I didn’t know it at the time, but who really knows anything when you’re eight. Up until that point, when our third grade class walked into our monthly group session with the school guidance counselor, did we become aware of just how gangly, clumsy and hyper-active we actually were.
Every month we got a lesson on one of the seven pillars (cement concussion hazards) of our schools core values; community, trust and a bunch of other terms that did not hold a torch to the awesomeness of freeze tag and monkey bars. The only one that I remember that really meant something to me was the one we were going to be discussing that faithful day, the day I met Seymour.
“Responsibility. It can be a chore, like making your bed, setting the table, maybe helping your brother or sister do something.” Mrs. Schaffer always talked like she as reading us a book, complete with long pauses so she could ensure we could really make the connection between the text and the illustration. I was particularly immune to her speech seeing as I was an only child who’s only request from my parents was to stop rolling my eyes. Even at eight I had the maneuver showcasing complete lack of interest down to perfection. “You’re assignment is, for one week, to take care of an egg. You must treat the egg like your baby. You must build a habitat for your egg. You’re egg must not break and if your egg gets cracked you must repair like you would a cut or scrape on your knee.” Next to Mrs. Schaffer’s long pastel blue dress on the floor were a few dozen cartons of eggs. I looked around at my fellow students. Of course the girls were smiles of excitement, jumping at the chance to execute yet another game where their role would be that of Mother. The boys seemed indifferent.
A boy named Clark with glasses and diligently parted hair whispered to his friend behind me.“This is going to be so easy, all you have to do is boil it.”
“You cannot boil your egg that is cheating. If your egg is still intact at the end of the week you have not only completed your lesson in Responsibility but you will receive a coupon for free ice cream at next month’s ice cream social. If your egg breaks before the week is over you will have to complete an additional packet on responsibility. Now, it’s time to get your eggs. You also get to name them. I am going to write your egg’s name on it with a marker, that way they don’t get mixed up.”
The naming process was by far the most exciting thing for me. I had long been obsessed with trying to find a replacement for my own name and often signed my teddy bear drawings with a pseudonym. My favorite was Crystal because I liked things that were shinny and Jessica because it sounded normal. All of my attempts to sway my mom towards the name changing store were futile, I would get upset at her for naming me something stupid and she would ask me if I wanted to go to the New Mom store instead to which my replay was always no.
When I was eight there was a store for everything, we could not go to the grocery store for cereal, we went to the cereal store, a magic place full of every type of cereal you could imagine, every type of cereal I wanted to eat and was not allowed to due to sugar content. I would have killed just to have one bowl of fruity pebbles code name “dye flakes” and to wash it down with a glass of blue Kool Aid, code name “sugar water.”
I was last to name my egg because like every other line in the history of lines this one was organized alphabetically by last name. I had decided from the get go that my egg was going to be a boy because all the other girls had girl eggs. It is still a mystery to this day why I chose the name Seymour. I am certain that I had never heard it or thought of it till that moment, Seymour. It sounded smart, strong yet vulnerable. Seymour had all the perfect qualities of a man wrapped up in a small handheld shell, he was perfect and I could not wait to go home so I could build his home.
I owned no dog, no cat, and no measly goldfish. I had had a lizard I captured with a jar. His name was Izzy, he lived in a shoebox for three days before I came to the conclusion that he was depressed. He did not eat the leaves I so delicately picked out for him nor did he move from his rock that I gave him courtesy of my rock collection. Seymour immediately filled my pet void and he needed the best accommodations an egg could get. I took my small plastic red suitcase that contained my Barbie’s clothes and dumped them out. I took a pink plastic chair from my Barbie gym and glued it to the case. His bed was the trickiest part.
“What are you doing with all those paper towels?” My mom asked.
“I’m making a bed for Seymour. He needs some sheets on his bed.
“What about my potholder you have in your hand there?”
“Moooooooommmmm, he needs an area rugggggg…..”
“Okay don’t whine just ask, maybe I need that for dinner.”
“Okay.” I mumbled then dashed back to my miniature house laboratory. The best part about Seymour’s house was that it was portable. The worst thing about Seymour’s house was that I had to carry the suitcase like a hot pie fresh out of the oven. At school people gave me weird looks but I did not care for I knew my precious egg was warm and cozy in his custom made home. Some kids did not even show up with their eggs. When I asked Devon where his egg was he looked at me like I was wearing dog shit for a hat.
“Mine already broke. That project was dumb anyway.” Then he ran off to get to the swings before anybody else could. I was surprised to see my friend Danielle without her egg.
“That was hard. Some kid shoved me on the bus and it cracked. I got egg all over my shirt.”
I kept Seymour close all day and restricted my recess activities to things like hopscotch and tether ball so I could keep an eye on my red suitcase. A lot of kids just converted their lunchboxes to habitats and every lunch period for the next three days I watched carefully to see if anyone was about to commit involuntary manslaughter. Many injuries were sustained and many repair methods used. The standard was a band aid. John had his entire egg engulfed in duct tape which I thought was cheating and I hoped Mrs. Schaffer would too. By the time Thursday came around a forth of the class had lost or broken their eggs and another forth whose eggs were still in pristine condition, I was a proud member of the latter.
That night as I was watching T.V. with my Dad, I decided to use Seymour in my ploy to acquire a real animal. I had already written countless notes to both my parents explaining how I would devote all my time to cleaning up poop, taking walks, feeding, training and playing with a dog if they would only let me have one.
“Do you think I am doing a good job taking care of Seymour Dad?”
“Yes, you’re doing a great job. No cracks yet right?”
“Nope. I bet I would do a really good job taking care of a dog too.” He let out a long sigh and turned to me.
“I don’t think we should talk about his right now.” My spirit perked up instantly.
“Does that mean maybe?!”
“It does not mean anything. We can just talk about it another time.” My spirit turned to mush, my stomach like Seymour’s undulating yolky center. I knew better than to ask important things during Star Trek or Knots Landing.
The next day during lunch would turn out to be a day that would forever change the way I thought about things. I was hanging out with a few kids from my class that I usually did not hang out with and I felt cool for being able to do things with just about anybody. One had already broken their egg, and the other three were toting around eggs on the verge of collapse.
“I can’t believe you still have your egg.” David said as he chucked a stick at the nearby fence.
“I know, maybe it’s because you have that big thing for it.” Derrick added on.
“It’s his habitat. Didn’t you guys build one for your eggs? I mean, weren’t we supposed to?” I asked.
“I guess so. I just used one of my socks. See.” Derrick pulled a wad of beige cloth out of his jacket. It was indeed his egg, but it was also oozing, creating a wet spot of failure for everyone to see. “Aww man. I think the stupid thing broke.” He reached his hand into his sorry excuse for a habitat and pulled out his egg. The name Bart cracked down the middle, yolk pooling into Derrick’s hand.
“Just smash it on the ground, you can’t save it now.” David said.
“Yeah you’re right. Sionora Bart!” And without even a moment for reflection or remorse, Derrick lifted up his arm high into the air and brought it down with incredible force. Bart’s insides started to slide down the incline on the asphalt hill that we were playing on. Derrick was cheered on for his deed and somehow in the thick of the excitement, I cheered for the death of Bart too. It all happened so fast, but before I knew it I was in the middle of egg genocide. David and Derrick looked so happy without their eggs, free to move and jump about as rambunctiously as they pleased, no longer burdened by the fragile white shell of responsibility. Kelly was next. Her egg, Violet, had already had a close call earlier in the week when Kelly tripped during hopscotch. Violet was now sporting two Popple band aids.
“Yeah, I don’t want to do this anymore either.” She said downtrodden. Her murder was the least enthusiastic, rolling her egg down the hill until it finally buckled under the rough tureen, cracking open just before it hit the bottom of the hill. The entire time all this was going on I held Seymour in my hand. I looked down at him, suddenly ashamed for caring, going out of my way all week long for an egg. I was the only one that cared about Seymour and he could not even care for me back, he could not even help me get a dog.
“Oops!” I said. I laid my palm flat and moved my body forward like I was experiencing a violent sneeze. It only took Seymour a second to roll off my hand and fall to the ground where he died instantly. The cheers around me were filled with approval, yet the moment I realized what I had done I felt disgusted with myself.
“Cool, now we can go play tag.” David said. I loved tag. I was incrediably fast and loved evading capture. But at that moment all I wanted to do was cry for my temporary pet was dead and I was the one that killed him.
“I’m going to take Seym- I mean, this habitat back to the classroom so I don’t have to carry it around anymore.” They were already half-way across the playground, our shared moment of egg disposal all but gone from their memories. I ran harder than I ever did before, the contents of Seymour’s home shaking around, dislodged from my perfect interior design. It was MY design, a design born out of a need to make something for someone special that had become mine. Egg or no egg Seymour had become part of me those five days and now that he was gone My emotions felt as shattered as his shell.
For the entire duration of the bus ride home I stared at Seymour’s empty home. I thought of how well he must have slept in his custom made bed constructed out of an old envelope box and how I ended his short life just so I could look cool. I did not cry until I got home. I told my mom the whole story of how mean I was to Seymour and that I didn’t care if I was ever cool ever again as long as I never did anything like that again. I told her I felt silly for crying over an egg, she told me it was never silly to cry over things that make us feel sad. She asked me if I wanted to go to the store with her, that maybe it would make me feel better. I went. I avoided the egg section but walked out with my one and only box of fruity pebbles.
