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The dispatcher requests my number. “117, I need you over there. Finish your drop-off at Mercy and get there with lights. Do you copy?” I wait. Maybe someone else who is closer will pick up on the call. But no, nobody in their right mind wants these types of calls. “117 do you copy?” Sonofabitch. “I’m
here. I’m finishing up here and then I’m on my way.
With lights.” I forget my coffee sitting on the dash, so I walk back and get it. It’s December and the guy wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt working the counter sees me coming and meets me at the door. He’s pretty excited. “Hey buddy, if you gotta go just give me your numbers and I’ll bill the hospital.” “Nah, it’s OK. Don’t worry about it. I need some smokes anyway.” He scuttles back behind the counter and pulls down the overhead door where the cigarettes are kept. “OK, let’s hurry. What do you smoke, pal?” I pat my chest pockets then feel around in my pants pockets. “Shit, I left my wallet in the ambulance. Hang on, I’ll be right back.” I turn around and start walking back out across the lot to the pumps. Before I get to the door he’s yelling and pounding on the counter. “Yo! Don’t worry about it. They’re on the house. I don’t want to be responsible for someone dying over it, ya know? So come on, what do you smoke?” I head back to the counter and lean both elbows on it. I fiddle with a bucket full of plastic reindeer cigarette lighters. This guy’s nervous as hell and this whole time my sirens are still wailing away. “Well, actually I don’t smoke. Do you think I look like a smoker though?” “What?!? Don’t you got people to save? You want the smokes or not?” “Eh, not really. I’m not really in the mood anymore. You’re making me feel too self-conscious about myself now.” “Here buddy. Look.” He starts pawing around in the overhead storage. It’s a stretch for him to reach and his shirt rides up over his shorts. He’s got a big hairy gut and the top band of his boxer shorts says HAWAII—ALOHA—HAWAII—ALOHA. I’m thinking this guy must be clueless or something, and now he’s sweating pretty hard working around in the cabinet. Outside my sirens and lights are going wild but I’m in no hurry. He finally comes out of the cabinet with two handfuls of cigarette packs. Various brands. He chucks them down on the counter, stuffs them in a bag, and thrusts it over at me. “Here, take em and get out of here. I don’t know what your deal is but I ain’t gonna be responsible for nobody dying. Now beat it.” I take the bag and head back out to the ambulance. At the door I stop and turn around and look at the guy. He’s watching me and watching the ambulance. I don’t think he understands me. If he only knew. “Hey, thanks for the cigarettes. But really, I want you to know I’m not really a smoker. I mean I do smoke from time to time, just not on a regular enough basis that I think I can call myself a smoker. You know what I mean?” By the time I get to the emergency scene things are pretty well cleaned up—a few cop cars still sitting with lights flashing and doors open but no ambulances in sight. I park next to one of the cruisers and walk over to a taped off section of sidewalk. There are a few cops and some gawkers milling around and as I walk up everyone turns to look at me. “Where the hell you been? We put the call in to dispatch almost an hour ago!” This cop’s all worked up about God-knows-what because I don’t see any dead bodies laying anywhere. “I
know. I ran into traffic.” |