Choke by Chuck Palahniuk Read Free Book Online Page A

my shirt. With my hands, I hold tight around my neck, the universal sign language for someone choking to death. Even now, I get birthday cards from people who don’t speak English.
    The first few seconds, everybody is looking for someone else to step in and be the hero.
    Denny reaches over to steal the other half of my steak.
    With my hands still tight around my throat, I stagger over and kick him in the leg.
    With my hands, I yank at my tie.
    I rip open my collar button.
    And Denny says, “Hey, dude, that hurt.”
    The busboy hangs back. No heroics for him.
    The violinist and the wine steward are neck and neck, headed my way.
    From another direction, a woman in a short black dress is pushing through the crowd. Coming to my rescue.
    From another direction, a man strips off his dinner jacket and charges forward. Somewhere else, a woman screams.
    This never takes very long. The whole adventure lasts one, two minutes, tops. That’s good, since that’s about how long I can hold my breath with a mouthful of food.
    My first choice would be the older man with the thick gold wristwatch, somebody who will save the day and pick up our check for dinner. My personal choice is the little black dress for the reason she has nice tits.
    Even if we have to pay for our own meal, I figure you have to spend money to make money.
    Shoveling food into his face, Denny says, “Why you do this is so infantile.”
    I stagger over and kick him, again.
    Why I do this is to put adventure back into people’s lives.
    Why I do this is to create heroes. Put people to the test.
    Like mother, like son.
    Why I do this is to make money.
    Somebody saves your life, and they’ll love you forever. It’s that old Chinese custom where if somebody saves your life, they’re responsible for you forever. It’s as if now you’re their child. For the rest of their lives, these people will write me. Send me cards on the anniversary. Birthday cards. It’s depressing how many people get this same idea. They call you on the phone. To find out if you’re feeling okay. To see if you maybe need cheering up. Or cash.
    It’s not as if I spend the money phoning up escort girls. Keepingmy mom in St. Anthony’s Care Center costs around three grand each month. These Good Samaritans keep me alive. I keep her. It’s that simple.
    You gain power by pretending to be weak. By contrast, you make people feel so strong. You save people by letting them save you.
    All you have to do is be fragile and grateful. So stay the underdog.
    People really need somebody they feel superior to. So stay downtrodden.
    People need somebody they can send a check at Christmas. So stay poor.
    “Charity” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
    You’re the proof of their courage. The proof they were a hero. Evidence of their success. I do this because everybody wants to save a human life with a hundred people watching.
    With the sharp tip of his steak knife, Denny’s sketching on the white tablecloth, sketching the architecture of the room, the cornices and paneling, the broken pediments above each doorway, all this while still chewing. He lifts his plate to his mouth and just shovels in the food.
    To perform a tracheotomy, you’d find the dent just below the Adam’s apple, but just above the cricoid cartilage. With a steak knife, make a half-inch horizontal incision, then pinch the incision and insert your finger to open it. Insert a “trache” tube; a drinking straw or half a ballpoint pen works best.
    If I can’t be a great doctor saving hundreds of patients, this way I’m a great patient creating hundreds of would-be doctors.
    Closing in fast is a man in a tuxedo, dodging between the onlookers, running with his steak knife and his ballpoint pen.
    By choking, you become a legend about themselves that thesepeople will cherish and repeat until they die. They’ll think they gave you life. You might be the one good deed, the deathbed memory that justifies their