I met a man in a broom museum in Iowa. He was sweeping the floor with reverence, like it was a religious ceremony. I asked him, “Do you work here?”
He said, “No. I used to be a dragon.”
Now, I’d heard strange things before—once saw a goat recite the Gettysburg Address backwards—but a dragon? In Iowa?
He explained it plain enough:
“When you’re a dragon, people try to stab you. When you’re a man, they just ignore you. Safer.”
I asked what it was like, turning human. He said it involved yogurt, Gregorian chants, and legally changing his name to Todd.
Todd said he missed the fire-breathing part, but not the hoarding. Said coins made his scales itchy. Now he just collects promotional keychains and unresolved guilt.
He also couldn’t remember why he chose to become human. “Might’ve been for love. Or lasagna. Same thing when you’re lonely enough.”
Then he paused, looked solemn, and told me the worst part.
“No tail. No tail at all. I keep falling off chairs backward.”
We ended the conversation when his broom got stuck in the vending machine.
