Egg Under Pedal
I am driving a car - I don’t know how. I can barely open a door or hold a steering wheel, let alone sit and talk and arch my back with the confidence that drivers do.
But still, here I am - on a snaking avenue or ten-lane motorway - the cars in the opposite direction so far away I cannot even contemplate them as I am doing now. What good is their existence when they are so opposite to me.
What I can be certain of is there is an egg underneath my pedal. It must be one of the ones I collected with fingery delight from the shop this morning and has now escaped the punnet which holds its fellows.
It trembles gently as I drive, making sudden rolls and ducks and dives - first it makes its nest under clutch, not an issue early on. But then it tries its luck under the accelerator and as I scan the road ahead for other risks - an escaped piece of bacon or a jaywalking hash brown - I plead with the egg to tumble elsewhere, out back and under my seat or off to the side and into my passenger’s company. But the egg does not listen, instead, terribly and inexorably, it rolls all gentle and firm to sit under the brake. It seems pleased with itself - looking up for my attention.
I glance down again, trying to keep focus on the cars and road ahead, but the egg is all that occupies me now, as if it is my son in a school play - staring proudly out and up until I return his look.
Now far off but getting closer, the traffic ahead slows. I do not need to slow just yet, but will do fast and will do soon. I beg with the egg, please move - edge off. Roll back towards your brothers, I say - and then I curse myself, why did I put my eggs on the floor. Who puts eggs on the floor, a reckless deviant, a hideous psychopath - both would describe me at this junction.
It’s coming now - I know it. The cars ahead are too close and those behind are shuttled up neatly so I know what I must do. I press down on the brake with as much affection as I can muster and the betrayed little egg sighs and exhales in a pussy, gooey mess. Yolky tears of salt and shell trickle out and I look down at my murderous foot - dreadful appendage, oh, phantom limb.