She heard the thump against her front door and assumed it was the stupid kid from the grocer's delivering her three fried chickens, with fries, onion rings, and two liters of Diet Coke. She heaved her 426 pound body up from her steel crafted self rising chair and lumbered to the door. What she saw when she opened the door was a young boy, about ten, splayed across her sidewalk, lying under a purple bike with wheels still spinning. What Marta mostly noticed was the boy's face was turning about as purple as his bike. He was grabbing at his throat and looking at her with giant brown doe eyes. His bike was not the source of his problem. He seemed to be choking on something. Marta had to think fast. She could dial 911, but the last time she dialed 911, they took over an hour to heed her cries. It took six men to pry her out of the bathtub. In between their laughter and her embarrassment, she explained that she was merely trying to save a spider who had gotten trapped in the slippery bath. When she fell into the tub, she did notice the spider took his chance and escaped by running up her leg, leaving her to stare at the crack in the ceiling. She now always carried her cell phone since the evening of the great mishap when she twisted and turned with golden oldie tunes and Richard Simmons as her friendly supporter. She liked all those fat people he danced with. Marta had swung a little to hard and fell between the TV and bookcase. Fortunately, with Richard's encouragement she managed to squeeze herself out her predicament.
So now, here was this boy. She knew she could not pick him up. It would take much too long. It was already becoming a dire time as she noticed the boy's eyes starting to roll in his head. She saw the bike handle was sitting right under his ribs, so she took her size eleven, extra wide Ugg and lightly pressed down on the handle, whereby honking the bike's horn. Still nothing. She pressed down just a tad harder and heard a pop, then a loud gasp.
The boy started to come around. His face no longer purple plum colored. As he gasped for breath, Marta noticed something sticking to her Sandy Blaine shirt, ordered special, online. A candy mint. She was almost about to laugh with such relief until she heard the scream. The scream grew louder and nearer. As Marta picked the mint off her shirt, a crowd of people gathered around the young boy, who was now getting up on his own. He seemed annoyed by all the attention and the woman who was screaming an inch from his ear.
"What have you done to my son!?" shrieked the woman.
Everyone looked at Marta who was holding the sticky mint in her sausage sized fingers.
"Uuuuuuh," was all she could get out of her tiny mouth.
While people pulled the boy from his bike and brushed dust off his Marilyn Manson t-shirt, the woman, aka, boy's mom, grabbed at the mint in Marta's hand.
"This? This is what you had to have from my son?" You fat cow. How dare you!" As she screamed and ranted, the young boy tried to speak.
"Mom. I was choking," he said in a raspy voice as he held his hand over his throat.
"I know, sweetie. I'm here. I'm here."
"You will pay for this you fat hippo. Call the police, Fred."
"Let's get Sean to a doctor, Mal. We'll deal with this later."
"Mom, I was choking and...."
"I KNOW! I said I will deal with it! Get in the car!"
She gave one more killer stare at Marta and pointed her skinny, manicured pink digit towards her. "You will pay for this, you useless piece of..."
"MOM." Fred grabbed onto his wife and pulled her towards their car. Everyone else stood and watched as Marta slowly stumbled back into her house and shut her double wide reinforced doors.
*To be continued....