The World According to James

‘You know we’re probably gonna die, right?’
My friend flashes me a boyish grin. ‘Mate, I’ve never felt so alive.’
Spanish chants ring out from the cramped balconies above. A silence descends upon those on the ground. I look at the faces clustered around me, contorted by frenzy and fear.
‘You’re gonna want one of these,’ says the guy next to us, an American fellow we met last night and an apparent veteran of the run. This is his third encierro this week.
I stare at the newspaper in my hand, letting out a nervous laugh. ‘What for?’
He rolls his up and stabs playfully at the air. ‘Protection.’
Before I fashion mine into a “weapon”, I glance at the paper’s contents. Photos from yesterday’s run are splashed across the pages in harsh, visceral detail. A young bloke—no older than me it seems—gored in the jugular. They hadn’t had a death in years. Until yesterday.
‘Know what they’re saying his name was?’
‘The guy’s?’
‘No, the bull. Cappuccino. Almost cruel, huh?’
That is cruel, to die at the hands—or horns, in this case—of a foamy latte with chocolate sprinkles on top.
A sharp sound punctures the air. My heart starts to pound. A rush of nausea sweeps over me. I curse myself repeatedly. How did I get here? Whatever happened to watching the action from the sidelines? To filming my friend’s certain brush with death from a safe distance and uploading his act of bravery—or sheer stupidity—onto Youtube? A mere vicarious thrill?
The answer dawns on me with sobering clarity. Sangria. Coursing through my veins in near toxic amounts I’m sure. The old Dutch (or Spanish?) “courage”.
I look to the sky, beseeching the heavens to grant me the agility to somehow get out of this unscathed. I picture my parents back home, half a world away. Are they about to learn of their straight-laced son meeting his end in a drunken stupor?
From behind us there’s another crackle and then an almighty rumbling. A hundred hurried footsteps echo within the tightly woven streetscape.
‘RUUUUUN!’
A mad panic. A collective shriek. Then a yelp. A woman screaming. My friend and I don’t stop. We don’t look back. We just scramble up the narrow cobblestone path with our eyes fixed dead ahead. The heart of the town shuddering as one. The bulls’ horns at our heels. An arena in the distance. A pain in my chest. It feels as if my rib cage is going to break through my skin. I can’t feel my legs, as if they’re no longer attached. I just grab my mate’s hand and make for it.
‘WOOOOOOO!’