“Is anybody here a doctor?”
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.
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You’re a hero for reading this. Find more of my writing in Human Parts, Endless Magazine, The Coffeelicious, Life Tips, Slackjaw, Navigating the Sea of Singledom, and The Bigger Picture (I run this publication — submit a piece sometime!). Direct all complaints here.