Snickers Bar

"Oh Christ," he said stepping across the threshold into the second floor apartment unit. There was a dead man lying on the couch. No visible wounds, no signs of struggle, but definitely dead. But that was not the reason for his outburst.

He'd been a paramedic for twenty years. He was very familiar with death. The lives saved by him and his team were numerous. Getting upset at death had long ago vacated. In this case, the vocal exasperation was induced by the contents on the nearby plate on the coffee table.

The police had been called by the tenant in the neighboring unit. The TV was on too loud. In truth, it was not loud, but yes, too loud for 2 am. After the neighboring tenant received no response to pounding on the wall due to the loud TV, they put on their slippers and went to pound on the dead man's door. The initial knocks, also unanswered, quickly escalated to the pounding.

"If you don't open the door, I'll call the police." He did not, so the other did as he said.

The police kicked the door in after there was no response to the butt end of a flashlight banging on the door, including the verbal warning to 'open up.' Death was quickly diagnosed. TV was turned off. Paramedics were called.

The plate on the coffee table had a whole and untouched King size Snickers candy bar. There were three wrappers on the table. All King size. The dead man's digital blood sugar tracker had been removed from his wrist and was on the table next to the plate. The nub of what appeared to be bar number two was on the man's chest.

He had been a diabetic and must have figured that he'd lived enough. What might have been the final straw was not known, if it ever would be, if even the dead man knew. A final note had not yet been located, but the intent was clear. The dead man had decided to sign off. 

Earlier that evening he walked to the mini-mart, bought three large chocolate bars and a Coca-Cola, pealed off all three wrappers, the large and delicious candy bars were laid out to serve their purpose.

TV had been turned on. It was loud, but would not have seemed inordinately so earlier in the night, say 8 or 9 pm. The ambient noise from the other apartment units would have rendered this no more bothersome than ambient white noise. But as the night slipped into early morning and the other sources of noise were extinguished, this loud TV became the singular source of annoyance, as evidenced by the neighbor finally reaching down and donning their slippers.

As for the paramedic, the striking visual causing his outburst was that third candy bar. The unwrapped and untouched Snickers.

'Dammit. Nobody'll eat that now. Dude couldn't open them one at a time,' he thought to himself pondering the waste. 'Had to open all three, never got to three. At least he didn't peal off four Snickers. But hell, the shame of it,' as he watched the police tilt the plate, the Snickers skidded into a labeled evidence bag.

The paramedic was a good man. Good at his profession, even if a little askew at what riled him up. The dead man was lifted, then lowered into the body bag and zipped it closed. A teammate rolled the body bag out the door on the stretcher. Sure would be nice if he was as concerned for the carcass as he was the pristine chocolate bar.

If he'd been a doctor, this rugged brute, his bedside manner would be said to be decidedly poor. Yet so imperceptive, was lummox, that he had difficulty seeing beyond his own shoes. The real story wasn't what he was doing, the paramedic. The real story was why the dead man had done what he did.

Five hours earlier, returning from the mini-mart, the dead man had grabbed a plate from the kitchen cabinet and the small paper bag from the mini-mart, then trudged forth to the couch. His feet dragging as if he were tired. Tired from a busy and long day, or just too much rough living, could not be discerned from his languid gait.

Placing the plate on the coffee table, employing the unusual grace as if he were serving the queen mother, before sitting on the couch. The gravity of the evening's agenda subconsciously dictated his reverential deportment.

Letting out a great sigh, almost a moan, he reached for the remote control, turned on the TV, a baseball game, before returning the remote to the table by the plate.

He emptied the bag's contents to the table. The three big candy bars and a Coke, to make sure the job got done. Tonight wasn't going to need a do-over.

He opened the three candy bars, placed them one by one on the plate. Parallel, each. On an important task like this, they would not be allowed to lay all cattywampus. Symmetry would call the proceedings to order.

He opened the cold Coke, closed his eyes and took a deep draw. So delicious, as made so by a diabetic's strict diet and its sugary restrictions. Then came the first bite of the first bar. So dangerous, and so tasty, enhanced by the treats' long absence.

The volume was turned up two more notches, he lay back on the couch, all stretched out with feet on the cushion, another bite followed by another. The ballgame's innings rolled by on the TV, as did the fatal succession of bites. As the first bar was concluded, he reached for the second.

As he advanced to the second Snickers, a sob emanated from the fellow. So much sadness and grief had been absorbed in his lifetime that it could no longer be contained. Another sob, half suppressed, followed by another notch of volume.

He took the first bite of the second bar. The tears started to flow. Slow, but there would be no stopping them now, not that he wanted them stopped. Not that he cared.

Another bite which became difficult to chew on account of the crying and occasional chest heaves. A big drink of soda. The crowd on TV was cheering loudly. The on screen excitement and tension was mounting.

He felt lightheaded, took still another bite. He was confused, no longer remembering what exactly had been that final straw. Why had he decided to end himself? Just as uncertainly, he didn't know if he wanted to stop.

[Inspired by a southern California story 20 years ago about a diabetic man who ate himself to death by means of two candy bars, plus one unwrapped and untouched.]

It Was An Honest Mistake

It was a lovely start for these two early 20-somethings. The coy smiles, brief and playful dialogue, the innocence. It would not end as such.

They met at an airport. Both waiting at the same gate for the same flight, engaged in the same time-passing activity. Reading. Both of them with books. She enjoyed the novelty of another reader. Few of her friends were. What's this guy's story, she thought. She took two steps toward him and spoke.

"What book are you reading?"

He looked up. Hadn't even noticed her before. That smile. The eye contact. She had an ambience to her, as if gravity had less pull on her than everyone else. His brain went blank.

Though operating with a blank head, he had the good sense to smile back, not that he could help himself, then read the title off his book's cover. He had to read it, because he had forgotten, the excitement of the moment, smitten as he was.

He was not smooth at this. He lacked game, went the parlance of his friends and peers. He knew it, and had inadvertently turned his playful sincerity into his game. That in itself wouldn't make him a baller when it came to dating, not while lacking initiative and confidence. But heck, sometimes you nail the landing, even if only accidentally.

It was a brief exchange. What, two minutes? Their plane was boarding. Passengers were asked to line up in their groups. He would lose her. What'd he have to lose if he overextended himself here? Well, other than a shut down in front of an audience of all these other passengers listening in, though offering the courtesy of pretending not to. They were in their twenties, and handsome as heck, both of them, as is everyone at that age. All eyes were on them, the vicarious thrill, hoping for a connection. It would not disappoint.

"Are you local here? Or are you flying home," he asked.

She was local. Him too. And then, he doesn't quite know why or how he did it, but he mustered the courage to go forth, "When we return to southern California after our visits away, would you like to exchange books?"

She did. His heart leapt. Especially when she smiled, and looked back to him after they'd gotten in line. At this point, sadly, their relationship had already peaked.

When they returned to southern California, the two did get together, ostensibly to exchange books. Truth is, neither would read the other's. That possibility would be precluded.

Bowling and milkshakes, he proposed.

"I want to see you, but not over bowling. Milkshakes," she elegantly countered.

At the ice cream shop she excused herself to go to the restroom. But she was in a fun mood and ice cream is ice cream. It's all delicious. Difficult to order a mistake when dealing with this stuff.

"Hey, I'm going to the little girls room. Order something for me. Surprise me," she said as she walked away. Then, from 10 feet away she remembered, turned, and added, "No nuts."

The thing is, there were other patrons in there creating a distracting white noise, music was playing on the store-pumped ceiling audio system, and she had not completely turned toward him before speaking, the oblique angle causing lost clarity. It all coagulated to the fact that he missed the most important piece of the message.

He missed the No. Nuts, he heard. He smiled and issued a courtesy head nod. She likes nuts, he figured. That means Rocky Road, of course. He ordered. The shakes were made, paid for, and handed forward.

He sat at the tiny ice cream parlor table for two. Quaint. She returned and sat across from him. He liked being close to her. He handed the shake, they dinked their cups, and took big pulls off their straws. Then a second.

The result was almost immediate, but not immediate enough to stop that second draw. He'd never seen her without a smile. For a moment he didn't even recognize her.

A small cough at first. Then an almost grinding sound from her throat. Almost like a gas lawn mower engine trying to catch, but could not. A hand went to her throat. Her esophagus was closing in because of her nut allergy.

"What flavor . . .," she was having trouble speaking and could not complete her question. She held up her shake.

"Rocky Road. You like nuts," he replied, straight faced with a mounting terror.

"Allergic. Call 9 1 1," she breathed out, barely audible, clutching at her throat now with both hands.

She collapsed and fell over out of her chair onto the checkered black and white tile floor. The floor was pristinely clean, except for the Rocky Road shake spilled across all the way to the ice cream counter.

All eyes in the store were on her. Then on him standing over her with a terrified look on his face.

"Nut allergy," he said.

One of the employees was on their game and called an ambulance.

It was a tense few minutes before the ambulance arrived. They were so new to each other, these two, that he didn't know what to do or what to say to help her keep calm.

He reached for her hand, but his was sticky with ice cream so he released her hand and reached for a napkin. She knew not the reason for the vacated hand, not that it would have mattered in the high emotion of the moment, the stickiness. Her heart went empty.

She was looking into his face. She'd always enjoyed looking into his eyes. She felt she could see all the way into him. Except this time, without the eye contact, she saw shear fright, and his dumb sideburns that she was willing to generously forgive until now.

His hand rested nebulously on one of her shoes. A thick-soled Doc Marten. Purchased new for the date. It was safe contact, he figured.

"I'm sorry. Really, really sorry," he said to her, kneeling and hunched over her. She couldn't breath and was close to passing out. 

The ambulance arrived. The paramedics burst in. There were two of them.

"Nut allergy. Dork ordered her a Rocky Road," crisply briefed the employee, time being of the essence. Everyone looked at him.

One paramedic was down on his knees talking to her, calm and decisive, holding her hand. The second returned to the ambulance for the stretcher. They had her strapped in and heading out the door in three minutes. 

"It was an honest mistake," he practically yelled after her, having gotten to his feet and taken a few steps toward the door as the paramedics wheeled her out.

Everything had happened so fast that nobody had moved until after she was out and the ambulance had sped away.

"Don't look at me that way. It was an honest mistake," he said to the other patrons as he walked out the door, his shake in hand.

[Inspired by the song by The Bravery, It Was An Honest Mistake [click HERE to listen to song]. What kind of honest mistake could be so extraordinary as to compel a song, I'd thought in recent years whenever the song came on the radio. The milkshake idea struck me this morning while driving with my mom after picking up shrimp tacos from Del Taco. My mind often wanders to milkshakes in free moments. That's when it hit me. Nut allergy! wdk 4/29/2025]