Proper Protocol
Joseph guided his date, Nancy, towards the most optimal table in the restaurant. He wouldn’t have usually chosen an establishment where he had not dined prior, but Les Oiseaux was highly regarded by internet forums as a first date location. Joseph, of course, had then corroborated this by soliciting opinions of his friends with serious girlfriends, before making a reservation. When Nancy arrived five minutes early (therefore, on time) and asked if he had been waiting long, Joseph lied and said no. In actuality, he had arrived one hour early to survey the space and finalize his operating plan.
Nancy shook snow from her curls and folded her fur-lined gloves as they ordered. Though they had met only recently, Joseph knew she was exactly what he was looking for. Petite, kind, and most importantly, heiress to her family’s toothpaste empire. As a first-year medical school student, Joseph was embarking on the busiest and poorest decade of his life, and he had no margin for error. It was imperative that this date go well.
“So, you’re going to be a doctor,” Nancy winked, swirling her glass of red wine. “Always nice to have one around.”
“The job security is astounding,” he laughed, pleased by her attention.
“And the hero factor. Don’t doctors save lives on planes all the time?”
“I imagine so,” he said with practiced humility.
It was at this precise moment that silverware clanked to the floor two tables over. Joseph’s operating plan hadn’t accounted for an incident like this, though in hindsight he would recognize it as a perfectly missed opportunity. One that, unfortunately, did not result in a second date with Nancy. She was mid-question about residency when a choking cough cut through the dinner hum, followed by a scream. My husband! Help!
Joseph turned to see a large, stocky man pounding his chest with one fist, the other hand clawing at his throat. The man’s mouth gaped soundlessly, his eyes bulged, his face was already a dangerous purple. Joseph sprung to his feet unsteadily, as though his body had moved without securing the proper approvals from his brain. His mind rifled through hazy diagrams of abdominal thrusts, subdiaphragmatic pressure, risk of rib fractures. To apply pressure below the xiphoid or above the umbilicus? Was it inward and upward, or the reverse? Sweat dripped down his face as he realized that he could not recall the proper Heimlich protocol. The worst outcome, Joseph decided, was not that the man would die, but that he would die because Joseph administered incorrect treatment.
“Somebody, anybody, do something!” Nancy screeched.
Before Joseph could move, she shoved him aside and rushed toward the choking man. She attempted the Heimlich despite having neither the leverage nor the strength to perform it effectively. Her arms barely encircled the man’s torso, her hands clasped somewhere along his stomach nowhere near the recommended position. Joseph thought the scene rather resembled a classic textbook illustration: Fig. 2.3: Ineffective Abdominal Thrusts Performed by a Layperson of Insufficient Mass.
Nancy strained, red-faced, boots slipping on the polished floor. The man produced ghastly, airless sounds. The restaurant fell painfully silent except for the wife’s sobs and Nancy’s desperate heaving.
Preamble
Model: Bullet in the Brain by Tobias Wolff
Narrator: Past tense, close 3rd person narrator on the shoulder of the main character, then zooming out for an objective view. Exaggerated personality trait in a highly inappropriate situation.
Tone: Clinical | Mood: Anxious
Posts in this series
Internally Flawless
Panic!
Portrait Study
Discharged
Ocean Ode
Proper Protocol