Fiction |
Scrambled Eggs
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“Are you doing anything?” His low voice, accompanied by the rumble of breaking surf, gives him away. I picture my brother Ray, two years my junior, in front of the rented bungalow he shares with his third wife. Buds in his ears, he zigzags along the shore. His dog, Thor, weaves across his path, in and out with the waves. Except for his salty silver hair and rugged complexion, leathered by forty years of surfing, Ray looks remarkably the same as the lithe boy I remember racing across the playground with a bevy of little girls in pursuit.
At twenty, Ray left home and headed for the beach. Other than a sojourn to Davenport, Iowa to study chiropractic at Palmer College, he’s rarely strayed from his Monterey Bay surf mecca, where the sun rises and sets over the sea. He earns a spartan living from his holistic healthcare practice, with plenty of time left for riding the waves. I flew the nest in a different direction, toward the industry of the city and an MBA from UC Berkeley. Forty years later, my husband and I still live in the Queen Anne townhouse we renovated in the now fashionable Victorian enclave west of Mint Hill. We reared our children here. “Of course I’m doing something. I’m at work.” Swiveling to face the panoramic view from my high‑rise office, I watch a container ship inch toward the giant cranes of the Oakland port. “I’m rushing to finish my presentation for the international banking conference this weekend. It was quite an honor to be selected.” I hesitate. Ray’s not listening. “Did you call just to chat or what?” “I wanted to share an insight I had at men’s group.” Since his first divorce, Ray has met weekly with a dozen men in a New Age shamanistic drumming circle that explores archetypes and metaphor in alignment with the mythopoetic men’s movement. “Listen.” He slows his cadence to stress the profundity of what he’s about to say. “If you’re ever feeling down about yourself, remember, you’re the one who got to the egg.” I don’t respond. Ray places much faith in the empathy engendered by our common childhood. I don’t want to disappoint him. The egg? My mind scrambles through images of our shared history. I recall our school morning eggs, mine sunny-side up and Ray’s over easy, fried crispy at the edges in a puddle of tasty bacon fat. A healthy start to the day, our mother impressed upon us. Dismissing the memory as dated, my thoughts turn to the occasional soft-boiled eggs Mom served in delicate porcelain cups, with toast cut in “lady fingers” to dip into the yolk. The key to enjoying this meal was learning to slice the top off the egg, like a guillotine, with one stroke of a sterling silver knife. Too little assertiveness and the egg became a shattered mess; too much and we risked reprimand for bad table manners. Finally, I settle on an image of the lacquered bronze Buddha that formed the base of our grandmother’s lamp. A race for the pastel dyed egg nested in Buddha’s lap kicked off our family Easter egg hunts for generations. That’s it, the perfect metaphor for Ray: ecumenical, spiritual, and illustrative of the achetypal hunt. I smirk with satisfaction that I’ve solved his riddle. “Well?” Ray’s voice brims with expectation. “Actually,” I blurt in a flash of peevishness, “I never got to the egg. You were younger, but always faster, and aggressive, if you don’t mind my saying.” “What?” His incredulity flares my anger. “The Buddha lamp. Don’t act dumb. You brought it up. You assumed I got to the egg, but you weren’t really paying attention.” I check myself from getting emotional. It was a long time ago. “The Buddha lamp? What’s that?” His volume crescendos. “I was talking about sperm. Out of millions, you were the sperm that got to the egg! Get it?” “Oh!” I pause to calm my voice. “I suppose I always thought of myself as the egg.” |
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane Bell Goldstein has held a variety jobs during her life: salesperson, tour guide, accountant, middle school teacher, and half a dozen positions during her 19 years with the Internal Revenue Service, all of which might fall under the general description of spirit guide to taxpayers through the fathomless bureaucracy. Since her retirement in 2010, she has pursued interests in writing, bird-watching, genealogy, history and, from 2015 – 2019, website design, as chief architect of the Vistas & Byways website. Jane is a graduate of San Francisco State University (BA History, 1974). She has a grown son and daughter and two grandchildren. She lives with her husband, Mark, in the Oakland hills.
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Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction and poetry by members of Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University.
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Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at San Francisco State University (OLLI at SF State) provides communal and material support to the Vistas & Byways volunteer staff.
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