How the Shriners Almost Killed Me

It was a gray day outside, and the clouds were holding the end of summer heat in. On the television, they'd cut to the local segment, with representatives of various Northeastern Wisconsin companies and unions and community groups and do-gooders stepping in front of the camera to deliver checks (unimpressive ones, compared with the checks that Jerry was being handed) to the low-level celebrity?usually a retired game show host, like Dennis James?who was emceeing the festivities.

I wasn't expecting Rob's dad for another half hour or so, so I decided to go to the kitchen to grab a quick snack. First thing I saw was the first thing I grabbed?one of those individually sized foil packets of granola. Nature Valley had started packaging granola in every conceivable shape and configuration, and we had some sort of a sampler pack. I went back into the living room, sat back down in the chair, opened the packet and began eating.

On the television, some local no-talent was singing "People (Who Need People)," like they all seemed to. When she was finally finished, the MC was back, taking more checks. A fat man with gray hair, horn-rims, a red suit and a fez appeared with a giant novelty check. One of the Shriners. They were everywhere. I tipped the foil packet toward my mouth again.

"I would like to present you with this check for $367.19," the fat man was saying, "on behalf of the Royal Order of the Cootie."

I inhaled sharply.

Royal Order of...the Cootie?!

Now, the thing about the "Granola in a pouch" business was that it consisted of very small, dusty particles. And when I inhaled sharply in an attempt to erupt into great gales of laughter at hearing the name of the fat man's ridiculous organization, I suddenly found granola dust filling my lungs and packing my throat.

I couldn't laugh, I couldn't breathe. I realized immediately that I was choking to death.

Damn him anyway! I leaped from my chair in a panic, not knowing what to do, trying to inhale, trying to squeeze some air past all that granola. Nothing worked.

I stumbled down the short hallway, into the kitchen, blinded by tears and pain. I stumbled into the living room and fell to my knees, trying to wheeze something out. My parents thought I was just laughing really, really hard at this "Cootie" fellow?until they noticed that no sound was coming out. That and the fact that I'd started to convulse like a cat trying to hawk up a hairball.

"Oh my God?he's choking," I heard my mom say from across the room, as my vision began to go red.

Now, my parents, they didn't know much about the first aid. They were both aware of the Heimlich maneuver, in theory at least, but weren't privy to some of the subtleties involved. My mom knew that part of performing the Heimlich involved being behind the person who was choking, so she stepped behind me, then froze.

And my dad, Lord bless him, knew that part of it, for some reason, involved knocking the wind out of the choking victim. So he dropped to his knees in front of me?my dad was 6 feet tall, and weighed 200 pounds?at which point he balled up his huge fist, reared back, and hit me as hard as he possibly could in the stomach.

So now, not only was I choking to death, I was in pain.

With that, my folks had about exhausted all of their "anti-choking" techniques. I was on my side in fetal position, holding my stomach, praying I wouldn't puke, trying to calm down, trying to breathe.

I don't know if it was that blow to the gut or if it was just a matter of the granola getting soggy and sliding on down my throat, but finally a small crack appeared in the dam, allowing a trickle of air to get through. Then another.

A minute later, I was fine. Still raspy, my throat still scratchy and ragged, my stomach still sore, my head aching, but I was alive, and was breathing almost normally.

I threw the rest of the granola away, took my seat in front of the television again and began plotting my revenge against the fat man and his Royal Order of the Cootie.