The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (24 page)

“And
what’s this I hear about new tires there, son?”

Lonnie
shifted in his chair.

Considering
I’d just been given enough cash to buy three new mid-range cars, I almost let
it ride.

Fuck
Lonnie. I got the feeling he’d been strawbossing without scrutiny since he’d
been there. His head belonged on a chopping block.

“Well,
Captain, the day I arrived for my hitch I ran over nails and broken glass in
the parking lot. I know what happened—the yardhands dropped it. Everybody knows
they drop trash all the time.” My blues ran straight through Langerhand.
“Nobody’s been able to do anything about it.”

The
repudiative flash Lonnie received from his towering great-uncle made him sink
in his chair.

“Is
that so, Lonnie? Ain’t you in charge of the maintenance crews? Isn’t it
supposed to be the one responsibility that carries your tubby ass out of this
air-conditioned office?”

Lonnie
bit his lower lip. “Yes, Uncle Magnus.”

“Innis,”
the Captain said, “you’ve got your tires.
Four
new tires. Would you like
us to put them on?”

I
told him about the vacationing mechanic.

“Call
my secretary with the name of the shop. It’ll be handled from there. If you
need anything else, and I mean anything, I want you to call Lonnie and he’ll
take care of it.
Personally.
” He narrowed his eyes at Lonnie with
unquestioned domination. “Won’t you, Lonnie?”

He
lowered his head. “Yes, Uncle Magnus.”

“Good.
Now, Innis, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to my nephew for a moment.”

In
spite of my busted body, I unassed the chair quickly and doddered to the hall,
clutching my big, enormous check. The old man shook my hand as I passed. It was
like shaking paws with Bigfoot.

I
felt as though I’d touched the hand of greatness.

***

I
spent the next five days recuperating in the most expensive hotel I’d ever
stayed in. Lobsters, steaks, exotic chicken mixtures, and dishes I couldn’t
pronounce were delivered to me via room service on the company’s dime. On the
second day, a lawyer accompanied by a representative from corporate brought
over all the legal stuff for me to sign. Basically, it stated that they were at
fault and I wouldn’t put them in the poor house for it. I’m no attorney, but
the language was simple and I felt confident I wasn’t getting fucked. True to
his word, the Captain included a provision for monies payable to any future
medical issues stemming directly from the accident. The company rep even
brought me two cartons of my cigarette brand.

My
leg allowed limited mobility, but then again I didn’t feel like going anywhere.
The most I did was move around the room or stand on the balcony overlooking the
pool. I did, however, take the Captain up on his offer of a prostitute. And by
God, she was a crackerjack ace at her job.

I
would’ve fallen from the platform of a tugboat twice a month for that chick to
give me those
tongue baths
sponge baths.

When
my car was ready I called the Captain’s secretary. She arranged to have it
delivered to the hotel. My bags were packed before the shop monkey arrived and I
bounced out of there to go home. During my short tenure in the room, I’d gotten
tight with a Jamaican bellhop who gave me two joints of Sensimella for the
ride. (I was flush with cash and wasn’t going back to work any time soon. Who
the
fuck
did I have to piss in a cup for, huh?)

I
passed the office on a frontage road and saw Lonnie in the pea-gravel parking
lot with a five-gallon bucket. He was in blue coveralls on his hands and knees
with a magnifying glass. The sign on the back of his new uniform said “YARDHAND”
in bright, yellow letters. I honked the horn and waved when I passed. For some
reason, he didn’t wave back.

From
that day on and forevermore, Magnus Devereaux was known as Magnus the
Magnificent, if only to me.

DISPATCHER: “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

CALLER:
“Yes, I’d like to report a shooting.”

DISPATCHER:
“Ok, sir, what’s your address?”

CALLER:
“I’m at the corner of Gironami and Cooper, apartment 1018.”

DISPATCHER:
“Alright, sir, is the shooter still there?”

CALLER:
“Yes. He keeps disappearing but I can see him when he’s still.”

DISPATCHER:
“I’m sorry, sir. Did you say he keeps ‘disappearing’?”

CALLER:
“Yes, ma’am. It’s Oswald. He just shot Kennedy and he’s trying to escape
through the walls. I think I can hold him until you send someone, though. My
apartment is lined with raccoon pelts and tin foil.”

DISPATCHER:
“Excuse me, sir, but are you saying that Lee Harvey Oswald is in your
apartment? And that he’s trying to dematerialize through your walls?”

CALLER:
“Yes, you dumb bitch! Lee Harvey Oswald! He’s in my place! Are you deaf? Send
someone over here
now!”

DISPATCHER:
Sigh.
“Hold on, sir. I’m sending emergency agencies to your residence.”
Activates
emergency intercom.
“Any unit available in the Creston District......”

RESPONDING
UNIT: “Unit forty-nine, what ya got?”

DISPATCHER:
“Forty-nine: I have a possible sixty-three at the corner of Gironami and
Cooper, apartment one-zero-one-eight. Subject claims Lee Harvey Oswald is
trying to walk through the walls of his apartment to escape his assassination
of JFK. Subject is possibly under the influence of alcohol or narcotics.
Suspect a psychiatric issue. Dispatcher has also requested police should
patient become combative. Proceed with caution.....”

***

So
begins another fun-filled Wednesday morning in the life of a Lifesaver.

***

I
used to be a musician. Started playing when I was in the single digits. I came
from a musical family—Pops played when he was younger and my mother’s side is rife
with balladeers—so when you reached a certain age, it was kind of like, “Okay,
what should I play?” I chose the drums.

They
say that once music is in the bones, it never leaves. That’s true. I love writing
with all my soul, but in my heart, I’m still a hitter.

I
got my first drum kit when I was eight. It was a red,
Muppets
-themed
four-piece featuring Animal on the shells and one goddamn cymbal that sounded
like a cracked pot lid. I’d gotten it for Christmas and it was the best gift I
had ever received (when I was older, I discovered that “Santa” had spent all
night in our garage putting it together, piecemealing between swigs of Old
Charter and drags from Winston Lights). I was jazzed like you wouldn’t believe.
I’d always loved metal, rock ‘n’ roll, and had pined for my own kit for ages.
Once I had it in my clutches, I could finally start emulating my idols:

At
ten, I remember seeing Tommy Lee in the video for “Wild Side.” I just knew I
could paint my drum heads like his.

The
oil-based stains never
did
come out of my mother’s carpet.

After
my father stuck a Florsheim in my ass, I discovered that the designs on drum
heads spring from a scientific, chemically-applied process. Live and learn, I
suppose. That kit met the grim reaper when I’d beaten it to a pile of
unrecognizable firewood.

My
second set was an all-black, five-piece beginner’s job made of poplar wood with
two no-name cymbals that sounded like plastic when you hit them. Didn’t matter
to me. I was thirteen and thought it was the pinnacle of musical refinement.
Over the ensuing years, it was dragged to many a gig. That motherfucker had
some miles put on it, let me tell you. It saw house jams, basements, backyard
sheds, a hayloft, a recording studio—twice—and, in one of the most memorable
events in my repertoire, provided the pounding beats that summoned cops to a
potato field party. (They made me break down my kit and searched it for
narcotics. The drums were fitted with
clear drum heads.
My bandmates and
I shared a hearty chuckle at this blatant stupidity.)

That
set is long gone to a donation site, hopefully plucked from the sales floor by
some kid who wants to turn rhythmic, tribal beats into a job. In time, I may
read an interview from a famed percussionist who says that they started on a
black, second-hand drum set with a “311” sticker adorning one of the shells.

And
a tear will fall.

Now
my
third
kit, that’s just a bad sonofabitch. I got it some time ago once
I quit all the drugs. It’s not going anywhere, man. In my eyes, the acquisition
of that set is when I hit the big time, baby: a six-piece, semi-pro, Gretsch
Catalina model crafted from pure maple, lacquered in a beautiful Cherry Gloss
finish, fleshed out with professional-grade Meinl cymbals that could withstand
punishment from the heaviest players. It’s the first high-end set of drums I’ve
ever owned, and I love them. No stickers or paint on the shells for this kit; I
do everything but wipe it down with a diaper. I don’t play “out” anymore,
haven’t for years, but they’re one of my few cherished physical possessions.

***

The
scant years I spent in the music scene were some of the best times of my life:
the anticipation of splitting a crowd’s eardrums in half, the thrill of
performing, and the camaraderie after a successful show where you just fucking
nailed
it.
There’s a rush to be had from getting on stage in front of five hundred
strangers in a club, brain swimming in artificial stimulants, and pounding a
drum kit with every bulging muscle in your body. Writing has always been the
place where I could express my innermost thoughts, where I could be alone to
think and brood. But music was where I revealed the primal side, an unholy
flood of thunder jumping from tendons and bone in front of a group of onlookers
marveling at the dexterity of another man’s limbs.

Like
many young people before me, I had dreams of playing for a living. According to
teachers, my gut, and a lifetime of mediocre report cards, writing and music
were the only fields in which I ever showed promise. Shit happens, however, and
my musical ambitions fell victim to drug abuse, a busted marriage,
life
in general, and being a parent to my kid. Not that I’m
complaining, for I love my daughter very much and wouldn’t trade her for
anything. Plus, if I’d walked a different path, I wouldn’t be where I am right
now, speaking with you.

I’m
content with my life as it is, with the progress made and obstacles overcome.
Although, sometimes, the nagging question of “What if?” plagues the recesses of
my mind.

Then
I realize that all of it was supposed to happen the way it did, and that I’m
right where I’m supposed to be at this very moment.  

***

Life
can be as funny as a camel blowing a camel.

Aside
from the seedy underbelly veering my appetites off course, I was tired of
playing in public. I never thought that would happen. I’d spent every moment
from my mid-20s all the way to the dawn of my third decade slamming skins.
Eventually, however, I began to grow weary of the whole schmeer.

It
was due in part to clubs, bars, and venues everywhere being full of untold
viruses. I’d gotten sick a few times from microbes swirling around my five feet
of personal space. The crowds had begun to affect me, too. Coming in close
proximity with backslappers and well-wishers harboring bacterias and diseases,
dealing with the unpredictability of those under a mountain of narcotics—all of
it made me throw in the towel. I don’t see how professional musicians do it.
With layers of hands tugging on you, breathing the human body’s foul stenches,
never knowing what kind of alien pathogens your legion of fans may be
carrying.....

Jesus.
It’s enough to turn the hardest sewer worker into a hypochondriac.  

Since
I’d become tired of being hassled by inebriated/high interlopers, pawed by
grubby, filthy people in tightly packed spaces, and taking preposterous
requests from rank strangers whom I wouldn’t filet alive if they’d begged me
to, of course, I made the most logical career move hewing my needs.

I
went to work on an ambulance.

***

I
fell into Emergency Medical Services the same way most sketchy ideas are
pursued: off the advice of a woman.

I’d
been seeing this chick who worked as a paramedic. She had come to one of my
band’s shows and her presence coincided with my vow to leave all the bullshit
behind. EMS sounded like a fresh start.

She’d
tell me stories about the horrific calls that came in, the satisfaction she
felt from being able to help someone, and about overlooking her partner’s
tendency to pick up rubberbanded wads of cash fallen from the pockets of
criminals slaughtered in the streets. (If you ever have to call for an
ambulance, good people, hope to God that the arriving medics are honest.
Because unfortunately, this kind of shit
does
happen.) She said the most
vital aspect of the work, aside from displaying competence, was to remain
emotionally detached from your patients: “Comfort them, do what you can, move
on to the next, and forget what you did yesterday.” That’s her exact quote.

Now
granted, it probably sounds like an uncompassionate line of reasoning to most
of you, but for medics with thirty years of service behind them, it’s the
principle that keeps them on the job.  

This
could’ve been the change I was looking for, but I thought long and hard before
taking the necessary steps to obtain my EMT certification. The average
“lifespan” of an EMS worker is five years—I beat the median by two—and I had to
make sure I could hack it before I spent the time and money on training:

Shit—all I have to do is wade the deepest chasms of human
suffering as blood, guts, and ass whirl about in a torrential tornado of gore?
I did that when I was a husband.

I
was in.

***

Once
I took all the exams and earned my credentials I went straight to work. My
seven years in the field were spent working on twenty-four hour trucks, and
while I took away many relationships and memories from the experience, I was
glad to close that chapter of my life.

Hollywood
and reality television have led everyone to believe that ambulances run nothing
but gruesome calls twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,
three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year. Three-hundred-and-sixty-six on a
leap.

Don’t
believe the hype.

It’s
all a pack of lies.

Those
emergencies
do
come in, but it’s not balls-to-the-wall like many think.

In
my time on the truck, I was called for shootings, stabbings, assaults, patients
in house fires, chemical burns, hostage standoffs, DOAs, terrible wrecks,
cardiac arrests, seizures, stroke patients, and on one occasion, a dogfight in
which the winning canine turned on its owner.

I
was also roused out of a dead sleep to go tend papercuts, skinned knees, a
fallen grandmother with five people in the house who could’ve gotten her off
the floor, fakers claiming mental health issues for a mandatory three-day
vacation, family members concerned for a drunk cousin passed out in the corner,
true
psychiatric patients running amok when their meds ran out, and the
all-time apogee in what was the most useless, squanderous, infuriating waste of
resources I’ve ever been disprivileged to be associated with: goddamn fucking
lice…..

***

George
Carlin once said, “(People are) just another failed mutation.” There’s validity
to his statement.

Deep
thinker, old George was.

***

I
began to agree with his assessment of the species. That’s when I knew it was
time to get out. I grew to hate dealing with patients and all the bullshit that
went along with the work: total strangers screaming at me, people who told me
how to do my job based on medical advice they’d gleaned from
WebMD,
and
jovial professional duties such as telling a father why his three-month old son
died in his sleep.

I
didn’t mind dealing with the quiet patients, however. The quiet patients were
my favorite patients. Unfortunately, the quiet ones were usually either dead or
about to die. In the end, that only behooved us to work harder so they might as
well have been up and talking. If they were chatterboxing, you could sit behind
them listening to their insipid questions, twiddling your thumbs and praying
that your partner at the wheel got you to the hospital before your boredom led
to a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

If
my time in EMS taught me anything, it’s that the human race is not long for
this world, man. There were plenty of days on the truck when I wondered why I
didn’t just stay home and count my sumptuous pubes. But occasionally, a call
came in with comic relief that boggled the mind—clear proof that truth is
stranger than fiction—that in the hollow of tragedy, you can find an unpolished
diamond of mirth in the form of a pink, ten-inch dildo.