I am a crayon. This was my brilliant idea. I was tired of being a witch, or a ghost, or Minnie Mouse. I wanted to do something different, something original. So I am walking around my neighborhood inside a cardboard box that is spray-painted traffic-line yellow. That’s what the spray-paint can said: traffic yellow. Pieces of black cardboard recreate the distinctive swirls of a Crayola wrapper, and a little “Crayola” logo completes the branding. I am wearing a party hat on my head. It is also spray-painted yellow.
My costume looks cool. It is unique. It is also hard to walk in. I am shuffling along Woodstone Road, clutching my plastic orange pumpkin full of candy in my right hand, when I trip over the curb. I teeter, sway back and forth, windmill my arms, and then I am falling.
I cannot put my hands out to catch myself. I hit the ground hard, cushioned only by cardboard. Oof. Candy scatters all around me. I am lying in the road, a yellow box with a person inside it, wearing a bright yellow party hat, kicking my legs feebly.
I am embarrassed. I cannot get up. The cardboard box, which extends to my shins, restricts my movement. I struggle within the spray-painted prison.
My friend’s dad turns around and sees me. I beg him with my eyes not to make a big deal of this. I am not sure how he avoids laughing, but he comes over, picks me up, and sets me on my feet. I mumble a thank you. His mouth is twitching. I am bright red. He helps me pick up the scattered Butterfingers and Kit Kats and assorted other goodies, since I cannot bend over. I hope I do not have to pee before I get home.
Note to self: Freedom of movement: vital.