Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) (12 page)

I was spared further exposure to Pete’s rapier wit by the arrival of his new partner. Juan Lopez entered the dayroom like a liner pulling up to a dock. Slow, oddly graceful and impossible to ignore.

‘Hey, Homes!’ he boomed. ‘Give me some love.’ He bent down and gave Nique a kiss on the cheek, then clasped my right hand with his and hugged me with his left arm. ‘How you been, man? Long time no see.’ He noticed Pete and groaned. ‘Oh, man, I gotta work with this guy?’

‘You know Nique and Sean have to stay together so they can do each other’s hair and discuss their boyfriends.’ Pete stood for his handshake-hug. ‘Good to see you again, man.’

Juan shucked his backpack and sat on an unoccupied couch, pretty much filling it. Everything about Juan was big. He was six feet tall, and nearly as broad. He could still move when he had to haul gear up three flights then carry the patient down, even though he was breathing heavier afterward. He was also funny, boisterous, generous and knew everyone and everything about this city. I worked with him when I first took the job here, and he taught me to recognize gang colors, to read the nuanced symbolism in the graffiti, what streets were drawn wrong on the map, where to eat the best of any given type of food, and Puerto Rican street-Spanish.

‘I’ll work with you,’ he advised Pete, ‘but if we meet that bitch we ran into last time, I’mma take her out.’

‘That delicate flower?’ Pete smiled in return. ‘You have no sense of chivalry.’

‘This sounds like a good story,’ I said, grinning.

‘Oh, man.’ Juan shook his head. ‘You tell it. I get too wound up.’

‘So, there I was,’ began Pete, drawing laughter with the universal intro to all EMS war stories, ‘working with
mi amigo
Juan, and we get a call in front of 248 Broadway.’

‘Like you do,’ Nique agreed.

‘Exactly. Anyway we get there, and there’s this skinny white-trash chick dressed in a filthy hospital bathrobe screaming at this dude. She’s reading him the riot act, so we walk up, do the whole professional “what seems to be the trouble, ma’am?” thing and she starts unloading abuse on us, “you can’t take me, fuck you, I don’t need no fuckin’ ambulance” and so on. So we try and calm her down, and the guy she’s yelling at says how she’s been sick, she’s using again, she needs help, he’s a friend.’

‘He’s Puerto Rican,’ Juan clarified.

‘Or Dominican, whatever. Never could tell you guys apart.’ Pete smirked as Juan flashed him a middle finger like a kielbasa. ‘Anyway, yeah, the guy’s Puerto Rican. Nice guy, polite, helpful, obviously concerned about this broad. Why is beyond me. She’s nasty. Dirty and skinny. Like, skeletal, deathcamp, Sally Struthers Save-the-Children-commercial skinny. Stringy, bleached blonde hair, cigarette between her two remaining yellow teeth, and this disgusting red, weeping sore on her arm. Like, horrific. So I ask her about it, and she says it’s infected from a dirty needle.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘She sounds hot. She got a sister?’

‘So I explain how the infection is dangerous, she could die, and so on, and she gives me the “nobody cares anyway” self-pity crap that
makes
you not care about these pathetic fucks, and so I say, “Well your friend here cared enough to call.”’

‘What’d she say to that?’

‘Oh, dude,’ he said. ‘She flips out. Goes on a racist rant like she’s my drunk Uncle Bobby at a Pat Buchanan rally. Caps the whole thing by saying how this used to be a nice town until the spics ruined everything. So I figure, fuck her. We ask three times if she wants to go, then get a refusal.’

‘So, we’re walking away,’ Juan jumped in, ‘and this guy,’ he jabbed an accusing finger at Pete, ‘says to me, “Shame on you for ruining this town for that nice white girl.”’

We howled with laughter.

‘So, Juan,’ I said when I’d finished laughing, ‘what brings you back here? I thought you were working for Tri City.’

‘Tragedy asked me to leave,’ he said. ‘So I came back to FlatLine.’

‘That’s too bad.’

‘I was coming up on my last day anyway, man.’ He shook his head. ‘That place is nuts. Write-ups for not having your collar pins, for using a blue pen, for having two extra 20 gauge needles in the jump kit. All bullshit. Plus the Riverdale contract sucks. Give me good old Philips Mills any day.’

‘We’ve been doing a lot of backup to Riverdale, just so you know,’ I informed him.

‘Oh, man, don’t tell me that. I was all happy and shiny and now you gotta break my heart.’

‘Don’t sweat it, Juan,’ said Nique, ‘I’ve kept Sean here from getting fired, I’m sure I can keep you safe.’

‘Well, so long as I have your protection.’

‘We have a plan anyway,’ said Pete. ‘Any time we get dispatched mutual aid to Riverdale, we set fire to something en route to the call, and then they get distracted and leave us alone on the medical.’

‘Hey guys.’ Jerry, the shift supervisor, or Marty’s number two, walked in. He was a typical lower management type. Bad at EMS, good at kissing ass and ratting on his comrades. ‘Anybody want some OT this Saturday?’

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Bunch of guys are taking the Civil Service exam. Trying to get on a fire department. Left some holes in the schedule.’

‘I’m always willing to take the company’s money,’ said Pete. ‘Put me in for twenty-four if you have it.’

‘Good man. Anybody else?’

Silence greeted his question.

‘What about you, Sean?’

‘Sorry, not this Saturday. Things to see, people to do.’

‘I’m surprised you aren’t taking the test.’

‘I’m more comfortable running
away
from burning buildings and leaking chemicals, thanks.’

‘How about you, Pete?’ he said. ‘You don’t want to be a firefighter?’

‘I did at one time, but not anymore.’

‘What changed?’

‘I turned nine and decided I’d rather be either a cowboy or an astronaut.’

‘You know,’ Jerry bristled, ‘that attitude is why you’re such a senior medic and never got offered a management position.’

‘I thought it was because he never had a back injury or DUI that forced him into a desk job and substance abuse counseling,’ I offered.

‘Now, be fair,’ said Pete, ‘I could have fucked up a call bad enough that I was a liability on the street.’

‘True,’ I nodded.

‘Hey, you guys looking for a write-up?’ Jerry glowered. ‘You can be suspended for insubordination.’

‘Who’s gonna staff the truck then?’ snapped Pete. ‘Or work with Jim Nightmare Burton? You? Marty?’

Juan turned to Nique, ‘You notice he ain’t asked us if we gonna take the test?’

‘Why’s that, you think?’ She smiled.

‘Well, I’m sure in my case it’s cause I got these big ol’ titties,’ he grinned, shaking his ample bulk.

‘And me?’

‘Pretty sure the same reason,
chica.
’

‘You think so?’ she asked, aghast.

‘Well, I think Juan’s are bigger, but yours are perkier,’ Pete observed.

I grabbed Juan’s chest and gave it a jiggle. ‘Pete’s probably right. I’d be happy to judge for you, though.’

‘You’re too kind,’ said Nique.

‘Just here to help.’

She smiled indulgently.

‘I think Fearless Leader is implying that boobies have no place in turnout gear,’ I observed.

‘You think so?’ she asked. ‘Is that sexual harassment? Jerry, you’re a supervisor. You must know where I can get a form to send to HR.’

‘Get me one too,’ said Juan. ‘This gringo is violating the sanctity of my body. Hey, bro, I didn’t say stop!’ he added as I took my hand away.

‘Sorry, man.’ I grabbed him again.

‘Just like that. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.’

Jerry threw up his hands and retreated into the office. The good news was that Juan and Nique had worried him enough about a discrimination complaint that he wouldn’t mention my and Pete’s attitudes. The better news was that he left the room.

‘Thanks, guys,’ I said. ‘I think you saved me from myself again.’

‘You guys need to watch it,’ said Juan. ‘One day the schedule will be full, and they will shitcan you.’

‘Fuck ’em,’ said Pete. ‘Plenty of private ambulance companies out there.’

‘Yeah, and they all suck at least as bad as this one. You just wind up low on the seniority ladder, puttin’ up with the same shit for less vacation days. I keep tellin’ everybody, you white people are crazy.’

Chapter 13

IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE THE RADIO BLARED AGAIN.

‘Paramedic 20, respond to 5 Beacon St. From the police, a woman says her upstairs neighbors are injecting her with a secret chemical that’s making her swell up.’

‘Rockin,’ I replied.

‘Be advised, she called the police to arrest the neighbors, but they figure this is an ambulance call.’

‘Sure. The police obviously don’t have any training or equipment for dealing with crazy people and transporting them against their will. I’ll just swing over, unarmed, in my highly protective polyester uniform shirt and hope she’s not a violent nutcase.’ Jesus.

‘Good for you,’ came the reply. ‘Strength and honor. By the way, she says she’s gained twenty pounds since yesterday.’

‘Well,’ said Nique, ‘we’d better hurry while we can still carry her.’

The address was a typical garden-style apartment building. We stopped in the entryway, near the bank of buzzers and shared a look.

‘Anything even a little bit off, we beat feet, agreed?’ I said.

‘Absolutely. Meeting of the Live Happy Cowards Club at the Harp for drinks later?’

‘I’m a charter member.’ I smiled, pressing the buzzer.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi. This is the ambulance. You called 911?’

‘Oh yes. Come right up.’

The door buzzed. I tugged it open, looking at Nique. She shrugged. I sighed and walked in warily. Nothing seemed amiss.

We walked up the first flight of stairs, senses straining for signs of danger. I hadn’t climbed stairs this nervously since Seoul in 1950.

The thought reassured me a bit. I’d come through that OK. I didn’t even have Nique at my back then. Just a PFC from West Virginia with a Tommy gun.

Reaching the second floor, we found a woman standing at her apartment door, lifting her shirt to display the alleged swelling.

The woman was short, about 5’2’, more or less average build, with a bit of a belly. Not a distinct, firm bulge like she would have if she were pregnant, just a bit of a pudge. Nothing new, nothing to really be concerned about, unless she was looking to become a runway model.

Apparently, she felt differently. ‘Look! Look at this. This isn’t me. And look! Here!’ She pointed to a mosquito bite on her lower back, ‘That’s where they injected me.’

‘OK, miss. Why don’t we start at the beginning. Are you having any other physical problems? Any pain? Shortness of breath?’

‘Are you listening?’ she demanded. ‘They injected me! And,’ she added, ‘they stole two of my vertebrae.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Nique interrupted. ‘They did what?’

‘They stole two of my vertebrae. I used to be five foot ten.’

‘Maybe that’s your problem,’ Nique whispered to me.

‘I’m taller on my back.’

The patient was ignoring us. Probably for the best. ‘Here,’ she offered, ‘look. Here’s the scar.’ She began to pull her shirt over her head.

‘OK, why don’t we step inside and hear your story.’ We quickly herded the increasingly naked woman out of the high traffic hallway.

At this point, I was convinced that she truly and deeply believed what she was saying. To try to argue the point would be futile and inflammatory. Official policy tells us not to play along or encourage a patient in his or her delusions, but to convince the patient that they need treatment and to come along quietly. Whoever wrote those policies never had to spend a long time in a confined, uncontrolled environment with an unstable person.

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘why don’t you grab a coat, and we’ll head over to the hospital. They can... look at your back. Maybe they can replace those vertebrae for you.’

In practice, I’d always prefer to tell a psych patient that the ambulance was a shuttle craft waiting to take them to the MIR space station if it would get them to the ER peacefully and save me the necessity of wrestling with the crazy, both metaphorically and more importantly, physically.

‘You think so?’ she asked, hope clear on her face.

‘Can’t hurt to try,’ I replied in my most convincing tone. ‘They transplant body parts all the time.’

‘I guess that makes sense,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

As she turned away, I sighed in relief, hoping that we might manage this transport with a minimum of conflict. Nique, who had been checking cabinets for medications, handed me a list of half a dozen psych meds. Some of the bottles weren’t as empty as they should be, which told us that she probably wasn’t medicated right now. Not really a surprise, but a nice confirmation of what we suspected.