We met Jen and Geoff at the Cascade Diner after a long night of holiday overindulgence and dancing. George and Denise's dance mix kept a good portion of the Brooklyn revelers moving throughout their spacious brownstone and we were all feeling the effects our moves and the various concoctions that lubricated, not so much our joints but our inhibitions. This morning we were moving a little slowly, but our pace was assisted by the anticipation and excitement of spending the day running around Greenwich Village and Midtown Manhattan.
After a bright and brisk walk over the Brooklyn Bridge where I continually fell behind the rest of the group. I, like the other hundreds of digital camera toting tourists, aspired to capture an image of the great bridge that would probably pale in comparison to the many photos and postcards sold at the many souvenir stands around the bridge. My friend Eric's comments rang in my ears, "Oh yeah, your picture will be different."
It was Eric who sent a text to sister Jen and suggested Walker's Bar where we could get a much needed Bloody Mary, a sort of Hair of the dog thing. The bar was small and busy, but Eric's recommendation was spot on, in that it met the quaint, almost seedy, but not too seedy atmosphere we desired.
The Bloody Marys were spicy and immediately hit the spot. We made small talk with the gentleman that sat to Deb's right. The same man who offered to move to accommodate our little group. Jen was lured into a strange conversation with a young man who stated he was working, yet was drinking at the bar and went on to tell her an unsolicited tale of how his friend was "date raped" the prior evening. Typical small talk between strangers, right?
The coughing came from our fellow patron in the corner. It wasn't a productive cold type of cough and it initially sounded like the man had taken water down the wrong pipe, but it was immediately clear that his wind pipe was blocked by something more substantial. The man was in trouble and we all knew it. I jumped out of my chair and worked my way toward him, first by telling, or I should say yelling at Deb to get out of the way. As his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness, I got behind the man, picked him up and pulled my clenched fists up into his abdomen. Quite honestly I didn't know what I was doing and it occurred to me that he may die in my arms. This thought scared me and made me pull even harder. Then he slid off of the chair and I was now carrying his full dead weight. I called to Geoff to help me lift him, and after another a few more forceful squeezes the guy regained consciousness. Like a light switch he went from limp, pale and rolled back eyes to the animated life he was just a minute or two before. He asked if he had fainted. He was confused and embarrassed, but he was alive.
The once interested restaurant crowd saw that the man was breathing and back on his bar stool. None of the folks offered assistance or called 911. When it was over no one clapped, validated or acknowledged what had just transpired. The event had happened and now it was over. They returned to their eggs, mimosas and conversations. It was as if this type of thing happened often and it was only our little group that found the experience beyond the routine routine.
After Debbie's numerous requests, the bartender finally came over with a glass of water. He placed the glass on the bar and used the same hand to pull the guy's plate away from him with a snide, "I assume you're done with this." The man didn't resist. We spent a little more time in the bar and finished our drinks. We declined the man's kind request to the bartender, "Get my medical team another round." We made sure the guy was okay, said our farewells and went off to seek out new adventures.
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