Mortal Men

by Peter Canning

  “There was Joe Lancaster. He was a handsome guy; looked a lot like Troy, except he was six-foot-ten, two-hundred-sixty pounds of lean muscle, arms like tree trunks. He played basketball in Europe for a couple years. A gentle giant. He could pick up a two-hundred-twenty pound woman in his arms and carry her down the stairs like she was a baby. He could rip a car door off like it was made out of tin foil. And you think Troy can sweet-talk madmen, Lancaster could sweet-talk a psych just by whispering soft words in his ear, and touching his arm. It was like he had Haldol breath.”

  “Then there was Jim Harris. He once intubated eight people on a single call. Guy tried to kill himself by sitting in his garage running the engine. He succeeded, but he also almost killed his wife and seven kids. The fire department dragged them all out of the house unconscious, several not breathing. Harris went right down the line. Eight point five for the husband. Number eight for the mom. Seven point five for the sixteen-year-old. Seven for the fifteen-year-old. Six point five for the eleven-year-old. Six for the ten-year-old. Five point five for the five-year-old. Five point oh for the four-year-old, and a four for the two-year-old. He had the fire department doing CPR on five of them that were in arrest. Between his rig and the fire department they only had five ambu-bags, so he was switching in between patients to keep them all ventilated. I was in the first ambulance that arrived to back them up. Amazing sight. He was calm as can be. Five of them made it. Harris’s in computers now, somewhere up near Boston.”

  “What about that animal guy?”

  “Michael Fink? That guy was crazy. He was always running into strange animal calls. Pythons, bats, bulls, bee swarms, baby alligators, spider monkeys and even once a pet tiger. He was like Marlon Perkins. It got so anybody had to deal with any kind of animal on their call, they’d call for Marlon Perkins for an intercept. Michael Lambert and Kelly Tierney are at a call. They find a guy rolling around on the floor with an iguana trying to bite his neck off. The iguana’s clamped down hard and the guy is in serious pain and looking a little dusky. Mike and Kelly tried beating the iguana with a stick. They just couldn’t get him off. Fink takes one look at the iguana, goes in the garage, comes back with some motor oil, and pours it on the guy’s neck. The iguana lets go as soon as that nasty oil hits his lips. Amazing. Believe it or not, Fink works for the Cleveland Zoo.”

  “Davey Nestor was something too. A whirl of energy. You know when you get tired in between calls, you dog it a little, take your time cleaning the rig, finishing your paperwork, catching a breather. Not Davey. One call after another. He was always on the go. He loved this job. Only one I ever saw run to calls. He was always taking the stairs two at a time. He hurt his hip, and then he had to wobble to calls. He had bad eating habits. I think he suffered from depression. He was a lesson in how even the most fit body can fall apart and that you can’t take anything for granted. You’ve probably all heard his stories. He told them all a hundred times, but what you don’t ever hear is just how sweet he was with his patients. That man could hold an old lady’s hand. He was a charmer, one that could put Rhett Butler or even Pat here to shame. I was on a call with him once. An old woman fell, hurt her hip, shit herself. She was so embarrassed. Davey completely cleaned her before we left the house, got a warm towel, and when he was done, put a little dab of perfume on her, so she’d smell nice and feel like a woman again, instead of a broken-down, sitting in her diarrhea lost soul, contemplating her decay and approaching death. It’s a shame anyone who only knew Davey in his last days didn’t see the man he was.”

  “I’ll second that,” Victor said. “He did become an ass in later life, but only after life beat the goodness out of him.”

  “Whatever happened to Joe Lancaster?” I asked.

  Brian and Victor looked at each other and I saw a bit of sadness there.

  “No one really knows,” Brian said. “He just didn’t come to work one day. Disappeared. There’s more to it than that of course. He was in love with a woman who worked here, Susan Holden. Susan was married to another paramedic, and they had a tempestuous marriage. They loved each other, but they were always fighting over money or one thing or the other. They had a child with cystic fibrosis and he was a strain on them. I think she may have seen in Joe another life. He never acted on it—at least that I know of it—but they were close. He’d been her preceptor. She could talk to him. They were lovers in conversation. What happened was this. They got called to back up her husband on an overdose. They get there and find the junkie puking because Scott Holden has just given him some narcan. The junkie is angry and cussing. He grabs his syringe and confronts Scott like he’s going to stab him. Joe steps in, but before he can even say a word, the junkie stabs him with the syringe. Time stops. The needle is sticking out of Joe’s stomach. He’s looking at it like maybe he’s looking at his own death. Joe takes it out, drops it on the floor, steps on it, then out come those sweet words, and he soothes the junkie down. Even talks him into coming into the hospital and seeing someone about detoxing. The man does go to detox and is one of the rare ones who actually makes it. He’s a well-known city minister today. He’s even been on the Oprah show. But Joe six months later starts to get night sweats, starts losing weight, looking real gaunt. We told him he ought to get checked after he’d been hit with that needle, but he wouldn’t even report it. One day he just doesn’t come to work, sends word that he’s quitting. He moves out of his apartment. Never seen again. What we know is this. The minister has HIV. Its one of the things he champions the cause of, is very up front about. Susan and Carl Holden get a life insurance check in the mail, made out to them. One afternoon, not long after, I see the minister standing up on Zion Hill with a little urn. He’s throwing ashes up into the wind, tears rolling down his eyes. I asked him what he was doing, he says, ‘Bringing home a good man.’”

  We were quiet.

  “I like that story,” Pat said. “I’ve heard it before. I can see that, I can see him doing that. I think that’s nice.”

  “Your ashes over the city, I want to be as far away from here as I can when I die.”

  “There is more to life than work, but there is something to be said for doing a job well, and being proud of who you are and what you’ve done. Maybe he was that way.”

  The DJ announced a dance contest and people paired off. Audrey Davis dragged Victor to the dance floor. The DJs tapped the pairs on the shoulder till there were just three couples in the middle and the DJ had us shout for who we liked best. Victor twirled Audrey around like she weighed fifty pounds. The crowd loved it. Whooping and hollering. They played it for everything. They danced like they were all making love.

  When they announced Victor and Audrey as the winners, they bowed and the DJ gave them a coupon for a free pitcher of beer, which the waitress brought and Victor held aloft like it was a golden trophy.

  “I’ve got to go,” Pat said. “Allison’s waiting up.”

  “You’re whipped!” Victor said. “Look at him. He’s whipped.”

  “I believe I am. Yes, I believe so.”

  “Well, here’s to you then. We all wish we were whipped again ourselves. It beats not giving a fuck.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “The guys here want you to tell Allison to send us our socks back now that her door is no longer open.”

  “Well, since they were all too small for my feet, she already donated them to the dwarf orphanage.”

  “Good one! Here’s to you compadre!”

  “Hey, before you go,” Victor said. “We’ve got to have a last round of toasts. Everybody get a beer and get your drink and stand with us now.” He raised his beer aloft. “To a night like nights past, a night we will always remember if not in the morning, then maybe deep in our failing hearts on dark lonely nights years from now when we’re rotting away in the nursing home or freezing on the city streets. Or in your case, Pat, smoking a pipe with a brood of grandchildren playing around before you and the missus in front of the grand fireplace in your big wh
ite house on the hill, you lucky bastard.”

  “Here’s to you, Pat.”

  “Thank you,” Pat said, “And here’s to you, Victor. We hope you stay with us.”

  “Here, here,” people seconded.

  “And let’s drink a toast to Troy. May he join us again.”

  “To Troy!”

  The toasts went on.

  “Here’s to Joe Lancaster and his ashes swirling about us.”

  “Here’s to Davey Nestor. I miss the old grouch.”

  “How can we forget the old man himself. To Sidney!”

  “To Sidney!”

  Everyone went about the room and proposed toasts to those among us, those departed, and those we might yet see again.

  “How about you, Lee, you have a toast for us?”

  “I do,” I said. “To all of you here. You are as fine a bunch of drunks as I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. I’m glad to be among you. Here’s to you. This night was well made.”

  And we all raised our beers and drank. And the music played and we drank some more. People left and others stayed.

  Victor slow danced with Audrey. Andrew Melnick made out with his girlfriend in the corner. I saw Kim watching me from her table and I smiled back at her. I gave the DJ a twenty-dollar tip. He played Louis Armstrong for me. “What a Wonderful World.”

  Chapter 35

  Friday evening. We were driving down Capitol Avenue, headed up to area nine.

  My partner Andrew Melnick was on his cell phone arguing with his girlfriend. “It’s just going to be me and Tom and a couple of guys from the fire department. It’s a guys’ night out,” he said.

  As we drove down Capitol Avenue, passing in between the state library and the gold-domed capitol, I saw 451 parked ahead under the Shell sign at Capitol and Broad. “I’m going to stop and say hi,” I said.

  This time of day with the western sky red and rush hour long over, if they called our number, we could easily shoot up Farmington or hop on the highway without much time lost.

  As I turned into the parking lot, Annie Moore and two men came out of Capitol Liquor. They walked quickly past the gas pumps and then disappeared down Broad Street. I parked next to 451 and then stepped out of the car. Pat rolled down his window.

  “I haven’t seen a Friday this slow in a long time,” Pat said. “We’ve been sitting here for three hours, not an accident, not even a drunk.”

  “It’ll change,” Audrey said. “Give Annie and her buddies an hour to get their liquor down if we don’t get another call before then. How are you, Lee?”

  “Good,” I said. “Who’s winning the game?”

  Pat had the Red Sox on. “Yankees,” he said. “Sox loaded the bases in the first, and couldn’t bring anyone in.”

  “You think wearing a Yankees hat is helping the cause any?”

  “I try not to look in the mirror. Besides…” He lifted his leg up and pulled his pant leg up over his black high-top boots to reveal red socks. “I’ve got to keep the faith somehow.”

  “Maybe they’ll rally like last night.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s probably pushing our luck to hope for it. Still, we deserve a break for our suffering. The gods haven’t been too kind.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I was reading this book about the Red Sox by Peter Gammons. He was talking about his father. His father’s on his deathbed and his last words are ‘Son, maybe the Red Sox will win in your lifetime.’”

  “It’s got to happen sometime.”

  “They ever get in the Series I’m getting tickets and taking my dad. I don’t care what the scalpers ask for. You’d have to be there for that.”

  On the radio I heard a roar. The announcer said, “Way back. Way back. Gone. Bernie Williams has hit a three-run homer to put the Yankees…”

  Pat turned the radio off. “I don’t think this is going to be the year.”

  “It’s got to happen sometime.”

  “Four fifty-one,” dispatch called.

  “Fifty-one,” Audrey answered.

  “Four fifty-one, take Lawrence Street for the unknown. Second floor. Third-party caller. Wait for the PD.”

  “Lawrence. The junkie motel. A little narcan, maybe.”

  “You want us to back you up?”

  “No, we’ll be all right. We’ll call if we need you.”

  I watched them pull out, lights whirling. They headed down Broad Street, their reflection visible in the windows of the Capitol Apartments across the street. The evening breeze, which had been dormant, picked up and I felt a slight chill against my face.

  Andrew was just getting off the phone. “She’s driving me nuts,” he said. “Where are they going? I had the radio down.”

  “Lawrence Street for the unknown.”

  “Let’s follow them. You never know at that address. Maybe it’ll be a double OD.”

  We followed. It was only a few blocks away. As we approached the address we saw Pat and Audrey wheel their stretcher across the walkway overgrown with weeds. They stopped at the base of the stairs. You, Pat, took the blue bag off the stretcher and threw it over your shoulder. You grabbed the heart monitor, while Audrey carried the green oxygen cylinder. You stepped up onto the porch. Was it Troy’s Yankees hat that made you look invincible? How strong did you feel as you strode forward through the open front door, and disappeared from our sight.

  We parked behind 451, its lights still on. We stepped out and turned our radios on.

  I heard a pop pop. Then a scream. Audrey.

  “Get down,” I said to Andrew. I ran toward the building, instinctively staying low.

  “Fifty-one! Fifty-one!” She cried on the radio.

  “Come in, fifty-one!”

  “Everyone quiet!” the dispatcher shouted. “Fifty-one, what do you have!”

  I scaled the porch steps in two strides, then pressed myself to the side of the door. I heard a wild sob.

  I peered in quickly. It was dark. Audrey, her back to me, was on her knees. I thought I saw Pat on the ground in front of her. “Eighty-two,” I said. “We’re out with fifty-one. Send cops. Now.”

  “Eighty-two, what do you have?”

  I stepped inside, my eyes quickly scanning the dark room as I approached Audrey. “Pat’s down. We need help now.”

  “What do you mean he’s down? Eighty-two, come in.”

  Audrey kneeled over him. “He shot him,” she said. “The man and the woman, they were fighting, and Pat tried to break it up and he turned and shot him. And they ran.” She pointed down the hallway. Her arm trembled. I saw no movement, nothing.

  I rolled Pat onto his side. His head rolled to the side, his body flaccid. He wasn’t breathing. I tore his shirt off. With my flashlight I saw two holes in his chest. I didn’t need to feel his neck.

  I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Andrew in the doorway. “He’s in arrest,” I said, “You need to tube him now. I’ll get the board. Audrey, you have to do compressions.”

  She looked at me as if she didn’t understand.

  “Start CPR,” I said.

  She nodded, and got down on her knees and put her hands on his chest. Andrew reached for Pat’s bag. I rose quickly, stumbled on the heart monitor, as I brushed past Andrew, kept my balance and ran outside. I tripped on the bottom step and tumbled hard against the ground, hitting my shoulder and knee. I rose quickly. My hand was bloodied. I hurried to the ambulance. I pulled out a long board and straps and ran back inside.

  Andrew had his hand down Pat’s throat, struggling to get an ET tube into his trachea.

  “Are you in?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t quite feel it.”

  “Are your fingers long enough? I’ll get your scope.”

  “No, I’m in. I think I’ve got it.”

  I attached the ambu-bag. I squeezed it while Andrew listened over the belly and lungs. “It’s good. It’s good.”

  “Okay, let’s get him on the board.”

  Andrew taped
the tube down. Audrey kept up the compressions on Pat’s chest. I positioned the board at his side, and then all together on my count, we rolled him on his side and slid the board under him. We tied the three straps across his body, clipping them to the board. “Unhook the ambu-bag,” I said to Andrew. “Let’s make our run for it. I’ll take the head. You get the feet. Audrey, watch my back. Right outside now. On three.”

  I could hear sirens approaching. Andrew set the ambu-bag across Pat’s chest, and we lifted up. My knee throbbed. Pat was two hundred pounds. Andrew struggled to hold his end up. For a moment I thought we were going to drop him, but I was able to raise hard with my right arm to counter-balance Andrew, then I leaned against the wall with my left shoulder. “Have to hold on. Clear the way, Audrey.”

  As we stepped through the door out into the dusk, I could see the lights of police cruisers and a Capitol fly car. I felt another hand on my shoulder.

  “We’ve got it,” Ben Atreus said. “I’ve got this end with Lee. Help Andrew.” Brian Sajack took the foot end with Andrew.

  “How is he?” Ben asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Oh, Christ,” Ben said, looking at his lifeless face.

  We made it down the stairs and laid Pat and the board down on the stretcher, then pushed him across the weeds. We lifted upon the stretcher, carrying it more than rolling. I looked back and saw Troy’s Yankees hat fall off Pat’s head. I tried to grab it, but it slipped from my fingers and we had to keep moving. I looked at Pat, the tube coming out of his mouth, Audrey still pounding on his chest as she rode the side of the stretcher. It had to be a bad dream. I desperately wanted to wake up in a cold sweat. I nearly stumbled again as my knee almost gave way.

  We lifted Pat into the back. Andrew, Audrey, Brian and Ben all climbed in, Andrew taking the head, Audrey doing compressions, while Ben reached for Pat’s arm, and Brian grabbed an IV bag from the shelf. “Drive!” Ben shouted at me.

  “What happened?” Denny Creer leaned in the back.

  “He’s shot,” Brian said, “We’re leaving.”