Scott Hollifield: Attack of the coughing man

Whatever the gentleman came to talk about was suddenly unimportant.
That's because a split second before he gripped my hand in that warm, embracing shake perfected by salesmen and politicians, he coughed into his fist.
It wasn't a tiny, throat-clearing cough, one used to ensure that initial greetings are enunciated clearly. It was a deep, body-racking cough that originated, if not from his toes, deep from within his lungs where all manner of seasonal germs were multiplying faster than Octomom on fertility drugs and Red Bull.
I had less than a tick of the clock to pull up short, to refuse the handshake, possibly offend this gentleman and protect my own health, but the pull of middle-class manners was too strong and I allowed him to grasp my had in that big, potentially infectious mitt.
I'm not a germaphobe. I don't buy hand sanitizer in five-gallon buckets. I have retrieved a burrito from the trash when someone forgot to ask me if I wanted the rest of her lunch.
But the media attention given to H1N1 - what we called swine flu back in the day - has left me paranoid and hyper-aware of the coughs and sniffles of others. Thanks again, media.
The guy gave me a big grin and began to talk, but nothing registered.
It is highly unlikely, but it could have been, "I stopped by to unleash my rabid wolverines upon you."
I heard nothing he said.
Instead, I thought about the germs creeping up my right hand. I flashed back to my first viewing of the 1958 sci-fi classic "The Blob," when my 5-year-old eyes widened in terror at the TV screen as the farmer poked the core of the meteor and The Blob quickly engulfed his hand. I ran screaming from the room then, and I fought the urge to follow the same course of action as this man talked about God knows what.
I'll be OK, I thought, as long as I don't touch my face and let the vicious little critters in. He can't talk forever, germs and viruses rarely move at Blob-speed and I can run to the restroom and scrub from fingertips to elbows before I meet the farmer's fate. Was the soap dispenser refilled? I can't remember!
Heart beating faster.
The guy kept talking.
"Not many people raise rabid wolverines these days, but I find the hobby quite rewarding. My late wife never really cared for it."
He probably didn't say that, but I don't know what he said. I was too busy mentally berating myself for not getting a flu shot.
So, you didn't have time to get vaccinated, did you Mr. Super Busy Man? Oh, you've got time to sit around and think up a bunch of smart-aleck things to put in the newspaper then run out and get a six-pack before the ball game but you can't clear 15 minutes in your schedule to go to the Health Department for something that could SAVE YOUR FREAKIN' LIFE and now you've got mutated swine flu Blob-germs swarming up to your armpit.
That's what I told myself as the man continued to talk about something I wasn't listening to.
At least I have life insurance, I thought. The wife and kid will be taken care of, although a large portion of that has been designated to construct a slightly smaller scale Graceland in my memory.
At this point, the man paused and I recognized this as the part of the conversation in which I was supposed to interject something.
"I see," I said, though I really didn't.
He seemed satisfied, thrust out his hand again and again I took it, perhaps hastening my demise.
The second he was out the door I sprinted to restroom, cranked open the hot water and pumped the soap dispenser. Did I kill the virus? Am I safe? I think so.
I still feel pretty good,except for just a tiny hint of ...a cough.