So, TINS©, TIW(after)FDASL©, having been asleep for a couple of hours after another fun filled, exciting night of EMS in Da City. I was just about hitting my sleep stride, sleeping my ass off, when a commotion on my front porch awakened me.
I had bought a two flat in Da City, and lived in the downstairs apartment, renting out the upstairs to a fellow we can think of as The Clod. The Clod had roommates, who seemed unsavory. This appraisal developed as I noted one of these folks to have what we used to call, on the street, “lobster claws”. This alludes to the fact that IVDAs (pronounced as it is spelled, “iv-dahs”), or folks who spend their recreational time injecting street drugs intravenously, develop sclerosed veins, from the damage those veins sustain from the chemical irritation of the drugs, crappy needle technique, and repeated infections of the veins due to nonsterile injectate. It tuns out that the lymphatic circulation simply is not up to the task of returning all the fluid delivered by the uninjured arterial circulation, and so fluid collects in the downstream portions of the limbs, and the hands swell. When this process has advanced sufficiently, the hand(s) resemble the claws of a lobster, hence the appellation.
Now, some folks have stated their appraisal that my years on Da Streets have left their mark upon me. Indeed, my very own cherubic, innocent daughter, aged 20 something and mother of the sweetest, most wonderful children in North America, reports that I am “the most cynical human being that I have ever known.” (I can only hope so!) So, I had taken note of the fact that unusual sounds, seldom presaged Good Things in Da City. Therefore, awake, I put on some pants and a shirt, tucked a revolver into my pants, and laid my shotgun against the wall next to the door. Then, I peeked out the window to see what was transpiring.
My peek revealed an excited disturbance, featuring several folks unknown to me, and The Clod. I slowly opened my door, hand near revolver, and asked The Clod, “What’s happening?”
All a-twitter, he announced that “Luigi (not his real name) has swallowed a sandwich! Do you know the Heimlich Remover?”
Sheesh! The Heimlich Maneuver had been taught in every CPR class I have ever taken, since Desoto himself was in short pants and wondering why the pretty lights sparkled on top of the emergency truck. I moved closer, and noted that Luigi was coughing pretty vigorously, but, since he WAS coughing, it seemed pretty clear to me that he WAS moving air. This was not something I felt particularly enthusiastic about remedying, so I kept an eye on him, and asked, “has anybody called 911?”
I was dazzled from the glare of the metaphorical light bulbs illuminating over every head on that porch, all at once. The Clod noted that this was “A great idea!”, and bounded upstairs to make the call, leaving Luigi, and me, and Ghawd alone knows who else these bastards were, on the porch. Shortly after The Clod’s run up the stairs, Luigi stopped coughing, which I thought was Not Good. I asked Luigi if he could talk, to which he shook his head negatively. Not noticing any air moving in spite of his energetic attempts to do so, I elected to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.
He was sort of crouched over, which worked well for me. I reached around him, clasping my one fist in my other hand, and, planting the thumb of that fist into his stomach (just below the xyphoid, just above the umbilicus), I briskly lifted him off his knees, and settled him back down. I repeated this gesture several times until he coughed again, and produced a glob of half chewed sandwich about the size of my fist.
At this, he began to gasp and wheeze. The crowd started to thin out, as the sirens approached. Soon, it was The Clod, Luigi, and me left on the porch.
The responding EMS crew was a couple of guys I knew, and the one chatted with me while his partner checked Luigi, and obtained his signature refusing transport.
“How long have you been working here?” I was asked.
“What do you mean?” was my response.
“Well, we all figured that this was some kind of adult foster care, because every time we drive past, there’s always a bunch of these guys hanging out. We figured that the residents had to get out of the house during the day.”
FML. Just what I wanted to hear.