Nightclubber Chow Kah suffers heart attack, saved by first aid

[Pix of models for illustration purpose only]

Chow Kah, Hussein and I are walking through the hall to the VIP Karaoke Room. Hussein and Chow Kah are snapping their fingers to the lively music.

“Ugggghhhh!” a white-haired man fox-trottting with a wasp-waisted GRO on the dance floor collapses.

The other customers and the GROs form a circle around the victim. The wasp-waisted GRO, his erstwhile dancing partner, gets on her knees. She places her ear to the man’s chest. Then she holds his forehead and tilts his head far back.

She pinches the man’s nostril, bends over, inhales and blows into the man’s mouth. Chow Kah’s and Hussein’s eyes bulge at the lovely cleavage exposed by her skimpy neckline. The wasp-waisted GRO repeats the act three or four times, and the white-haired man opens his eyes.

“G.M.’s office,” the wasp-waisted GRO says. “Let him lie on the couch. I’ll phone for ambulance.” Two bouncers carry the white-haired man away.

The wasp-waisted GRO shakes her head. “Aiiiiiyooooh.. Silly man! He should not have taken Cialis and Viagra at one go.”

While we are standing in the hall, Wati [top pix] and Jessica [left pix] weave through the tables and come to us.

“What happened?” Wati asks. “I was putting on make–up when I heard the commotion.”

“Customer suffered heart attack,” I say. “Lucky, one of your GROs knows first aid. The fella’s conscious now. The ambulance’s on the way.”

“Come, let’s go to the room,” Hussein says. “The show’s over.”

We settle down the leather settee and gossiped the incident.

“What’s that first aid move called?” Hussein asks, dragging out a packet of cigarettes and putting it on the coffee table.

“Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” Jessica says. She rings the intercom’s bell to summon a waiter.

“How you know?” Chow Kah asks.

“I was in the Red Crescent Society. In fact, I know mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

“I joined Pandu Puteri,” Wati says, adjusting a spaghetti shoulder strap, “so I don’t know.”

We have a rollicky good time.

Seven evenings tick by.

Hussein, Chow Kah and I are in Hot Legs again.

Chow Kah plays a Ricky Martin number, stands up facing the screen, yells at the top of his voice, gyrates his hips like the late Elvis Presley.

Suddenly he collapses. His face lies on the carpeted floor and he holds his chest. “Pain..." he gasps.

“Goodness, Chow Kah’s suffered a heart attack!” Hussein snaps.

“Arrrrrrr... Mouth-to-mouth -– mouth-to-mouth resuscitation..." Chow Kah points to his mouth, wide open.

“Jessica, you do it! You're trained,” Wati says.

Hussein and Wati position Chow Kah flat on his back.

I take Chow Kah’s mike away and fish out my handphone, ready to call an ambulance.

Eyes closed, Chow Kah feels a pair of lips over his mouth. The lipstick tastes smooth and peachy.

His nostril is pinched by a pair of strong finger and thumb.

Air is blown into his lungs. Breath like rotten fish chokes Chow Kah. Droplets of slimey saliva drip into his mouth. He opens his eyes.

Holy smoke! It’s Mummy Lulu! Her wrinkled face is only millimetres away [pix below].

Spluttering, Chow Kah springs to his feet. “I’m okay now! I’m okay now!”

He turns to Jessica. “Why you didn’t help me, Jessica?"

“I’m wearing a denture of two front teeth. People wearing denture cannot do mouth-to-mouth.”

Mummy Lulu wipes her lips with her hand. “Lucky, I was walking past the room and saw what happened.”

“Our efficient Mamasan rushed inside the room before I could remove my denture.”

/end