Date: 9 Mar 1995 10:38:55 GMT
From: Tae H Kim 
Subject: Been a while


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 it's 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