in, a long exhale, and then—
“Did you really say that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Another smile. “You know you’re an idiot, right?”
“That’s what my wife says.”
“Get back to work. I’ll take care of this guy.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Then, as I’m leaving: “Mr. Hazzard?”
“Ma’am?”
“No more PA.”
“Done.”
• • •
So this is how I make my mark, the way people finally learn my name. Not because I ran a tough call and did a commendable job but because I did something stupid. Something funny. Something nobody’s ever done. I’m no longer just a newbie. I’m the wiseass who came this close to getting arrested.
24
Courage Under Mustard
Seven months at Grady, and I’m already on my third full-time partner. My first month I worked with someone different every shift. It wasn’t bad, but I was happy when an EMT was given the spot permanently. Of course, permanent is a relative term here at Grady, and after six months he moved on. My next “permanent” partner lasted under a month. This is how it goes here. Grady has so many different shifts—different days, different hours, different lengths—that when we first arrive, everyone’s thrashing around in the dark, trying to find something that works. I’ve gotten lucky with partners so far: nobody burned out or incompetent or all that annoying, even. This last point—that no one’s been annoying—is the most important thing. Spending so much time in close quarters with a stranger—no personal space, plenty of pressure—can be bad enough when we get along. But if we don’t like each other? Unbearable. So I’m always a little nervous when I show up for the start of a new shift.
My new partner’s name is Marty, and we’ve been working together a few weeks. We’d never met before we started working together. All I knew was that he’s a medic, so theoretically, working with him should’ve made my life easier. I was hopeful, practically excited, that first day. Now . . . not so much. We became partners toward the end of the summer, and from day one the city was jumping. Almost before I knew Marty’s name, we were dispatched to a couple of cardiac arrests and a bicyclist hit by a car. We ran some very sick children, a stroke or two, a man found beaten unconscious who had his gold chain but not his wallet, his toupee but not his teeth.
They say the closest bonds are formed in situations of incredible stress, though frankly, that hasn’t been the case here. This city has thrown everything it’s got at us, and still I’m not sure about Marty. He’s not a bad guy, just hard to read. He’s younger than I, young enough to have a girlfriend who’s in college. This semester she’s studying abroad, and in his mind, she’s not taking advantage of a great opportunity but taking a break. He’s always moping, and our interactions are flavored by the indifferent taste of depression—he speaks without making conversation, he laughs without smiling. Until his phone rings. It’s her, it always is, nobody else calls him. He’ll whisper into the phone for twenty minutes, giggling and giddy, only to slip back into a funk the moment she hangs up. When I do get him to talk, it’s always about Ohio. People from Ohio are like New Yorkers, always bragging about their hometown, except New Yorkers actually have something to brag about. Marty goes on and on about the Browns, the Indians, Ohio State. He talks about Lebron—my God, he never shuts up about Lebron. He’ll also talk about the film Top Gun, and worse, he loves rock ballads. Think Air Supply, ELO, and Journey, all sung at a barely audible whisper.
I could look beyond all of this if it weren’t for the birds. Because I’m not gonna lie, the bird thing is weird. The first time I noticed it, we were walking through a vacant lot when a car horn startled a couple dozen pigeons. They took flight and were on us, a dirty blanket of fluttering wings. I was annoyed; Marty was terrified. He stood frozen in place, arms locked at his sides, eyes closed, chin tucked to his chest. When I asked about it, he said it was nothing, but after two or three times, he could no longer deny it. “Yes, fine,” he yelled. “I’m afraid of birds.”
Afraid of birds.
He says the beaks are scary, but what really freaks him out is a bird with an erratic flight pattern. Hawks, with their slow and easy glide? No big deal.