Mortal Men

by Peter Canning

  “No, no, he’s not. We’re going to save him. I just want you to pretend that he’s dead when he comes around. Can you do that?”

  “I think I got you,” the woman said. “You giving him that narcan shit?”

  Troy took the prefilled syringe out of his pocket.

  “This going be good,” the woman said.

  Troy wiped a spot on the man’s bicep with an alcohol prep, then stuck in the syringe and pushed the drug.

  “What’s his name?” Troy asked, as he discarded the syringe in the sharps container in the bag.

  “Samuel.”

  “Lee, grab the tarp over there.”

  I could see the man was beginning to breathe better, rousing.

  I handed the tarp to Troy. Troy leaned down and whispered in the man’s ear. “Next stop. Pearly Gates. Pearly Gates. Next.”

  Troy spread the tarp out next to the man whose eyes were now open though he looked groggy and diaphoretic. He fought back a retch. I thought he might throw up.

  “It’s a shame we didn’t get here in time,” Troy said. “I hate to see a life end like this. You have anything you want to say about your friend?”

  “That motherfucker owed me money, but I still tried to save his life.”

  “You almost did, but we were late, I’m afraid. Here lies… what did you say his name was again?”

  “Samuel. Samuel Pugh.”

  “Here lies Samuel Pugh. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Another one’s gone, another one’s gone…” He looked to me.

  “Another one bites the dust,” I said.

  “That’s what he gets for not listening to his mama. Let’s go eat. I could go for tacos.”

  “Hey,” the man on the ground said.

  “You hear anything?” Troy asked.

  “No,” I said. “But I don’t hear so well.”

  “I don’t hear nothing,” the friend said.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “Hey!” The man grabbed Troy’s leg. “I know you. You the one always giving me that narcan shit.”

  Troy started shaking. “Do you guys see anything?”

  “No, I don’t see anything,” I said.

  “Me neither.”

  “Something’s touching my leg. I can’t move it.”

  “Quit fucking around. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I swear something’s got my leg.”

  “I got your leg motherfucker. I ain’t dead.”

  “Your imagination again,” I said. I lifted the tarp up, and pointed at the floor. “See. Dead is dead. Cut it with your seeing ghosts again.”

  The man let go of Troy’s leg. “I ain’t dead.” He touched his chest and face. He looked alarmed. “What’s that shit?”

  “Oh, dear!” Troy stared in mock horror at the apparition. “I’m not well.” He grabbed the medic bag and ran toward the stairway.

  “He’s been seeing ghosts all weekend,” I said to the woman.

  “He must work too hard.”

  “Wait! I ain’t dead!” The man tried to get to his feet, but stumbled. “I ain’t dead.”

  Chapter 17

  “Baby choking. Priority one. Hamilton Street. First floor. Four sixty-one acknowledge.”

  “Hamilton Street,” I said. I hit the lights on.

  Baby choking was a common call that usually turned out to be nothing more than a coughing fit or the baby getting a little too much milk and spitting it up. And like clockwork, thirty seconds later we were updated. “Baby’s breathing okay, but continue. Slow it down to a two.”

  The house on Hamilton was a triple-decker. We arrived to find a party in progress—young men drinking beer and smoking on the front porch. Spanish music played on a boom box. A banner over the door said “Welcome Home Hector.”

  Victor gave me a heads-up nod. Even I recognized the tattoos and beaded necklaces that most of them wore. “What are you doing here? Everything’s fine,” a young man in a red do-rag said to the police officer who had responded with us. “We didn’t ask for cops, just the ambulance man.”

  “Hey, hey,” another man said, coming out of the front door. “Everything is okay. No problem, officer.”

  The others seemed to defer to this man, who had to be six-four, powerfully built with ripped muscles on his extensively tattooed arms. He had deep brown eyes and an engaging, confident smile. A gold crucifix hung around his neck on a chain.

  The man saw Victor. He nodded.

  “Hector.”

  “Andry has the boy. He choked on the milk. She just wants you to check him, see that he’s okay. They’re inside.”

  This young man led us in through the door and into the kitchen, where a pretty, petite young woman with long black hair held a two-year-old-boy over her shoulder, patting his back. The woman had round brown eyes that looked up faithfully at the young man. She had been crying.

  By the stove I saw an old man in a wheelchair with a small child on his lap. The old man also nodded to Victor. It was Papi Ruiz.

  Hector took the boy from the mother, but the boy immediately began screaming. Hector laughed. “He is afraid of the tattoo.” On his right arm was a large tattoo of a helmeted skeleton with a raised sword that seemed to have startled the little boy.

  “It’s good that he’s crying,” Victor said. Victor took the baby from Hector and made a couple funny faces at the boy, who laughed now. I looked about. On the table and kitchen counters there were cakes and trays of chicken and ribs and rice and beans, and Spanish pastries.

  “He’s all right,” Victor said. “Just be careful what you feed him. He may be hungry, but he’s still a little boy.”

  The mother smiled, and nodded. Another woman offered her a tissue, but she took the boy back from Victor and kissed him, and hugged him, whispering in his ear.

  “Thank you for coming,” Hector said.

  By the way people looked at him, and the way he carried himself, he was everything Victor had told me about. He had a self-assurance that this was where he belonged. We were guests he had invited, not threatening trespassers. I could see one of the bigger tattoos on his arm: There was a picture of a young girl. “Remember Maria,” read the inscription.

  “How’s your family?” he said to Victor.

  “Good, I will tell them you asked about them.”

  “Give a kiss to your mother.”

  “I will.”

  “That’s Victor,” the old man said to the boy on his knee. “Maybe he will show you the ambulance.”

  “I’d be happy to, Papi,” Victor said.

  “Another time,” Hector said.

  Hector escorted us out, but he stopped in the hallway when we were alone and said to Victor, “You took care of my brother?”

  “I did.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “The other paramedic, he still work for you?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the Yankees hat.”

  “There’s more than one.”

  “The tall one.”

  “He’s on military leave.”

  “Military leave?”

  “He was just doing his job.”

  “He kept my brother from a murder rap, I wanted to thank him.”

  “I’ll see he gets the message.”

  Hector laughed and hit him on the back. “Good to see you.”

  When we reached the porch, the friendliness was gone. There was no goodbye between either of them.

  “Hector Ruiz?” I said when we were back in the ambulance.

  “That’s right.”

  “Are we going to see more violence?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “What was that he was asking about the medic with the Yankees hat?”

  “About six months ago, Troy and Linda were driving down Afflect Street when they heard a gun go off. Troy saw a man fall and another man—just a blur—run past the ambulance. They called it in, got out and started working on the victim. Then Li
nda screams—she sees a gun barrel out of the corner of her eye. Troy looks up to see the shooter standing over them. Before the guy can pull the trigger to shoot the victim again, Troy grabs the gun and pops the release, yanking off the barrel. A spring flies out. The guy is standing there looking at half a gun in his hand. His bad luck—Troy was a Navy SEAL. Troy decks him. Knocks him out cold. Loads his patient and goes. I was the second ambulance in. I see a pool of blood and a guy lying nearby unconscious with a swollen face. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s not till I get to the hospital I get the full story. Turns out my patient is Hector’s little brother Felipe. I didn’t recognize him his face was so swollen. The victim lives. Felipe comes to with his jaw wired shut. What a hubbub it all caused. Ben Atreus tries to get Troy suspended for leaving a patient on the scene. The cops are pissed he took the gun with him. But the newspaper gets a hold of the story and Troy in his Yankees cap are all over the papers and nightly newscasts. The cops ended up giving him a medal.”

  “What happened to Felipe?” I asked.

  “He’s awaiting trial on attempted murder. I guess Hector was grateful Troy saved him from murder one.”

  “Why did you tell him Troy was on military duty?”

  “It just seemed like the right thing to say.”

  Chapter 18

  I worked seven days a week, twelve to sixteen hours a day, for over a year with hardly a day off. It was easier that way. It wasn’t so much the money as feeling my days were full. Going to work wasn’t hard when work was my life. I came in one Sunday morning at noon prepared to work till midnight when the supervisor, Brian Sajack, said, “What you doing here, old man? Your name isn’t in the book.”

  Sajack was a long-standing medic who’d reluctantly left the road to take a supervisor position due to a chronic back injury. He still went out in the intercept Bronco to back up crews, but his days of regularly hauling stretchers had passed. A large man with a sweeping mustache, he was well liked by all, and enjoyed putting people on.

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Who do you have with me?”

  “I told you your name isn’t in the book.”

  “It was there yesterday.” I pointed to the spot, and saw it had been erased. “That’s not right. It was there.”

  “I’ve never seen you bristle like that,” he said. “It’s okay, Troy and Pat booked you off.”

  “They what?”

  “They left this.” He gave me an envelope, which I opened to find a map with directions to a party at Dr. Singer’s house in the country. “And this,” Brian said. He handed me a small cooler, which I opened to find six longneck Buds on ice. No one knew it, but I hadn’t had a drink in the year I’d been there. “Just don’t start drinking till you’re off the premises,” he said. “Enjoy. You deserve the break. I’ll be there later myself when my shift ends. I expect the party will last into the early hours.”

  The doctor had a huge spread out in Litchfield County, forty acres of land, a modern split-level house with a pool in the back and a horse stable on the lower grounds. It was a beautiful day in late September—Indian summer, the leaves just starting to turn color, the sky clear blue, the temperature in the seventies. It reminded me of my youth in Maine, the kind of day where it was just too nice to go to school, so you and your pals drove to the cliffs over the ocean, drank beer and listened to the car stereo, while you kissed your girl and never thought anything bad could ever intrude on the fullness in your chest.

  Dr. Singer draped green and yellow Hawaiian leis around my neck, gave me a warm hug, and called me “Lee.” Partiers played water volleyball in the large in-ground pool, threw horseshoes and soaked in the hot tub. A hired DJ played hip-hop on the sound system. I stood by Victor, who manned the barbecue pit where a pig and a goat roasted on spits. He cut off large sections of meat, rich with fat, and served them to the partygoers, who also dined on a lavish spread of vegetables, fruits, salads, chips, cakes and sweets spread out on two picnic tables.

  I’m not sentimental, but I found comfort in the camaraderie that day, the friendship between the people I worked with on the road and at the hospitals. I had come to know good souls, who I felt the same about me.

  There was Kim Dylan, a cute curly-haired single mother of two in her mid-thirties. She had a quiet grace and a levelheadedness born out of trial. I could see the pride in her eyes as she watched her two sons, seven and nine, play football with Raul Martinez, an emergency department tech at Saint Francis, who, after hard times of his own, had become a lay minister to the city’s homeless.

  Andrew Melnick was there with his girlfriend, Teresa, a sweet pale-complected clerk at Hartford Hospital. Andrew threw a Frisbee. Dr. Eckstien’s dog Astro, a golden retriever, chased the flying disc down, then leapt up into the air, catching it in his teeth, then ran back and eagerly gave it to Andrew, who threw it again.

  In the hot tub, five of the night nurses from Saint Francis egged on two Hartford cops to down the Jell-O shots the nurses had made and were passing out to anyone who joined them. They looked younger in their bikinis than they ever did in their hospital scrubs. It was good to hear them laughing.

  Pat Brothers and his girlfriend, Allison, had organized a group of children into a soccer game. Pat ran back and forth among the players, announcing the action, and occasionally helping out each team with a well placed pass. Whenever a goal was scored, he shouted “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALL!” and ran about high-fiving all the kids. They were crazy for him.

  Ben Atreus came with his pregnant wife, Dana, and their four little girls, ages three to eleven. The two oldest eagerly joined in Pat’s soccer game. The younger girls got into the cake and had it on their mouths, fingers and dresses. Ben seemed less intimidating in the presence of his children than he did around the office.

  His brother, Bruce Atreus, wore khaki pants and a green Lacoste shirt, had a Michelob in his hand and wandered about with Linda Sullivan in tow, shaking hands like a dutiful politician. On this day, no one was speaking ill of him. It was a timeout for everyone from complaints of any type. It was just too nice of a day. Blue sky and warm sun on your face made you think the world was a better place than you remembered.

  Bruce’s ex-wife, Helen Atreus, came alone, arriving in her white convertible. Even Troy, who was playing horseshoes, stopped to watch her move across the grass. People came up to her, paying their homage. She smiled and was quite friendly, but she left not much after she had arrived.

  David Nestor was there too, sitting with Victor and me by the fire pit, gorging on the roasted meats, washing them down with beer from the pitcher he refilled from one of the two kegs. “This is like the old days again,” he said. “Remember when we used to go to Vermont every summer for Jackie’s annual party. Drinking, barbecuing, only thing missing is folks running around naked, but it’s early yet.”

  He saw me looking at him.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I got the running around naked out of my system a while back.”

  “Those were fun times,” Victor said. “I got a letter from Jackie a month ago. She’s still with Aerosmith. She promised me free tickets when they come to the Meadows.” He said to me, “Jackie is a medic who worked here for ten years. She hooked up as a roadie for Aerosmith, travels the world with them. Crazy hippie chick. She’s lots of fun, not a bad medic either. We all partied more then we do now. That’s why this is nice.”

  “Are you going to drink that beer or just cool your hand with it?” Nestor said.

  I looked down at the Bud I held. I hadn’t had a drink in a year, but I held that bottle as comfortably as I had in high school. I was a drinker—at times in my past, a hard one—but I had been trying to change. I hoped that I could drink the beer and stop at the enjoyment of it, and not let it lead me back down a wrong path.

  “I’m just enjoying holding it right now,” I said, “Thank you. I’m just enjoying the feel in my hand and being a part of this nice day. I expect to drink it eventually.”

  “Gotcha,” Nestor
said. “I can respect that.”

  “Me, too,” Victor said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  Later, I was looking for a bathroom, when I accidentally opened the door to a bedroom. Before I could shut the door, I saw a man’s strong back, a pair of long legs around him, and a glimpse of red hair. I heard the heavy thumping of the headboard against the wall, and a woman’s pleasured cries. I closed the door quickly.

  “Have you seen Troy?” Pat asked.

  “I think he’s in there,” I said, pointing to the door I’d just closed, “with company.”

  “Not the doc?”

  “Possibly,” I said.

  “That dog. Hey, will you give me five bucks if I open the door and shout ‘Gooooooaaaaaal!’”

  “Five bucks?”

  “I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t do that. Are you having a good time?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said.

  “I’m glad. You’re a good man, Lee.” He slapped me on the back, and went back out to the party, where he got a cold beer from the keg, then joined his girlfriend, Allison, sunning on the back lawn.

  I sat on the couch looking out over the pool and countryside.

  “Hi, Lee, nice to see you out. May I sit?”

  “Of course, by all means.” It was Kim Dylan. “Nice to see you, too.”

  “While the kids are being entertained, I’d thought I’d put me feet up. It’s great all the games they have for them. There’s a magician out there now.”

  “I saw. That’s great.” Out on the lawn, all the kids had been rounded up, and now sat enthralled as a tall, thin young man made animal balloons and pulled endless ribbons out of his mouth.

  “Nice place, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful.”

  “Maybe I’ll marry a rich man someday, or win the lottery—I’ll probably have better odds.”

  “I don’t know. I think you’d make a rich man very happy, or any man for that matter.”

  “You’re too kind. How much have you had to drink?”

  “Nothing really. I’m just holding this beer.”