Life and Other Inconveniences(103)

Suddenly, there was a crash. The man by the window had fallen out of his chair. “Call 911!” his wife shouted.

The random kids started screaming. “He’s dead! He’s dead!”

“No!” said the wife. “Oh, God, please!”

“He’s dead!”

“Shut them up!” I barked at the parents, dashing over to the fallen man. He was wheezing, grabbing at his throat. “Are you choking?” I asked. He was a big guy. The Heimlich or CPR would be hard. He shook his head.

“Oh, God, save him! Please, Jesus, please! Lord Jesus, save him! Save him, Jesus!”

“He’s dying!” one of the kids wailed. “Just like Lucky! I miss Lucky!”

“Tanner! Get off the table!” the father yelled.

“I miss Lucky, too!” cried another kid.

I checked the man’s pulse, which was fast and weak.

Miller was already on the phone with the dispatcher. “The pirate restaurant. Moby’s? The one with the pirates! Come on! It’s right on fucking Main Street!”

“Please, Jesus!” cried the wife. “Don’t fail me, Jesus! Calling on you, Lord! Come through for me, Jesus!”

The man was flailing at his pocket, his breathing so tight and hard it was a whistle. I felt his pocket—something hard and tubular—and pulled it out. An EpiPen.

I ripped off the cap and plunged the needle into his thigh. One of Riley’s friends had asthma, and I’d done this once before on a field trip, years ago.

“She stabbed him! That lady is killing the man!”

The server was leaning over, too, her boobs nearly falling out. “Is he all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ambulance is on its way,” Miller said.

The man’s breathing was easier now. Easier still . . . the whistling turning to a wheeze, and then to normal. He lay there, panting, his color going back to normal. He reached down and pulled the EpiPen out.

“Are you okay?” I asked, abruptly feeling my own heart thud.

He nodded.

“He’s dead!” one of the kids sobbed.

“No, he’s not! He’s getting better!”

“Lucky is dead, dummy! Dead!”

“Honey, are you okay?” the prayerful wife asked.

“Oh, boy,” he said. “Was there shellfish in that dish?”

“Are you allergic? To shellfish?” the waitress asked. “You could’ve mentioned that!”

“Sorry,” he said.

“You’re allergic to shellfish and you came here?” Miller asked. “Here? To a seafood restaurant?”

“This happens all the time,” his wife said. “Get up, sweetheart.” Sure, she was calm now! She could’ve maybe mentioned the EpiPen while she was talking to God!

The fire department trooped in. “Hey, there, sir, how you doing?” they asked, and I stepped back. Miller and I returned to our table.

“That was exciting,” I said.

“You saved his life,” Miller said.

“Oh, I just . . . yeah, I kind of did, didn’t I?” I smiled. “Hey. I did! Wow!”

My savior buzz didn’t last long. Miller looked at his phone. “Shit. Kimmy says she needs me home now.” He hit the button. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt? Oh, God. Okay. Yeah. I’m on my way.” He slid his phone into his pocket and sighed. “Tess poured corn oil on the cat, and it went all over the kitchen floor, and the cat ran upstairs, and Tess chased him, and basically, the house is a wreck and Kimmy can’t deal.”

“Okay. I’ll drive, mister. You chugged that drink.”

“Thank you. You don’t have to stay, though.”

“I love cleaning up corn oil.”

He gave me a look and raised an eyebrow. “Well, you just saved a man’s life. I guess cleaning up corn oil will be easy compared to that.”



* * *




*

Cleaning up corn oil was a lot harder than jamming an EpiPen into someone’s leg. A lot less rewarding, too.

“This is quite a mess!” I said cheerfully. “How will you clean it up, Tess?” She was currently diving on the floor and sliding around like a cheerful otter, completely soaked in corn oil. Miller was paying Kimmy, who was more than ready to leave and stink-eyeing Tess. The cat was MIA, the lucky thing.

Apparently, Kimmy had been trying to make brownies, and even without the corn oil, the kitchen was a disaster. The handheld mixer was still on the counter, the beaters dripping chocolate, and eggshells were in the sink. Flour and sugar had spilled on the counter, and every ingredient was out and unwrapped, including a stick of butter that looked like Tess had taken a bite out of it.

But the real mess was, of course, the floor. An entire half gallon of corn oil. According to Kimmy, Tess had poured it on the cat to make him “pretty.” There were smears of oil on the walls, on the floor; Kimmy had fallen and bruised her knee and was quite grumpy.

“All right, Tess, let’s clean this up,” Miller said, rolling up his sleeves. He handed her some paper towels.

“Thank you, Daddy.” She smeared them in the oil and put them on her head. Miller sighed.

“Put them in the trash, honey,” I said. “Otherwise, we’ll slip and fall on the floor, and it will hurt.”