on hiccups

My sister gets the hiccups. Bad. And there is absolutely no curing them. She sounds more like a sick donkey than a human with excess air in her chest. "Hee-ahh! Hee-ahh!" In 8th grade, she used to get kicked out of choir class because her hiccups were so disruptive. Completely unappreciative of my sister's impromptu percussion, Mrs. W. would hand over the larger-than-necessary bright red plastic Hall Pass and tell her to come back when her Heehaw hiccups were gone. The eighth grader with the killer jump shot and the horrible hiccups. Yup, that's my sister.

In sixth grade, my teacher kept sugar packets in her desk for students who got a heavy case of the hiccups. If ever I got the hiccups during a violin lesson (which happened more often than one would think) Judi (my teacher who wore mumus more often than one would think) marched me into the kitchen and filled a glass of water full, full, full. I was to bend over and drink upside-down, from the opposite side of the cup, a hic-trick that no matter how many times I'd seen her do it, she would proceed to demonstrate. It usually worked.

This morning I got into an elevator with nearly one hundred people (I'm only slightly exaggerating) and a hospital bed (which, gratefully, I was not in). It was quite roomy in that shaft until an orderly arrived. Rather than wait for the next go-round, he decided to join us for our joy ride. Taking note of the space situation, he ordered us to pick a side. His game plan (which he described, hand motions and all): To cram the awkward thing right betwixt us, and then heave-ho it straight out the opposite end of the lift. Like sardines bound by a border order, we stuck to our sides, smashed and smooshed, while that orderly had space for a small parade in front of and behind him. All the while, I was in the corner going, "Hic. Hic. Hic." It was only slightly embarrassing. Much less so than sounding like a sick donkey.