by R. P. Lester
If you sue a boat or oil rig company, you better stick them for every dime you can get. You’re blackballed throughout the industry and no one will ever hire you again. I didn’t want to go that route because I didn’t know what my future had in store; I may have needed a job on the water down the road. Since there wouldn’t be any permanent damage to my sensitive person, I felt no need to pursue legal action, provided Lonnie acquiesced to my reasonable demands. Much to my dissatisfaction, they were met with a globular pair of hairy, mooning buttcheeks.
“Coxman, we’re not paying for a fuckin’ thing. Especially tires and a hotel room. What are you, nuts? That’s your problem. As for the accident, this is a clear-cut case of Workman’s Comp if I ever saw one. You want to sue, then be my guest. But I’m gonna warn you, you won’t get far. We’re not in the habit of rolling over for every cheap-jack deckhand who thinks he can steamroll-”
***
“Lonnie, you’ll give this man his tires, a hotel room, meals, any medical care he needs, and the cleanest whore in town if he wants one, all at company expense. Do you hear me, boy?” Four heads turned in unison toward the grizzly voice.
It was the Captain at the door of Lonnie’s office. The Captain. As in owner-of-the-company Captain. I’d never met him before, and he looked just like what one would imagine a salty seadog to resemble, from his wild, snow-white hair to his scuffed, brown loafers. His weathered face had the bleached whiskers of all old men. He had on a blue newsie hat that looked like it’d delivered the first written text. A rumpled, green flannel shirt covered his top, and oil-stained khakis were barely hanging on from a scrap of tattered boat rope fed through the belt loops. All this, despite the man having enough money to bitch slap a Rockefeller’s bank roll. He was elderly, but his gangly six-six frame stooped only slightly to lean on his beechwood sword cane. He filled up the entire doorway, an imposing figure to the youngest of men.
Jesus Christ, he was beautiful.
Without waiting for a response from anyone, he pointed his cane at the other captain like an M1 Garand. “Jarvis, you’re fired. I’ve let you get away with drinking on your hitches for years because you only did it at night. Now you’re drinking when you’re behind the wheel, too. You could’ve killed this man. And if you think you’re going to leave here and go somewhere’s else, think again. When they call here for a reference—and they will call—I’ll tell them everything. Simply firing you is the biggest favor I’ll ever do for you. I want you to put in for your retirement by the end of the week. Now get the hell out of this office.” He was twisting the knife when he said the bit about putting in for retirement by the “end of the week.”
It was Friday morning.
Without an argument, the lush scurried from the office. The gay rapist took the hint and went with him. The Captain hadn’t given them much room to walk through the doorway so they had to slink by. I was still sitting in the chair across from Lonnie’s desk when he spoke to me.
“Innis, I heard what happened. I’m truly sorry about everything. Are you alright, son?”
He had the kind of presence that leaves mere mortals gobsmacked with amazement. Once I knew I could speak without stammering, I answered him.
“Uh, yes, sir. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“You’re very welcome. What did the doctor say when you went to see him?”
“That there aren’t any broken bones, no internal injuries. He said I should heal pretty quickly.”
“That’s good. Now listen, Innis”—shuffling to the other chair in front of Lonnie’s desk for a seat—“you’re a man. You know how things work. I’m not going to lie to you. With the situation as it is, you could sue our pants off. You wouldn’t be able to take everything we’ve built—I’ve got an army of lawyers who won’t let it happen—but you could definitely make a serious dent. The publicity alone would be enough to hurt us. Is there anything I can do for you to keep this from happening?”
For a split second I thought about sticking it to him. But save for allowing his buddy to work on a boat three sheets to the wind for God knows how many years, he wasn’t responsible for any of it.
“Well, sir, I’m not gonna be able to work for a while and I’ll need some money to tide me over until then. Not a boatload, just a bit.”
He pulled a folded check from the front pocket of his flannel shirt. It had a company letterhead. “Will this amount do?”
“Hell yes it will!” Clear throat and tame your erection. “Yes, sir. That’s considerably more than I had in mind, truth be told. Thanks, Captain.”
“No problem.” He laid both gnarled hands atop the cane that stood between his legs, eyeing me shrewdly from under white, bushy eyebrows. “Now, would you be willing to sign something saying that you’ve agreed not to file a lawsuit? There’ll be a clause in there allowing payment for medical treatment now and for any future problems arising from this ordeal.”
“Yes, sir. That seems fair.”
“Good. Thank you, Innis. Thank you very much. And I’m sorry. I should’ve gotten rid of Jarvis years ago. But you know how it is with a worthless brother-in-law.”
He got up to leave, telling me he’d arranged for a suite at a hotel, dispensing a thousand apologies as he meandered to the door. When he was almost out of the office, his crickety frame did an about-face.
“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.
Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You
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.