I’m sitting alone at the bar.
Everybody else is rushing around, panicking, shouting for help. A man has collapsed three stools to my left, spilling his vodka club. It’s a shame, really, to waste a drink like that. All the chaos is beginning to distract me from my glass.
“Is anybody here a doctor?!”
I’m no doctor — I am a writer. I’m tired of seeing these people fly in like they’re Superman or Wonder Woman, saving the day and shit. I want to be needed like that, by someone. I want to be the hero. Just one time.
Fuck it. I down my bourbon, throw some cash on the bar, and bounce.
On my walk home, I hear sirens. An ambulance whizzes by, I can only assume transporting Vodka Club Guy. He’s saved.
I flip on the TV when I get into my apartment. The news is on.
On a brighter note, Mittens the Kitten finally made her way down from that tree after 37 hours. The hero: a retired firefighter… “Every time someone tried to climb toward it slowly, the poor thing went higher. So I said, ‘Screw it — I can out-climb this tiny cat.’”
Bar again. Minding my own business, enjoying my drink.
Something crashes to the floor. I don’t even turn to see what’s going on this time. Probably: Oh no, blah blah, someone’s hurt, blah, please help, doctor, blah, save him. Obviously, nothing I do will help.
A crowd gathers behind me, everybody panicking like the, uh, panickers they are. (I do this for a living — I should be able to come up with something better than that.)
“Is there a writer in the house?!”
My eyes shoot up from my bourbon. Did I hear that right, or have I had one too many? I tilt my head, waiting for confirmation.
“Is anyone here a writer?”
My ears did not deceive me. I spring into action, fighting through the crowd to see what’s up.
“I’m a, uh, writer.”
“Oh my gosh, great. So glad you’re here to help.”
When I look down, I see an iPhone on the floor. Next to the phone is a man, fallen to his knees. He’s upset.
“I just can’t do it anymore. It’s so frustrating!”
I look to the person who called me over to help.
“What can you do? He doesn’t know what to say to this girl…”
“You said you’re a writer, right? Quick, help him!”
I smile bigger than I’d care to admit. I crouch down and pick up the phone without saying a word. After scanning the previous texts between the victim and the girl, I begin typing like a man possessed — thumbs moving at twelve-times the speed of their surroundings.
I stand up like a boss, flip the phone to the dude, and start walking away before he even catches it. As he looks down at the conversation, the girl responds:
The bar folk erupt— this time not in panic but in celebration. I reclaim my seat at the bar and finish my drink as the crowd cheers behind me.