Ambulance Masters

by Raymund Hensley

THE 40 bus comes by every hour. The row of concrete seats is empty. No one is around for a change. Two in the morning. Such a pretty, silent night. Security guards wearing yellow shirts and black helmets ride through the mall parking lot on speedy bikes, bored. I hear them behind me whizzing by, brakes echoing.

  I think about what a fellow co-worker, Mary, told me – about her drunken escapade the past Saturday, of how she climbed from balcony to balcony like some kind of goddamn ape while partying at some fancy hotel in Waikiki. She seemed to be proud of the fact the police came and drilled them, because she repeated the details twice, while I nodded my head and smiled and tried to line up a row of jean-skirts.

  I remember my night that Saturday. I remember being at a club called Scrupples in Waikiki and downing four SoCos and two 151Cokes so I’d get the courage to dance with a fellow friend of a friend, Masha.

  It worked, only I don’t fully remember what happened. The events of the night pop in and out: …on dance floor…rap music playing…freaking…one girl in front of me, one in back…in bathroom trying to vomit…nothing comes out…walking back to my seat…lost in club…everything’s one big spinning blur…feelings of embarrassment…stand by DJ booth to observe my twisting surroundings…find seat…time to go…use bathroom…not sure if I puke this time…in car…spitting out of speeding, yellow car…3rd spit comes out THICK…park at Zippy’s…Larrin walks out and announces that I vomited on door…tells me to put my head in the bushes…waiting for table…girl walks up to me…face moving too fast…don’t say anything stupid…is she my OTHER overnight manager??…in bathroom waiting for the guy in the next stall to leave so I can vomit…I’m so shy…vomiting in toilet…so noisy outside…leave stall…greeted by tall, odd, white fellow wearing a golden necklace with a large golden cross…Jesus is on it, depressed…odd man telling me that I shouldn’t drink water because it makes the sickness worse…I go “Oh oh oh thank you” and leave and sit down at our table…learn that I was in there for 30 minutes, although it felt like 15.

  I’m tummy-sickened the whole Sunday and go to work at 7:30pm still drunk from the night before.

  I sit at the bus stop thinking about all of this, fearing that my bus might be late. I want to go home and work on Mannequins in an Ambulance to free some pent up creativity before my sanity explodes and I end up jumping from a cliff.

  There’s a sudden chilly breeze.

  An omen, maybe?

  I’m almost through with my bottle of Coke. I hear solo-chatter and flick my cig away, afraid that the stranger might ask for one.

  It’s a bum, judging by his ramblings and his dilapidated clothing.

  I can’t tell if he’s African or Hawaiian.

  He wears all black and is malnourished, a blue backpack slung over his shoulder. He appears to have trouble walking, and is mumbling something fascinating.

  He sees me, words still slurring.

  He talks as if about to fall over.

  Good lord, I’m going to have to sit through this until the bus comes, I think to myself, which might be for another 30 minutes.

  “What time the bus get here, man?”

  I try to appear as manly as possible, straightening my back as I say, “2:30.”

  “2:30?”

  “Shouldn’t have to wait too long.”

  “Wait? I can wait, playa. Been waiting 20 years! 20 years, man,” he says, “shit, I’ll be all right. “Been in prison for 20 years – just got out. In and out. It’s on like popcorn, you know what I mean, G? In and out for 40…20 years! Shit, you know why they call me The Dog?” (before I can respond) “I came from the pound, see, that’s why they call me the dog. Just got out, playa. 20 years!”

  I nod through all of this, trying to smile. I’m not afraid, just greatly disappointed.

  I never look at his face—a leathery face that’s shadowed by the rim of his black baseball cap and the overhead lights.

  He stands before me, moving around as if about to go somewhere. His lower, two front teeth are missing, so he keeps wiping the drool from his lips.

  “They call me the dog, playa. I’m a survivor, see. I’s gots friends everywhere. That’s how I survive on the streets. It gives you sense. I’ve got more sense than a merry-go-round. HA! I’m the dog. I got dog-eyes. I live life as it come. I survive all!”

  Chocolate kills dogs.

  He extends his fist and I bump it with mine, although everything in me logical shrieks to run away. He sits next to me, and I know my bus will never come.

  “Where you just come from, man?”

  “Work.”

  “What’s your name, playa?”

  “Raymund.”

  He holds out his fist.

  Fist bump #2.

  “My name’s Eddie Murphy.”

  He says it with a smile and I’m not sure if that’s his name by coincidence or if he’s just trying to be cute. Nonetheless, he smells bad.

  I smile and nod.

  He looks through his bag and takes out a lighter – which I never see him use.

  “20 years. Been in and out for dealing and smoking. Look at me doing all this talking….”

  Uh oh. Is he offended? I point to my ear and explain that I like to listen. He in return tells me that all he’s doing is trying to do is teach me “life lessons”.

  He stands in front of me and points to my tattoo of The Eye of Horus, on my right arm.

  “You got the eye, man. That’s cool, man. I got eyes too—I need them to look around and survive on the streets. See my eyes, man?” He leans in close to me and for the first time I see that his eyes are so very dark and deep and frightening (the face of an anorexic bulldog). He tells me how he tries to talk to people on the streets but they just tell him to shut up, and how we all need friends to keep us alive and strong.

  He holds out his fist.

  Fist bump #3.

  He demonstrates how much he needs his eyes and points out a security guard in a yellow shirt and tight black shorts in the parking lot, riding away on a bicycle.

  “See that, man? I got dog’s eyes, playa. Shit, I’m doing all right. In prison I ain’t talk to no one…use my eyes to keep me clear. You know some fools be getting all up in me? They be telling me lies and all—they think I be lying, man! But I’m no liar. See….Look in these eyes, man. See? Dog’s eyes.” At this point he starts to get aggressive. “I’m not telling you this, man, but you lie to me, you goin’ down and you stayn’ down, you feelin’ me, dog?!”

  I nod quickly, my bangs flapping.

  My stomach bites me. My teeth grind and lights flash behind my eyes. I’m ready for anything.

  I’m glad I have no hickies on my neck, or face, for I fear what opinions he might have to share on the subject.

  Passion purpura is the medical term for a hickey.

  He saunters away and picks up something that’s been sitting on top a newspaper dispenser. He mumbles something proud and walks back with a large half bottle of Corona.

  “See this, man! This is good shit, yo. Not like those bottles those fools be pissin’ into, know what I mean? Not cool.”

  I confirm his disgust by saying, “Not cool.”

  He holds out his fist.

  Fist bump #4.

  What if there’s actually urine in that bottle but he just can’t tell? Would it ward off his hunger? Would he gain weight? Maybe semen should be in there.

  The average teaspoon of semen contains 5-7 calories.

  He sticks out a lazy fist.

  Fist bump #5.

  What, can he read my mind?

  “You got to have eyes, man, EYES. Corona…” He takes a sip and leaves the liquid in his mouth, struggling to say something while trying to find a place to put down his drink.

  He hides it behind his backpack, at his feet.

  He looks at me as if I just caught him doing something bad.

  He smiles.

  “You see my moves, man? You learn them moves in time. Know where? The streets. That’s why they call me
the dog, playa, know what I mean? I come from the pound! It’s on like popcorn, you hearing me, G?”

  He holds out his fist.

  Fist bump #6.

  “I got friends all over the place—Samoan, Tongan, Hawaiian. I kicking it with them over on The Big Island. You believe in God?” I nod and smile through all of this. He extends his fist…

  Fist bump#7.

  …and asks if I ever heard of Jesus.

  I tell him Yup and he tells me:

  “I’m Jesus, man.”

  And then he laughs and again I’m not sure if he’s joking or if he’s crazy.

  He looks at me.

  “I’m not crazy, man. Me doing all the talking, I’m not crazy. I’m just trying to teach you something, playa, that’s all. You’re all right, Ray. Oh! See that? I remembered your name, right? HA! It’s on like popcorn.”

  I want to say it’s on like Donkey Kong, but I don’t.

  He looks past me and his eyes light up again. I look over my shoulder and see a friend who works overnight at Abercrombie and Fitch. She waves hi and walks up. I see that the man has crossed the street, either scared, or in need of a bathroom.

  I try to look comfortable.

  “Just got off from work?”

  She smiles, brightly.

  “Yeah,” she says, and shows me her keys, holding it as if ready to stab someone. “I’ll be okay.”

  Something in me screams, Walk with her to Hawaiian Brains and get away from this place!

  She tells me again that she’ll be safe and I wave as she walks off.

  The man crosses the street again.

  It would be rude of me to just up and leave. It would hurt his feelings. This will all end soon. The bus is coming. It’s coming soon. Just tough it out. Listen to the man. Make his night. He’s not a threat.

  But just in case…better move your bag while he’s not looking.

  He says something about having pals all over the place and sits and takes another sip from his Corona and looks around trying to hide it – all of this done very slowly. He seems to have trouble swallowing. He makes a weird sour face while taking down the alcohol. He then hears something and stands up, spotting a security guard as he rides up to us.

  This fellow chats with the security guard, who apparently stopped a bus for this poor soul.

  They bump fists and the security guard explains that he has to go to the 3rd floor. They say their goodbyes and the man sits down next to me.

  “See that, man? We all need friends, you hear me?”

  He holds out his fist.

  Fist bump #8.

  A chubby white woman, dressed as if just coming from a club, walks by while crying on a cell phone.

  The man points at her.

  “See that man? Two things we need in life: Corona, and pussy.”

  I give a fake laugh that comes out as a grunt. Every now and then I realize that my forced smile turns into a grimace and I make it a point to fix it before he gets a good look at me.

  He bolts up, hearing something, neck straight.

  “The bus is coming, I can hear it. I have strong ears, man—what you need in the world.”

  I look and don’t see anything.

  When the bus turns a corner I am genuinely impressed by this man’s ears.

  On his 15-minute break, the bus driver opens the door and chats with someone inside. From this point, the man sitting next to me lowers his voice, saying how the bus driver is his buddy and that we all need friends. He says that he’s like the trees, how he’s everywhere like Jesus, like nature. He holds out his fist.

  Fist bump #9.

  He points to a building in the distance and tells me that he has 15 houses, and that his landlord is married to a prince. I try to sound genuinely impressed, but it doesn’t work. He stands in front of me and opens his tiny leather wallet, producing a string of weird keys that look like they came out of The Lord of The Rings.

  I make a surprised expression–eyes wide–and go “Ohhhhhhh…” nodding my head because that means I believe him for some reason.

  He puts them away.

  “People always tell me that I’m lying when I tell them I got 15 houses, playa, know what I mean? They always try to talk dirty like that to me, and I tell’em ‘Back down, holms, because once you goin’ down, you stayin’ down!’”

  He takes a step close.

  “But you, man…you got style. Your hair. You look like Michael Jackson.”

  He holds out his fist.

  Fist bump #10.

  I humor him by laughing and saying how I wish I were Michael Jackson because he’s rich.

  “Why you wanna be a celebrity, man? All the money they spend…they still ain’t happy, know what I mean, dog? They got problems. Look at OJ? And Michael Jackson. He has sex problems.”

  That last part he says softly.

  I get an urge to nod and say My nigga. Would that be smart? Should I even say that? Would it amuse him so?

  The bus starts up again and we get on. That same part of my brain screams, Sit by the bus driver and avoid this weirdo!

  I show the driver my bus pass and follow the man to the back of the bus. He sits by the window, and throughout the ride I nod my head as he talks, although I can’t understand a word of it through the roaring engine. Between stops he says something about the bible and Moses and how he was going to the Promise Land and how the bus driver – his “friend” – was taking him to the Promise Land. He seemed very excited about it, clapping his hands and slapping his knee and laughing. I see that his nails are an inch long and dirty. His words are tainted with booze.

  Downtown China Town.

  He pulls on the cord, and the recorded voice says, “Stop Requested.”

  The man says, “Time to go, explore the land,” and for a second I fear that he expects me to come along.

  But no.

  We bump fists (#11) and he stands by the exit.

  The bus stops.

  He gives me the thumbs up, and I point at him, smiling and nodding.

  We move on.

  I wish the man well; hope nothing awful happens to him on his quest for the Promise Land.

  A phrase enters my mind: Right on, right on.

  I realize that I’m holding an empty bottle of Coke, and I imagine it is filled with piss.

  Whoever he really was, he was Living the Life, living in the Promise Land, where he’s master of his ways. I want that, too. I want to be master of my weird ways.

  Right on, right on.

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  RCH

  Raymund Hensley is the author of the humorous books Aloha Mannequins, A Revelation, How I met Barbara the Zombie Hunter, and The Zombie Hunter’s Bible. He lives in Honolulu, Hawaii.

  https://raymundhensley.blogspot.com/

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