowls of an old, old, dying, almost dead man).

But you see, this man, our hero, the maker of egg-wich sandwiches, though as yet unnamed, is just the kind of man who (groggily you recall, eyes half-closed, hair on end, mouth slightly agape like some giant, drooling beast) might upon putting the now finished sandwich onto a plate, accidentally drop it on the ground. Now here is where it all pulls together, oh gentle reader with your fleshy, donkey thighs. You see, this man, our hero, your dad, as yet unnamed, stares at his fallen sandwich blankly as if he does not quite yet comprehend the event, hasn’t quite processed it, being still sleepy, being shaken from his usual breakfast routine by this rude permutation (the dropping of the egg-wich) so that to his eyes, in his mind, the whole event might very well turn out to be a dream from which he might awake at any moment.

That look, meticulously described by your narrator, as our man stares at his fallen sandwich as if it were symbolic of the fall of man, as if his toasted bagel might at any moment don the crown of eggs and take its place nailed to the metal toaster, that look is the same look that he keeps on his face the whole day like a dead albatross around his neck, not to mix metaphors, but instead to mix drinks, not with the albatross, but with a spoon or some other elongated metal object and I promise if you’ll join me I will…but I am getting carried away. That look he carried away with him to the store, to the bathroom, to the donkey vendor, everywhere. Our hero keeps that same look upon his face every second of every day even when he is joining me for drinks, claiming his favorite to be my albatross tonic.

And that look, that very look, you see, is the same look on our hero’s face when he goes to purchase said donkey at the local vendor. The donkey, seeing our as yet unnamed man approach, turns to his donkey neighbor, and says in a thick German accent: “It is a far better thing I do now than I’ve ever done, and I regret that I have but one donkey to give for my donkey.” Heavy quarters enter the slot, the correct buttons are pushed, and out pops the donkey, wet, slimy, and crying. Our hero stands mouth slightly agape as if he’s just dropped a laboriously prepared sandwich. He is you.

–John Seay

P.S., I warned you it was ridiculous.