Vignette: Jar of Dry Roasted Peanuts

wbHOody's Peanuts

By Dave Hood
In the living room, there’s a plastic jar with a red lid that’s like a stop sign, filled with peanuts, standing on the rectangular, marble coffee table. The label says “No Name-Dry Roasted Peanuts.” Feeling hungry, while watching the NFL football on the big screen, I reach for the jar, unscrew the lid, pour peanuts into the palm of my outstretched hand. Then I pop the peanuts into my mouth, chew, and swallow. My mouth is dry, so I gulp down several mouthfuls of coca cola from a tall glass filled with ice cubes. Afterwards, I pick the remnants of peanuts from my teeth like a dental hygienist, recalling the last time I ate peanuts more than a year ago: I was by myself, stretched out in the lazy boy, reading “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy, listening to soothing jazz on the stereo, eating peanuts, enjoying a rye-and-seven on ice. After chewing and swallowing the last handful, I began choking, gasping for air. Panic raced through my mind. Anxiety gripped my body, as I gasped, and gasped, and gasped for oxygen. My windpipe was blocked like the drain in the sink. I honestly thought I was going to die. Just as I was ready to pass out, my son opened the front door, entered the house. I staggered toward him, gasping for oxygen, clasping my hands around my windpipe as if choking myself. Realizing what was happening, fear in his eyes, Patrick smacked my back several times with the palm of his hand, dislodging the peanut from my throat. I inhaled the air, thanked him for saving my life.


About Dave Hood

Lover of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction. Professional photographer and writer. Without the arts, life would be rather mundane, like a walk down the same old path on a dull day.
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