Sore throat

I have a sore throat today. 

We were at the Mexican place last night with friends.  They’re younger than we are and I have no idea why they want to hang with us but I’ll drink with them.  Ok, I’ll drink with anyone, I’m old Navy.

Their kids were there and we love them.  Ms. Donna will get into talking with the kids and totally ignore everyone else.  I think the boy is 8 or 9.  The girl is 11.  Caleb is a football player and baseball player and he loves girls.  Girls are scared  of him because he loves them so much.  He’s not negative, just totally in love with them.  Trinity is a super soccer player and straight A student and just as cute as a little girl can get.

We’re the old couple with no kids, who have sort of taken on the grandparent role.

So OK, there we were being grandparenty.  Me and Louis were talking about his school.  He’s a construction guy trying to ensure that he can still make money after construction destroys his body. 

I had some enchiladas and rice and beans.

I swallowed something.  A truck I think.  It was sideways in my throat.  Not bad enough for the Heimlich, but serious enough to shut me up and make me notice.  I tried swallowing some more.  And more.  Gee whiz.  This thing was commanding the entire passageway of my throat and it wasn’t moving very much at all.  I drank some water.  I drank some water.  I drank some water.  Then went to the beer.  And then I drank some water.  It wasn’t hardly moving at all. 

“What’s wrong with Bob?”, said Tasha.  She’s a cutie with a totally great view of the world.  She’s the mom.

Everybody looked at me.  “Swallered a rock,” I said.  And I attempted once again, for the fifteenth time, to swallow.  The obstruction moved another thousandth of a millimeter. 

“Are you OK, honey?”  asked Ms. Donna.  “I’m off duty.  You’re on your own if you have a problem there.”

Tasha’s eyes lit up.  “I can do Heimlich.”  She said, entirely too excited.

The kids were looking at me with even wider eyes than kids normally have.  I think I was changing color.

I tried swallowing again.  Drank again.  Gee whiz, this dang thing was so big and so sideways!  I don’t think I’ve ever before put something so WRONG into my throat. 

I pointed my chin straight up and stretched my neck out like a crane at dinner.  The waitress stopped next to me.  “Another Dos Equis?”

“He’s not going to answer, he’s choking,” said Ms. Donna.  “Yes, I’ll take one,” she said.

“And me,” said Louis. 

I swallowed.  Drank some more water.  This thing wasn’t going anywhere.  What if it got bad.  Could this thing actually kill me?  Why isn’t it going down?  A Heimlich wouldn’t help.  Shoot, it’s too far down in my throat.  What would they do if it cut off my air?  It feels like you would need to jam a broomstick down my throat.  Maybe a hanger.  I wonder if they have a hanger here. 

How do you say “choking” in Mexican?  Oh my god, how do you say “hanger”? Nobody that works here knows the English word for choking.  Nobody that works here knows the English word for anything really.  Matter of fact, if we had to call emergency people, half the workers in this place would run and hide.  They don’t want to be deported.  Again. 

Everyone but me went back to eating.  Tasha was the only one at the table really interested in my plight.  Seems that she recently had CPR training which included the Heimlich maneuver.  She seemed to be really excited about this possible opportunity.  Ms. Donna, true to being off duty, just continued eating her shrimp salad.  I continued to try to swallow.

I swear it was MINUTES that I struggled with the mass in my throat.  An eternity passed before I felt the thing barely start moving.  I ordered more water.  I drank more water.  Finally, it worked its way down.  I didn’t die last night. 

I have a sore throat today.