THERE'S SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON (Part Two)

As the old saying goes, “Good Things Come in Threes.” W.S’s and Dick’s research presentation in Savannah, W.S’s birthday, and the NCAA final four all converged on the same day. Dick and W.S.’s presentation had gone well. So, the three of us scheduled dinner at a beautiful restaurant to celebrate.

I hadn’t had time to go shopping for a gift, so I asked W.S. “What would you like for your birthday?” He took a deep breath and said, “Do you know what I’d really like? I’d really like it if you and Dick would go out for dinner so I could order room service, stay in, and watch the basketball game on television.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s your birthday.” Dick and I went to one of the priciest restaurants in town. “It’s on W.S.” I said, as we toasted the absent birthday boy. We had a fine time. Dick had never eaten soft-shell crab. He had eaten crab, but never soft-shell crab. Is there a difference? You betcha!

When we returned to the hotel, W.S. thanked us profusely. His team had won, he had gorged himself with Southern Fried Chicken, and gushed, “This was the best birthday I have ever had in my whole life!”

After a bit of chitchat (mostly about the game), Dick bid us adieu. As we were preparing to turn in, we received a frantic call from him. “My head is swelling and my face is really red. No, I think it may be turning purple.”

We rushed across the hall to his room, and sure enough, our friend had a red pumpkin head and was now itching---really itching---as hives started popping out all over his body. “I think you are allergic to something,” said W.S. “What did you eat?” “Soft-shell crab,” cried Dick and I in unison. Actually, I said it. By now, Dick had trouble moving his lips.

“I think we should call a doctor,” I said. But Dick was adamant: “NO DOCTORS!” “Okay,” I responded, “Let’s try some Benadryl and baking soda. I have some in my suitcase.” As I was leaving, I heard Dick mumble, “She carries baking soda in her suitcase? “She works at a high school,” said, W.S. “It’s part of her tool kit.” Actually, baking soda is cheaper than bubble bath and good for the skin.

I made Dick promise to take the Benadryl, soak in a tub filled with water and baking soda, and if that didn’t help, to please call a doctor. He promised he would. I didn’t sleep all night, and neither did W.S. because I kept poking him and saying, “Do you think he’s all right? Shall we call him? Do you think he’s dead? What do you think? “I think,” said W.S. “I think that I am very glad we delivered our paper before dinner,” and then he rolled over and fell asleep---one more time.

The next morning Dick was a good as new. He said that the Benadryl had knocked him out and after a short period of scratching, he had a marvelous night’s rest. “You had better stay away from soft-shell crab,” I said. “But I really liked it,” he replied. “How do we know it was the crab?” I replied, “We know, because you turned into a mutant, and if you ever eat that dish again, and it doesn’t kill you---I will!”

Little did I know then, that the creatures of the deep weren’t quite finished with the three of us, so oblivious to what the future would bring, we returned to Cow-town, Indiana undaunted and unafraid.

 Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006