Stavros spewed bluish liquid from his mouth and nose. He doubled over, heaving like an ursine asthmatic. Eventually he caught his breath sufficiently to gasp, “I cannot.”

Ernie ripped off enough paper towels for a small tent and handed them to Stavros. “Yes, you can,” he said, wiping spittle from his chin.   

“This is an unnatural act,” Stavros grumbled. “It’s like self-waterboarding.” 

Sometimes Ernie felt more like Stavros’s mother than his husband. His bungling ineptitude at even the simplest tasks used to be endearing — cute, even.  Stavros was an absentminded professor of classical studies who envisioned himself as an endowed chair in some ivy league lyceum teaching Platonic metaphysics to rapt disciples. Instead, he taught a course called Humanities 101, which satisfied the liberal arts requirement of technical college students seeking associate degrees in welding technology or HVAC services. “Plato?” a student once asked him, “Do you mean Mickey Mouse’s dog?” 

Generally, Ernie didn’t mind indulging Stavros’s incompetence or obliviousness concerning the domestic trifles of living together, like capping the toothpaste or closing the toilet lid. Cleaning up after him was service to a higher cause. 

But this was pathetic. For crying out loud — how can a grown man, a doctor of philosophy no less — not know how to gargle?  

“I have a sore throat, not a death wish. Until right now, I didn’t know that I don’t know how to gargle. I’m not the kind of person who gargles.”

“Tell me, Stavros, what is a gargling type of person? Somebody with a robust esophagus, an adamant Adam’s apple, an agile epiglottis?” 

Stavros scowled at Ernie. “It’s not my fault that I have a very delicate gag reflex,” he rationalized. “I can’t stand to have things deep in my throat.”

“Tell me about it,” Ernie mumbled under his breath.

“What did you say?” 

“Never mind.” 

“I’m not making excuses,” Stavros said defensively. “It’s a legitimate medical condition. Like acid reflux, only in reverse. Aristotle suffered from dysphagia, too.”

Now Ernie was becoming vexed. The only thing worse than coddling somebody was not being appreciated for it. 

Thrice, Stavros had tried to gargle per instructions, each time with the same lamentable result. He tilted back his head and sputtered like an old lawnmower that refused to turn over, until the antiseptic liquid pooled to a critical depth in the back of his throat, then he coughed, gurgled, and finally retched up a devil’s brew of the medicine, bile, snot, and chunks dredged from phlegmy depths of his sinuses. Each expulsion was more violent than the previous — hence, even though Ernie thought he stood at a safe distance, he caught the spray from the last blast in the breast pocket of his polo shirt. 

Still, Ernie stifled his frustration and encouraged Stavros to make one more effort. “Give it the old college try,” he urged, appealing to Stavros’s academic competitiveness. 

“Ok,” Stavros agreed sheepishly. “I’ll do it.”  

“That’s the spirit. Hold the liquid in your cheeks, lean your head back and let it settle in your throat, then say watermelon.” 

“Are you being facetious?” Stavros asked. 

“No. watermelon is the scientifically tested gargle word,” Ernie answered with authority. 

“I can’t say watermelon. It’s too gauche. Instead, what if I say… Heraclitus?”

“Knock yourself out, professor.”

Ernie lifted the bottle and poured the prescribed amount into its cap, then handed it to Stavros, who accepted it with trembling hands, like Socrates taking the cup of hemlock. He sniffed it. 

“It smells like peppermint,” Stavros said. “Are you certain this is medicine for adults?”

“Open wide,” Ernie said, “and make motorboat bubbles.”

Stavros frowned. “Actually, my throat feels much better now.”

“No, it doesn’t.” 

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you’re a coward.” 

Chastised, Stavros conceded, “Very well.” He sipped a capful of the liquid and swished it from one cheek to another.

“That’s not gargling,” Ernie said. “Now, tip back your head and say water… er, Heraclitus.” 

Stavros lowered his head slowly backwards, until his chin was at a 45 degree angle in respect to his shoulders. His eyes widened as the medicine trickled from his cheeks into the back of his throat. He glanced at Ernie out of the corner of his eyes, as if to ask, “Is this good enough?” 

“Now go for it,” Ernie cheered him on. He started humming Ride of the Valkyries.

“Her…”  Stavros began. His pupils widened in panic. 

“Herac…” 

Stavros’s trachea tightened and his tongue become erect. Ernie encouraged him with an enthusiastic thumbs up and hummed a crescendo: “Dum dum dum DUM dum. Dum dum dum DUM dum. Da da da DUM.”

At once, Stavros found inspiration. He began to tap his feet and trilled, “Heeeraaacliiitiiis,” while liquid roiled in his open, gaping mouth. The corners of his lips were stretched in what looked like a proud smile.  

Ernie applauded and called out, “That’s it! You’re doing it. You’re gargling!”

Stavros joyously pumped a fist above his head. At the same time, however, the backlash caused him to gulp, and he inadvertently swallowed the medicine.  

“By Zeus!” he cried. “I’ve poisoned myself!”

“Uh oh,” Ernie said. He picked up the bottle and began reading the fine print. It says here, “Do not swallow.” 

Stavros pounded his gut. “Get it out of me,” he wailed. 

Tremors began rumbling in Stavros’s belly. He convulsed in dry heaves. His cheeks flushed chartreuse, as if swollen with antifreeze. A lump the size of a tennis ball rose in his throat. Ernie slapped him on the back and told him to, “breathe.” When the lump turned the corner of his larynx, Stavros rotated his head toward the ceiling and vomited vertically, like a fountain. Finally, he doubled over and expelled viscous dregs onto his lap.  

“Are you okay?” Ernie asked.

Stavros’s breath smelt like peppermint and spoiled milk. “I gargled,” he beamed. “You saw it. I did.”

“That’s right, honey. I’m proud of you.” Ernie said. “But there’s just one problem.” 

“What?” 

Ernie read from the label. “It says here — use once, then repeat.”