Journal Entry 12

September 22nd. Thursday.

Had a bit of a scare today. I'll try to describe it in a more story-like format than I usually do. It's just so vivid in my memory that I want to keep as much of it in word form as possible.

So, Mike, Rusty and I decided to join Trevor in the weight room today. None of us had been down there before, so we just decided, why not? The exercise equipment would be fun to try out, after all. Well, we "worked out" for about 30 minutes before Rusty said he needed a snack break. None of us could say no to a snack break, even if we weren't as physically worn out as our friend was, so we all bought something from the nearest vending machine and headed back to the weight room.

Rusty was last in line for the machine, so as I turned away I told him, "We're going back to the weight room."

"Got it," he replied, flashing me a chipper dimpled smile.

Well, he was in the process of fishing out a George when I left him. I was about halfway through my bag of chips when I wondered just what was taking him so long. Had the vending machine been rejecting Rusty's dollars? Was he counting out that spotty collection of dimes and nickels he always toted around? Surely it shouldn't take nearly eight minutes to get a snack from a machine.
It was Trevor who mentioned his absence first, but it was I who volunteered to find him. I half-jogged back to the vending machine, my mind hoping to find him still standing there, fiddling with the machine. Instead, I saw no one. I glanced at the nearby bathroom door, figuring he must have gone in there.

I was right, but I wish I hadn't been.

Oh yes, Rusty was in the bathroom, but he was kneeling on the ground, hunched over, coughing his lungs out. I breathed a swear and rushed over to him, kneeling down next to him. His face was flushed and his eyes were narrowed. His pupils flitted over to me. I could tell he was scared, and that he was having a very hard time catching his breath.



"Breathe, Rusty, just breathe," I said, nervous myself. I had never had to do anything like this before.

Rusty tried to breathe. I could tell he did. Still, cough after cough ripped through his throat. The rest was all a bit of a rush to me, but he was finally able to stop coughing and talk to me. He pointed at his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching into a sideways smile. "I got a tickle in my throat, but it just got worse every time I coughed," he told me.

He was clutching a now-crushed bag of Doritos in one hand. I offered to replace it for him as I helped him up. He politely declined, but I humbly insisted. "No trouble at all!" I said. He gave in and let me buy him the chips.

He seems fine now, so all I can assume is this was a fluke cough. I hope so--- I know he doesn't want to go through THAT again. I wouldn't want to either.

-nj