 The Chicken and the Egg *The following is based on a true story. The names and places have been changed to protect the guilty-that’s the story and I’m stickin’ to it.* Some may or may not know that I’m a photographer. I’ve done Bar Mitzvahs, family portraits, automotive, sports, boudoir, alt model, product and even a few proms. So I’ve seen it all from prima donnas to power forwards. Or so I had thought. I got a call from a girl wanting to do some alt model (alt models refer to a sub genre usually involving, body modifications and or/ some kind of fetish) type shots. The shoot took place at her house and went fairly well and we hit it off so she felt comfortable enough to ask if she could try something she’d been thinking of doing for a while but never had the temerity to ask of anyone. “I want to do some shots with an egg coming out of me.” She said as chipper as 10 year old at Six Flags. I raised an eyebrow and said, trying not to sound shocked, “Say what?” “You know, like I’m laying an egg.” There was a bit of silence as I mulled over the idea. The thought was admittedly whacked out and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who would look at photos of a hot chick laying an egg and think, “Damn, that’s sexy. I’m gonna whack off to that and then have a nice omelet.” So against my better judgment and in need of a little extra on the hourly I agreed to do it. We took an egg from the fridge and she attempted to insert it but it was too cold and she dropped it and it splattered across the floor. We quickly came to the realization that we’d have to hard boil one lest it crack in her secret hidey-hole causing all kinds of problems. So after some stove top preparation and a cool down period the egg was ready for insertion. I handed it over and she hid it some place that the Easter bunny never thought of before. We walked over to the set I checked my camera settings while she got into position. I nodded signaling that I was ready. She moved her hips to and fro and a puzzled look washed over her face as nothing happened. I egged her on saying, “I’m ready, let’s go.” Her brow knitted tightly as she pushed a little harder and let out a tight little breath. “It’s not coming out.” She said with a little concern creeping into her voice. “What exactly do you mean?” I asked. “I mean, I think it’s stuck.” She said with a tone that had more than a little edge to it. After several more tries and some manual manipulation she abruptly stopped and looked up at me and pleaded, “You have to help me get this thing out.” I don’t touch any of my models ever and wasn’t about to start and I especially had no desire to go rooting around some poor girl’s kootch hunting for groceries. I got the brilliant idea that maybe jumping jacks might shake things loose so I suggested that to no avail. Then I had her lay on her back and do what I called the reverse-baby-Heimlich Maneuver, where she pushed on her lower abdomen in an attempt to dislodge the foreign object. At this point we were both starting to panic a little and I had a horrible image CSI style image play across my mind of the egg cracking internally causing all kinds of irreparable damage to her womb. “Wait, wait, wait! You could shatter the egg shell!” I shouted. She let out a little whimper and said, “You’re going to have to fish it out.” The color drained from my face and my mouth went dry. Weakly I asked, “With what?’ “Just find something.” was her response. After a cursory circuit of the house it became obvious that she was ill equipped with gynecological instruments and we would have to improvise with items most likely found in the kitchen to perform the egg abortion. She refused to walk to the kitchen for fear of driving the egg further north in her baby maker so I carried her to the kitchen counter. While carrying her, worst-case scenarios played through my head. I saw us in the emergency room trying to explain our situation to the duty nurse. I saw me just dumping her a the emergency room doors in a shopping cart or wheel chair and then just peeling away like a junkie leaving a friend who’s overdosed and didn’t want to have to answer any questions. And I saw her going into some kind of salmonella induced toxic shock and dying suddenly. I quickly realized that this was life or death and I just might have to touch her. I put her on the kitchen counter and dug through her utensil drawers trying to find something. Anything. I pulled out a large ladle. “Are you crazy?” she asked exasperated. I found a soft plastic icing spreader and handed it to her motioning for her to start the egg hunt. She sighed and gave it a try while I looked around for a solid plan B implement. Truth be told, I was just trying to busy myself because I was too chicken to look or even help. She let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the icing spreader into the sink. In the meantime I found some chopsticks and some small tongs. These could work. At about this time, I hear the front door open and close with a loud bang and in comes her Goliath boyfriend. He sees her up half naked on the on the counter with her legs spread and me with my tools, sweating like some sort of mad doctor. I thought how long it had been since my last righteous ass kicking and if I could at least take his eye out with a spatula during melee. But to my surprise, he got a bemused look on his face and said, “I don’t even want to know.” I offered up the supplies for him to give to her but he waved me off saying, “You two are on your own.” Then he hung back to watch his very own twisted version of I Love Lucy. “On tonight’s episode, watch as Lucy goes on a photo shoot where things go from bad to worse.”  I handed the model the tongs and she tried again. But after a few attempts she calmly informed me that she needed my active help. “Life or death.” I said under my breath. So between the chopsticks and the tongs we arranged a system of resistance and access and after a moment or two the egg was born again with quiet “ploop” on a suburban kitchen counter top. I deftly picked up the egg, handed Goliath Boyfriend the tongs, and gave Ms. Model Lucy the egg back and told her to do just hold it part way. And then, I-Got-The-Shot. My model squealed with delight and hugged my neck. I felt like I had just delivered a baby in a taxicab and then, took its first baby pictures. After cleaning everything up in silence and as we were saying our good byes the model thanked me profusely and as she paid me she hugged me again and said, “Next time I’m buying you lunch.” “Sure.” I said, “Anything but egg salad.” Story©Mike Wilshin (www.myspace.com/old_man_mike) Illustration by ©Grant Sutherland (www.greetingsfromwonderland.com) | 
