“You’ve got something on your shoe.” The bar is nearly empty now, as it’s six o’clock in the morning. How many drinks have I had, and what’s on my shoe? It won’t be long before they kick us out. Someone else at the bar mentions, “Hey, I saw that you stepped on some gum on your way in—just thought I’d let you know.” He’s wearing a cowboy hat and slacks; I expect boots, but instead, he’s wearing a pair of Converse All-Stars. I shake my head at the blasphemy of this city-loving poser, then momentarily attempt to scrape off the tacky substance before giving up and leaving the bar. It’s nearly daybreak as I exit, passing the bar’s neon sign that has nearly lost its luster. I rub my eyes and start down the street, feeling weightless. Thank God I didn’t bring my car; it’s best to avoid the temptation.
I guess that I’m heading back home, although it’s hard to tell: the weightlessness that I feel has turned into apathy regarding my end destination. Walking alongside a building, I decide to shift things up and walk on the side of the building instead. This is a dream. No, this is real, right? While the experience is real, I’m definitely on rails. I brush my hands along the sidewalk as I step, positioned perpendicularly to the sky, but close enough to reach and touch the ground. I walk over windows, doors, one of which opens as a barista enters to fire up their favorite espresso machine. We greet, and the barista mumbles something about gum still being on my shoe. I near the edge of the building then grab a pole to lower myself down to the ground.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been to this part of the city, hasn’t it?” I watch the morning sun’s rays just barely pass between two buildings, blinding me for a moment and illuminating a very crowded street. I see that the gum is still stuck on my shoe. As I glance about for another stick, an idea suddenly comes to me. First, I take a small chunk of gum and stretch it until enough space is showing for me to blow inside. A few inhales and exhales later, the gum is full of hot air and slowly rising into the sky. As an introvert, I’m ecstatic: “You haven’t had a balloon in ages to help you skip the crowds.” My legs lift off the ground, and I slowly float. The breeze is on my side today, so I naturally return to the ground eventually. I look back and wave at kids who’ve just seen their first demon.
I hear a sharp cry and a large metallic crash: it must be a car accident. I rush to the scene and spot a small, severely injured child. I know that I have to act fast. Onlookers gasp as I rush about. I grab the parts and fasten them together with strands of gum still left on my shoe, remembering my anatomy class as I attempt to match them. The boy gasps, his breaths growing increasingly ragged and desperate. The parts wobble and shake slightly as I struggle to insert the organs in the order they’re normally found, pressing them against the rib cage to make room for the rest. The boy ceases gasping for air. The gum is stretched tight across, between, and over his chest and organs, holding everything together. I flee the scene as the sun rises fully above the buildings, casting their shadows over the awestruck residents below.