Phlegm

“Ma’am, are you sure you need to buy seven bottles of cough syrup? Don’t cha want to leave some for other customers? It’s winter, everyone is gettin’ sick.”

Susan was incensed. How dare this shop clerk give her attitude.

“There is tons of dry cough medicine left, but I need the wet cough syrup. I have an issue with phlegm.”

“Phlegm? Best way to deal with phlegm is to hack it up and spit it out,” the clerk said, looking at Susan like she was from outer space.

“Well, not for me. My phlegm is different. I can choke and die on mine, so I can’t cough it up.”

The clerk stared at her.

“That will be $94.92 please. Debit or credit?”

“Debit.” Susan answered, glaring at the clerk, whose name tag read Emili.

“Is your name really spelled like that or did they make a mistake on your tag?” Susan asked.

“My name is really spelled like that,” Emili answered, her face devoid of emotion.

“Happy Holidays Ma’am.”

“Yes, Happy Holidays to you too.”

Emili spelled with an i was one of the more ridiculous things Susan had seen lately. The younger generation was nuts, just nuts.

At home Susan added the cough syrup to her bathroom closet. She now had 63 bottles. Not bad, but not quite enough. She would need 97 bottles to get through the winter.

Out of nowhere Susan coughed: a wet, phlegm-filled cough. She heard the phlegm swishing around in her lungs, sounding like hundreds of goldfish swimming in a bowl.

She un-packed a new bottle of couph syrup and took a swig, like it was whiskey.

Since it was bright outside she decided to put her head in the sunshine for a few minutes, the vitamin C would boost her immune system. Pacing back and forth in the backyard wearing her black puffer coat, she tried calming herself:
You’re okay. It’s only a little bit of phlegm, don’t worry.

“Susan, are you alright?”

It was her new neighbor, Ed. He had just moved in a few months ago. A divorcee with three cats. Three.

“I have a phlegm-y cough,” she answered.

“I hate phlegm. I prefer dry coughs.”

Finally someone who understood.

“I almost died once from choking on my own phlegm, I was seven years old.”

“That’s terrifying,” Ed said.

“My parents were having a dinner party. I went downstairs in my pink flannel nightgown and told them: ‘I’m scared. I can’t breathe. There’s stuff in my chest.’”

“And what did your parents do?” Ed asked, leaning on the wire fence.

“They said: ‘Oh Susan don’t be silly, that’s just phlegm. Cough it up and spit it out.’ And then my dad lit a joint and put on his favorite Cat Stevens album and they told me to go back upstairs. I stayed up all night trying not to cough, terrified that I would choke and die.”

“That’s the saddest story, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. How are your cats doing?”

“They’re pretty good. The oldest one, Jo Anne, is almost blind now, but she still gets up to hijinks. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“I’ve never had a cat, but I like them. They’re quirky.”

“Yep, they’re characters alright. Listen – if you ever need help while you’re dealing with phlegm, just knock on my door, I don’t want you to be scared.”

“Thank you Ed. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“No problem. See ya later.”

Susan tilted her head back, letting the mid-day sun warm her face, tears running down her cheeks.