by Matt Mortensen

Created on: April 30, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

It Doesn't Help to Get Angry

"Quick! She's not breathing!" the friend exclaims. She lies comatose on the floor of the diner. Nobody knows what happened, but they know who she is. Nora Johnson, the young woman who moved into the old place on 3rd and Main. Nobody knows anything about her except for the fact that she has AIDS. "Does anybody know CPR?" the friend exclaims. Maybe they do, maybe they don't. Nobody moves.

Nora Johnson is still not moving. There are no signs of breathing. From the rear corner booth, a man in a faded blue levi jacket and a red baseball cap hesitantly raises his hand. "You there!" the friend shouts. "You know CPR?" The man's eyes fidget about the room as if searching for a hidden monster about to pounce on him. "Yeah, I was sort of an EMT once, I guess." He follows this up quickly with, "but I don't have any of my equipment here with me, and it's been an awful long time."

The silence in the diner seems to deepen. After several seconds, an anonymous voice is heard from somewhere near the rear exit. "Jeb Hendrickson took a first aid class with me last fall!" All eyes in the room swing towards Jeb, who is standing near the entrance half looking out the window and half glancing periodically back at the woman on the floor. In a panicky voice he replies quickly, "You took that same class, Frank!" Frank seems to be shocked by the shameful accusation.

"Somebody, please!" the friend shouts. A woman sitting in the booth closest to the scene starts waving her hands wildly in the air like a child at school who is all peacockish about knowing the correct answer. "I know, I know," she exclaims. "We could call 911!" The room explodes with an exclamation of consent, and a sudden sense of relief permeates the diner. That's the perfect idea! All eyes turn expectantly toward the owner of the diner. It was his diner after all. He should be the one to make the call. He feigns a shocked look and places his hand on his chest, as if to say, "what, me? You want me to do it?" "Well, alright already," he says in exasperation and slowly makes his way over to a black rotary-dial phone on the wall behind the counter.

Each spin of the dial seems to last an eternity: 9 . . . . . 1 . . . . . 1. The owner of the diner is suddenly aware of everyone in the room staring at him, particularly the friend, whose eyes seem to be boring holes in his chest. He turns sideways and leans with his shoulder against the wall so as to avoid eye contact with them. The responsibility of

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