Chocolate-Covered Cherry
March 29, 2020
One of my many jobs, back before my way of earning a living was known as the “gig economy,” was as a kind of junior, okay, very junior, honestly just-barely-adequate assistant carpenter. I do know the right way to swing a hammer, and people notice that. That is one of the many useful things Daddy taught me, that, and to change the oil in your car every 3,000 miles. And to lay your tools down on the tarp in the exactly the same place every time so you don’t waste time looking for them.
I got the job through my girlfriend Missy, who actually became a for-real and very excellent carpenter. The head dude picked us up somewhere, Monroe Drive rings a bell, I don’t know, and we rode in the back of the truck to the worksite, drinking 7-11 coffee out of Styrofoam cups and listening to the guys bullshit. This was a period of time when I was often working out living situations and jobs on the fly, like theatre folk have always done.
The foreman guy got a little crush or something on me and gave me a box of chocolate-covered cherries for my birthday. Chocolate covered cherries weren’t a real favorite of mine, but I was happy enough to have them, although the gift was a little awkward. At the time, I was rehearsing for an original musical by Eddie Lee at Southern Theatre Conspiracy, “The Gospel of Mary,” which was loosely based on the Gnostic gospels.
On this particular day, my birthday, Missy was giving me a ride to rehearsal in my trusty 1976 Datsun B210, and it was rush hour. We were on North Highland headed toward Little Five Points very near the intersection of Virginia, and I pulled out that box of chocolate-covered cherries and popped one in, and very strange thing happened to me. I couldn’t speak or breathe in or out. I did not know the universal sign for choking. But I knew I needed to do something and right that minute. We were stopped (it was Atlanta in rush hour) and I jumped out of the car right there on North Highland and did the only thing I could think to do which was throw myself against the side of the car in an attempt to give myself the Heimlich maneuver. Cars started honking. The self-inflicted Heimlich on the hood of the car did nothing. Missy got out of the driver’s seat and it was pretty clear what was going on now, and she gave me the real Heimlich and that cherry flew out of my mouth in an arc probably eight feet into traffic. Missy and I looked at each other, cars were really honking, and all of a sudden it seemed so funny. I got to rehearsal on time.
I am truly grateful that I did not choke to death on my birthday on a chocolate-covered cherry, a candy I didn’t even care for, in the middle of Atlanta rush hour traffic. I am grateful that Missy delivered the Heimlich in time and I didn’t lose any brain cells. I have been wary of chocolate-covered cherries ever since.
©2021 Joy Cunningham