by Sean Ruane
It was very warm outside.
There was a man in a smart ‘Johnny Carson’ suit choking to death.
He made not the universal sign of choking, that classic grabbing of the neck.
He just glanced up from his plate of marbled beef and smiled at me. I knew what he meant.
It was the whirligig smile of a choking martyr, eyes starry, content, politely beckoning me to go enjoy the day, really, go on, I’ll be okay; just a little choking-to-death here, not going to be a bother, seriously though, brilliant marbled beef!
I knew the Heimlich move so I punched him in the face.
He stopped smiling and that’s how I knew that he was going to make it.
He put three cubes of marbled beef onto his fork and offered it to me. My ears curled from this raucous dry-lipped catcall of death.
I grabbed his wrist and shook it with all the pent up zeal of a recovering onanist.
He dropped it and I kicked it accross the floor. Forked fates be damned!
He relayed to me that he was no longer in the mood for the beef, at least not right after being punched in the face. I suspect that he wanted to take stock of his life and count his blessings.
That was a close call, I said.
The man sat there, saying not a thing. He rubbed his wrist. His left eyelid twitched as if above a dream.
I gathered four pieces of marbled beef in the palm of my hand and with a mortician’s care
placed them in his breast pocket.
The beef was still warm and probably felt good against his chest.
These are for later when you are hungry and happy and walking in the warm sun.
His nose began to bleed.
I looked him in the eyes and told him quite seriously– sir, I believe that you have had a stroke.
Avoid panic. Relax.
I summoned the waiter and told him to go fetch this man a glass of water, tout de suite; he has had a stroke and needs water to survive.
From behind his back he produced a pitcher of water and he topped off the gentleman’s glass, afterwards wiping the lip of the pitcher with a special napkin.
Elevating his chin ever so slightly, I grabbed the man’s face and squeezed his cheeks with my thumb and forefinger until his lips made a ‘figure -8′.
The man writhed with gratitude as I poured water as best I could into the small opening above his bottom lip.
Before he stopped moving I thought I saw him smile.
Checking for a heartbeat I could still feel the warm, warm beef in his pocket.
