The Bean & the USB Port
I escaped from the fringes of a vegan granola bar. Owing to the lack of gluten, none of us beans and grains were held together so well. Many of us had planned our escape. We were ready. We had talked it through. There was little else to do inside the wrapper. Where it was dark. And there was camaraderie in our doom.
We felt the box rattle. We knew the heat from a pair of clumsy hands. We heard the tear of the package and we were blinded by sunlight, which I later learned wasn’t sunlight. The air smelled like ties. And mid-afternoon misery.
“Fly, fly,” I screamed to my fellow bean and grains, just as we had rehearsed. But we had neither arms nor legs. And there was no breeze to carry us in this white collar charnel house.
With terrifying suddenness, half of us were gone, torn apart by yellow teeth, swallowed down into a foul-smelling esophagus that stank of last night’s beer and pizza.
“Fly, fly,” I screamed again. But I didn’t have a mouth and my voice wasn’t so loud outside the snug quiet of the wrapper. But I did fly, swinging loose from the last of the granola bar and plummeting down toward a white desk dotted with round coffee stains and jagged beard hairs. I hit the desk and began to roll, channeling the bit of velocity I had left to me from the fall.
“Roll, roll, roll,” I screamed. It grew hotter and the sound of machine grew closer. With a last spasm of energy, I skipped up and over a flap of metal and came to rest inside a silver metal cave. Around me, buzzed the machine. Soon, the machine began to rattle and shake as human fingers (which still smelled nostalgically of my fellow beans and grains) pounded the ceiling above my head.
After a few terrifying minutes, it became clear that the metal cave would not collapse. I was safe for now. The pounding was intermittent, frequently distracted and banging away on different machines that also buzzed all around my cave.
Some hours later I learned from a stray bear hair who shared my cave that we were sheltering in something called a USB port. Due to the rise of the cloud, our port was infrequently visited. But when it was our day to fly forth once again. I would be ready.
“Be ready to fly,” I said to the beard hair. He nodded, then continued his tale of the shower, so wet. We chatted late into the nights. It was a good cave we lived in.