The Gum Predicament: Based On Real Events

You know when you’ve made your way from the parking lot to your car, how something felt strange, but you weren’t sure what it was? How, once you turn the car on, the feeling grows worse? Then you know how your right foot is sticking to brake peddle, and how, you tilt your head to the side, trying to make sense of it? Then, to your horror, you see a pink string extending from the closed doorway, over your left sandal, and tucked beneath your right foot? You know that sudden drop of emotion? And you know how you can tell it’s a fresh piece, and how you can tell by the circumference of the string that this particular piece is particularly large? You know how you try to take off that sandal, but the steering wheel gets in the way of lifting your knee, and you can’t reach down, so you have to open the door, and swing your legs around? But you know how you reacted too quickly and disgustedly and only made the situation worse, and now the gum string that anchored itself to the doorway pasted itself comfortably onto your left jean leg while you swung your legs? You know how, now, you’re really freaking out, and turn around to look in your car for something to peel it off of jean and sandal, and see a scrap piece of paper in the passenger seat? But you know how it’s too far away, how you imagine the attempt at reaching for it, but part of the scenario involves likelihood of pasting the gum to the floor mat? You know that sinking feeling of defeat? How you wished it would all go away, or that you would have seen the gum in the parking lot and stepped over it? Then you know how return to reality, though still tragically harboring a mite of hope? How you look for a small stick on the ground somewhere in view, but can’t find anything? And you know how you begin to grovel, and mope a little, reaching between your legs and underneath your car, blindly scraping your fingers against the pavement for something, anything? And you know how you feel an object, so you take hold of it, and you let an instant of hope back into your heart. You know how it’s only a crumbly leaf? And you know how the remnant of that poorly timed hope makes it seem that the leaf will be sturdy enough to give it a try, so you take your sandal off and flip it over? You know that face you give at the first site? And that little wheezy grunt? And you know how you begin to wipe, but because it’s a leaf it tears open immediately and unexpectedly and your thumb touches the gum a little? You know how, in a moment of terror, you throw the leaf so as to expel whatever diseases you may have just touched, but how, unfortunately, because it’s a leaf it pauses six inches away from your hand, dropping bottom gum-heavy like an air strike directly atop your clean sandal? And you know how you can’t figure out whether you should clean your thumb or sandal first? How you stand up quickly in the excitement only to realize that you don’t know why you’re standing, so you sit back down? You know how, just after you look around to make sure no one sees you? You know how once you notice that the soccer mom over there saw you, that you pretend like nothing’s happening, starring up at the sky and yawning, still secretly freaking out about the tragedy of the gum predicament?

the K.H.