“Eww, I don’t want that one!” The kid looked at the wonky head, half deflated giraffe.
“I still have the pink dog.” The clown tried to handle it to the kid.
“I’m a boy! Don’t you see? I have short hair.” The boy with a superhero T-shirt was flustered to see only a pink girly dog and a faulty giraffe.
“Then you don’t want anything, let’s go!” The mother dragged the crying kid away, now begging for the pink girly dog.
The man standing on a busy street, dressed like a clown, with his testicles dripping sweat in his underwear, barely blocking the sweat to stain his colorful pants, needed to sell the two balloons, and hopefully get into a half empty bus to go home.
The wonky giraffe looked at the perfectly inflated pink girly dog, it was a poodle, she was sure, proud of himself, analyzing the children passing and pointing at him. “Hey, Mr. Poodle…”
“What is it?”
“Am I wonky?”
“Yes, you are. Mrs. Giraffe. Now get yourself together!” Mr. Poodle was fighting his own compressed air demons; he could not understand how he could be the last to be chosen. He was cute and slim! He should have been the first one chosen by a kid. He knew too well Mrs. Giraffe would go home and be popped, he heard stories like that.
Mrs. Giraffe had heard them too, and before Mr. Poodle could be sold, and before she was dragged home to her death, she planned her escape. She waited for the clown to be distracted, and when he opened his arms to embrace a cooling breeze, she released herself from his hands. The wind refreshed his pants and took Mrs. Giraffe away. He did not bother to fetch the faulty animal. Mr. Poodle would guarantee his dinner, chicken flavored instant noodles.
If Mrs. Giraffe had a respiratory system, she would be panting. The hot boulevard, and the constant kicking from passersby caused her face to deflate entirely. Only the ears still held a bit of the compressed air the machine spat inside her former linear tiny body.
Mrs. Giraffe tried to move away from the sidewalk, but her string, tangling in many feet, dragged her to a woman sitting on the curb, hoping for few pennies to get herself a bar of soap. She looked at the sad giraffe and squeezed her whole body. She noticed the balloon lip was loose, before she could fix it, someone tossed a coin at her.
“You bring me luck.” The woman whispered to the balloon and tied the dirty string to her arm.
Mrs. Giraffe knew her situation was pitiful, but paired with the unlucky woman, she was safe from popping. People threw coins at them, consternated by the state of the human and the balloon. Their ugliness generated pity and it translated into money, not that Mrs. Giraffe needed any. The woman bought a fancy bar of soap and a pack of pads.
But the woman took pity of the giraffe, she was unattractive. She opened the giraffe’s balloon lip, blew inside it and closed it again. “Look at you!” The woman wasn’t happy, there was room for improvement. She used a red marker to draw hearts and stars on her yellow body, and wrote ‘I am in need, help us!’ on her long neck.
Mrs. Giraffe then was dragged to a hole under a viaduct; her new human shared the space with insects and small rodents. She could not speak to people, but for sure she could speak to rats, and asked them to please to eat the string that tied her to the woman. She was free again.
The rat that ate the string took her out. Mrs. Giraffe was tossed down the viaduct, landing on a green area, the grass poked her doodled body. She could not see the sky, with a crescent moon and stars hidden by pollution, or feel the humidity and heat emanating from the dirty pond.
She knew Mr. Poodle was having a better life, being squeezed and dragged around by a kid with sticky hands, while she had to beg with a lady, and had cloudy cigarette smoke inside her face. The night lifted to a cloudy day with a fine drizzle. The pleading words washed away from her body, leaving red shapeless stains. Mrs. Giraffe was free from clowns, beggars and rats. Mrs. Giraffe was free.
Not for long, alas. Mrs. Giraffe was found by a bunch of teen misfits with large pupils and loose smiles. She was tossed, flipped, dragged with them, the air passing through her ears, the easy happiness of the young watching the sun climbing up, still behind the clouds.
The last cigarette was lit, just before heading home, Mrs. Giraffe was held horizontally by a girl. “Have you ever watched the sky?” She asked Mrs. Giraffe, still astonished by the sun slipping through small cloud cracks and sending lukewarm rays to Earth. The teens were nice, passing the tiny cigarette butt to extend their adventure.
“No!” The girl screamed when her friend passed the butt. The burning end touched Mrs. Giraffe’s neck, that popped, and slowly deflated her body, paws and lastly, her face. The girl cried. The rest of the group laughed. The girl held the string with the yellow stained pieces of latex in her lap, she mourned the balloon.
Mrs. Giraffe popped, she barely noticed her body tearing apart and releasing the compressed air and the cigarette smoke. Her fear was contained within the limits of her latex shell. Mrs. Giraffe was, in the end, just air.
