I’ve been told to save the world.

It was a Friday night, at a house/trance club. It had been a hot and erratic week. My mind and body were wasted from heat, alcohol and sleep deprivation. I’d drunk my first beer at two that day and later dosed myself with caffeine, salt and proteins to manage the dancing. In short, I was mildly stoned. Furthermore, I was dressed as a post-apocalyptic warrior cultist. My only purpose in going to the club was to shake a sizeable portion of my troubles out on the dance-floor. It was going to be a fuck ‘em night.

It’s a tall order. I don’t even know which world I’m supposed to save, or what the actual saving entails.

The venue was ridiculously sparsely populated. Out of almost three hundred tickets, perhaps fifty or sixty had been sold, and people were coming and going. When we arrived, there were five or six people dancing - a fight or flight situation. In the face of disappointment, we did the only thing that made sense - we took the floor over.

I suppose it’s to be expected. People feel powerless and no-one seeks a champion in the unremarkable. By being different, you set yourself apart, and there is always someone around to invest their fragile, desperate hope in you.

The girl was dressed in a light, flowing dress. She was lithe, blonde and suspiciously exultant. She came and went as part of the small group that gathered around us while we kept the dance-floor alive. In time, her obvious bliss rose to the point of hugging us and telling us how great we were for just doing our thing. In this rapture, she came up to me and shouted it was up to me to save the world, since everyone else had lost the capacity - or something of the sort. These things do happen and I didn’t really think much of it. I didn’t think much at all. I was there to dance, and dance I did - defiantly, triumphantly. I’m that kind of dancer.

In a way, it’s about co-dependency. The supposedly common people get their hero, their genius, their conqueror - and the exceptional are given space to live and breathe. Both sides are doomed to disappointment, but I’ll wager the gain is greater than the loss.

It was getting late and my energy was nearing depletion. I sat down in the corner of the dance-floor to catch my breath for that final push towards the grand finale. Within seconds, she was beside me, shouting half-heard words into my ear. I found myself laughing at the absurdity of it all. She took offence and started dragging me outside for a Proper Talk. I had little chance to stop her and so ended up sitting on the ground outside the venue, assuring her I hadn’t laughed at her and listening to her telling me she was once like me and thought I was great - this all while trying to balance the fact that I was now not only stoned but utterly spent and riding the slowly wavering adrenaline rush. At that point, she made a grievous error. She asked me if I would ever hurt her.

A hero isn’t a type of person; it’s a turn of events. Someone happens to have the right traits at the right place and time, and ends up saving the day. It obviously follows that the right traits tend to be less common ones, and so the atypical have a greater chance of occasionally being heroes. You’re only a hero at that time and place, however. I can no more save a world - let alone the world - than anyone else.

Now, the thing is that I am a brutally honest person. I despise lying about things that actually have meaning, and when asked if I would ever, possibly hurt someone, I will have to answer “yes”. There aren’t many situations in which it would happen, but I could conceivably think of one. She was looking for reassurance. In my bewilderment, I told her the truth.

No-one wants to be a hero. Not really. They may dream of the power and the glory, but there is nothing desirable in heroism itself. It’s just work - often gritty, defiant and brutal work; being what needs to be, doing what needs to be done, out of love, loyalty or spite. Anyone who tells you anything else is lying.

The girl was not amused. We debated for a while, as I tried to make her realise that I never meant to threaten her. We made the evident observation that we were both damaged people. The last DJ finished his set and my friends came out to find me. We said our exhausted good-byes and went our respective ways, but the girl wasn’t done with me. She hung on, asserting that while she wasn’t attracted to me, she found me fascinating and asked me some of the obvious questions. Was I a nazi since I wore boots? (No.) Was I gay since I wore a net shirt? (Not specifically.) Could she have my number, even though she would probably never call? (Sure, hell, why not.)

So now I apparently have a world to save - sometime, somewhere. The call might come tonight or it might not come at all. I am a hero in waiting - one of many conscripted to serve as champions for those who will not carry their own torches.

It’s probably a good thing I don’t go dancing more often.