A Normal Day, Shot in Wide Angle

May 2013 smelled like printer toner, coffee that had given up, and fresh rain on pavement. Bumbly rolled through his routines in the Nimbus Mk-IV—slow-gliding confidence, straw in his drink, hoodie soft against his neck—doing what he always did: living a life that looked “normal” from the inside, and “complicated” from the outside.

Normal meant planning. Extra minutes for doors. Taxi bookings with the right notes. A mental map of curb cuts, lifts, and the places where the world forgot to be kind. It also meant work talk, jokes that landed like warm bread, and the quiet power of being treated like a colleague—not a lesson..

Steve—sun-warmed otter energy in human form, all casual grin and hidden checklists—asked a careful question. He still studied multimedia then, and he needed to make a short movie. Would Bumbly be okay as the subject? Not as a tragic poster. Not as a miracle story. Just… proof that with a little help and planning, a disabled life could still be a life. Steve asked it like consent mattered—because it did..

Bumbly tasted the request before he answered. Not the words—the feeling underneath. No pity. No spectacle. Just curiosity with respect. He agreed.

For a few weeks, Steve showed up with four fellow students and enough gear to make ordinary moments feel cinematic: boom mics that hovered like nervous dragonflies, a little camera light that made dust motes sparkle, and a tripod that kept trying to claim wheelchair space like it paid rent.

They filmed Bumbly at work—keys clicking, office air warm with electronics, coworkers laughing at his deadpan timing. They interviewed people who knew him as “the guy who solves problems” rather than “the guy in the chair.” When someone stumbled into awkward phrasing, Bumbly didn’t scold. He redirected—with humor, with clarity, with the kind of deep-listening optimism that made people want to do better.

They followed him into taxis. The ramp came down with that unmistakable clunk—metal meeting street—followed by the soft whir of the chair’s motors as Bumbly rolled in. Planning happened in the background: the angle of the curb, the driver’s patience, Steve quietly checking exits and noise levels like a pro who didn’t announce he was protecting anyone. (Bumbly noticed the earplugs in Steve’s paw more than once—tinnitus visibility without a speech.

They filmed a movie night too: the hush of the hallway before showtime, poster light reflecting off polished floors, popcorn butter in the air. Bumbly’s chair fit because someone measured first. Not heroic—just competent.

And somewhere in the middle of all that “normal,” Bumbly left a literal mark. During one shoot, the clapperboard slate got passed too close. His paw brushed it—just a smear, like ink, shaped unmistakably like him. Steve froze, looked at it, and grinned like the universe had signed the project. The slate kept that pawprint for every take after, as if it anchored the whole story.

The screening landed like a soft drumbeat in a dark classroom: projector hum, chairs shifting, the quiet tension of people expecting a lesson.

What they got was a life.

A disabled man at work. A taxi that became a door instead of a barrier. Friends who planned without making it a performance. A chair that wasn’t the plot twist—it was the vehicle. The questions afterward weren’t “How do you do that?” like a circus trick. They were practical: “What do you need from venues?” “What should taxi companies do differently?” “How do we stop designing cities like only one body type exists?”

Steve got his A. Of course he did.

Bumbly remembered the strange relief of being seen accurately. Not exaggerated. Not minimized. Just… framed with care. And Steve—social glue with an accessibility MacGyver brain—kept doing what he always did best: making space feel possible, one plan at a time.