Tae 17 - Been a while

Tae writes:

I barely made it in time for my day shift. That was planned. Seeing as how Monday mornings typically have the highest incident of heart attacks, more often than not my unit would have to respond some time before shift change. I figured that if I showed up early, I'd be blessed with having to respond to a call before my first cup of coffee - painful for me, deadly for the patient. If I showed up barely in time for the shift, not only would I avoid having to work-up some HOH (hard of hearing) Q-tip, but I'd be able to relax in the lounge for while - on company time, of course. The gods smiled upon me: as I entered the garage, I could see that my unit was gone. The dispatcher confirmed that the night crew had responded to a 'chest pain' just a few minutes before I arrived. I was assured at least an hour's worth of paperwork and restocking before they could clear. I punched-in, sat in the employee lounge, and drank my coffee as I sucked off the company tit. Life was good.

However, all good things, like chemically-induced hallucinatory states, must come to an end. About half an hour later, my unit rolled in - a dirty, mud-splattered beast; in its short but hard life, it'd probably transported more drunks and junkies than most homeless shelters had ever seen. The night crew dragged themselves out of the truck, one guy handing me a set of keys and a portable radio as he passed me by. He was too tired to even say 'hello' as walked pass me; maybe he didn't like me. Oh well, fuck him too.

The other person from the night shift, Chris, started gathering stray paperwork and dead LifePak monitor batteries to turn in. She was going to be my day partner. She looked like shit: hair flattened on one side of her head - 'bed head', her shirt was rumpled-looking and sported blood/food/vomitus stains. I don't know what kind of threats and/or promises the supervisor made in order for her to work the night into the day, but every time I've done it, I've regretted it. However, I've worked with her for a few years, and under the Aqua-Net and vomit was one tough, street-smart medic, so I wasn't worried. Once, a drunk guy at a call grabbed her ass, and she kicked him in the balls so hard, the cops on-scene took pity and asked the guy if he was alright, as he lay curled in a fetal position, gasping for air. My guess was ... not.

I began to size up how the shift would be; it was a Monday morning, so I could expect a few more chest pain calls in the next few hours, the roads were dry so the chances of us responding to an MVA (motor vehicle accident) were slim, but the early-morning rush hour traffic always fucked up those odds. My partner du jour had worked a busy overnight shift, so I pretty much expected to be driving the truck the entire shift with a slack-jawed, drooling person sitting next to me. All things considered, it wasn't so bad. Besides, I'd just downed a double-latte, and things began to take on that hard-edged, metallic sheen that always happens to me when I take too many uppers at one time. I was 'rarin to go.

As we drove to the parking lot behind a Dunkin' Donuts - our 'satellite' spot for the day, I asked Chris how her night was.

"mumble mumble stabbing mumble mumble mumble O.D. mumble tough tube mumble puke mumble ..."

It was probably the best response I would get from her, as she'd already put on her sunglasses and was leaning back in the seat, hoping to catch a nap before we got to the parking lot.

I pulled into the parking lot, and postitioned the truck near a dumpster behind the store - away from the public view. I settled down to read the newspaper, while Chris crawled in back to lay down on the stretcher.

The morning passed amiably enough - a couple of calls that we were cancelled on during our response. We went to the police station cellblock to check on a prisoner who claimed that he was having a heart attack. I was sceptical at first, since the guy was only twenty some-odd years old, his heart rhythm looked normal, and typically guys try to get out of jail by complaining of some medical problem. But he was giving me all the right answers ... until I asked him whether his teeth hurt. This one always gets 'em. They figure - what the hell, if my chest hurts, why not my teeth? As soon as he started on how much his actual teeth - not his jaw (which is a valid symptom of cardiac chest pain) were killing him, I realized the boy was trying to get a few hours out of the cell. I then zoomed in for the clincher: with a wink to the desk sergeant standing behind me, I turned to the man and with a dead-serious face, asked him if his _ears_ hurt too, adding that "it was very important that I know this".

He paused for a moment, then bit:

"Yeah, now that you mention it, my _ears_ hurt too - a burning sensation! Am I gonna be okay?"

Bingo.

Without another word, I ripped the cardiac monitor wires from his chest, the adhesive foam sensors taking a few hairs with them. I gathered my equipment, and left the cellblock, the sergeant looking none too pleased with the guy. I hurried up the stairs - so I couldn't be called upon as a witness to an act of police brutality. When I got back to the truck, I opened the side-door and tossed the equipment back in. Chris was still on the stretcher - dead to the world. She looked kinda cute while she was sleeping. I had this urge to climb in back with her. But my place was in front. Reluctantly, I got behind the steering wheel, called 'available' on the radio, and drove back to the parking lot.

About an hour later, we received a call for a 'possible dead body.' I woke up Chris as I zig-zagged in and out of traffic. I hated to do this, but if the body turned out to be not quite dead (sorry Victor) we'd both have to work on the guy. We arrived in front an apartment complex, several police cruisers already parked on the curb. I grabbed the airway bag and monitor and Chris told me she'd catch up with me, as she grabbed the drug box and oxygen tank. As I walked down the hallway to the apartment, a dog bounded out of one of the rooms further down, barking madly. I stopped and had my leg halfway back, ready to kick the thing if it felt the urge for some Oriental. It paid no mind to me, as it flew past me and down the hall. It was a cute thing, a brown and white pit-bull pup. Damn thing was going to be huge when it grew up.

As I entered the apartment, a cop approached me, and said "This one's definitely gone." He stepped aside to let me see the body. The body was of a mid-to-late twenties male, jeans, boots, no shirt, laying on his back on the carpetted floor of the apartment. His chest had multiple healed scars - probably from knife-fights. I couldn't make out what nationality he was since his face was gone. At first, I thought, for some bizarre reason, that he was wearing a Halloween mask. Then I realised that it wasn't a mask, but his exposed skull. His entire face was missing, leaving only a toothy, grinning skull. This was a new one for me.

Just then, my partner, Chris, showed up. We stood there exchanging a few what-the-fucks as we stared at the corpse. One of the cops came up to us and asked us what we thought happened to him.

"Well, he couldn't have shot himself - it would've shattered the skull and left splatter-marks on the wall." The cop looked - yep, intact skull and not a drop of blood on the floor or walls.

"And, since there's no blood spill _at all_, whatever happened to him had to have happened _well_ after he died."

The cop pondered this for a moment, and said:

"Well, if someone tried to remove his face to make identifying him hard, then he should've cut off his hands and feet too, so I don't think that's a theory."

As we all stood there and stared at the corpse, the dog ran into the room.

Click.

"Say," Chris quietly asked, "whose dog is that?"

"Uh, he ran out of the apartment - oh fuck."

Chris then dropped the drug box and ran out of the apartment. I grabbed it and followed her out of the apartment. She went straight to the ambulance and opened the side-door and climbed in. I thought she was going back there to puke, but when I reached the ambulance, I found her vigorously rubbing her face with a towel soaked in alcohol.

"Fucking dog. I let the fucking dog lick my face in the hallway. Fucking dog."

She kept rubbing her face with the towel - until her face looked red and raw. I wasn't queesy in the apartment, as the sight of the corpse was too overwhelming for mere nausea. But as I imagined Chris's face being licked by a dog that just _ate_ someone else's, I admit I had a few dry heaves.

The rest of the shift was uneventful. Except every hour or so, we drove up to the hospital so that Chris could wash her face. By the end of the shift her face was blotchy and dry from all the soap and washing. I shoulda kicked the damn dog when I had a chance.

- Tae

(Originally posted on 9 Mar 1995)