The woman that laid an egg (fiction)

I could tell this woman needed help. But no one said anything. Everyone had their eyes glued to her from outside her pen, with their video cameras and flash photography. Even a class of first graders and their teachers decided that today was the day they’d ruin someone’s life. Rather, watch someone give life. Probably both.

Her name was Sam Broker. I could tell because she had a plaque outside her door with a short bio detailing her age, her height, her hair color, that sort of thing. I didn't even know Sam existed until my editor told me what she did last weekend. Last weekend, Sam Broker was on the verge of being the first woman on earth to lay an egg. Jane, my editor, rather our entire magazine’s editor (in chief), was in so much agony because she had spent two hundred and fifty dollars to watch Sam Broker lay an egg, all for Sam Broker not to lay an egg. She had just been in labor. And still is, right before my very eyes.

I knew I wanted to record this moment because Sam agreed to let me interview her for my own practice. Something I could take to Jane, to prove to her that her paper needed me.

But right now, I’m embarrassed. For me and for her. I’m a heartless bystander, behind a wall of plexiglass with the rest of these heartless bystanders.

They should all be ashamed of themselves. It’s creepy, you know, to spend money so you can see a poor woman in such a vulnerable state. Jane included. She never thinks ahead. She came here for fun, but I came here for work. And, this is gold.

I can only imagine how much attention Sam’s new baby will get. The first human to hatch from an egg. If Sam would notice me, look up, and catch my eyes, I’d wave my hands and draw the drapes, and end the show. I’d let her have this moment to keep forever. Untouched and unseen. Just her and her baby.

But is that what she wants? Her baby doesn't even exist yet. Right now, the only thing that matters is Sam Broker and her rapidly changing mind. I can see her, rocking back and forth and humming a tune. A tune I’d like to think that her mother used to sing to her to soothe her to sleep.

Before I got here, I did a little research. Jane and I are friends with an outlier. The Outlier. Actually, friends is a very strong word. I suppose you could say we're business do-ers. Not partners, do-ers. He knows everything about everyone, and Jane owes him. For what exactly? I don’t know, but I beg Jane to tell me every day.

He’s the one who got Jane her ticket in the first place, and he apparently knows Sam Broker personally. Of course he does.

Everyone around me is taking pictures and videos. Could this be it? Her eyes are closed, and she’s pushing. Sam is slipping away, and I’m yelling. I’m causing a scene in front of these heartless bystanders, and it’s working. I’m asking everyone who she is and where she was going, and what she was doing before she got here. Because Sam is a human and Sam needs a minute.