A Thousand Naked Strangers - Kevin Hazzard Page 0,52

every day may well go into withdrawal and start seizing—from which he could die—if we totally remove the drug from his system. Which is what the Narcan does. So we need to know. Do I give him a lot and wake his ass up right now, or do I give him a taste, enough so he starts breathing but not enough for the brain to freak the fuck out? It’s delicate, this part. Most people rush in and slam the Narcan, seizures be damned. Not Marty. He just waits.

“Once or twice a month,” the friend says. “Maybe less.”

Marty nods and thanks him, and I plunge a big thick needle into the rubber top of the Narcan vial and draw out two milliliters.

While I draw up the meds, Marty keeps ventilating. Though it would be easier and more effective to intubate him, we don’t. The problem is, once we give him Narcan, he’ll wake up. Narcan is a wonder drug, instantly and completely reversing the he’s-not-breathing effect of narcotics. We’ve all heard stories of brand-new medics who’ve intubated patients and then given Narcan. BOOM! The motherfucker jumps up, eyes wild, heart pounding, and takes off—with the ET tube crammed down his throat. What it must feel like to chase down a guy with an ET tube sticking out of his mouth—fearing that he’ll outrun you, you’ll lose him, and you’ll have to explain it for the rest of your life—I can’t begin to imagine.

Next I start an IV. Marty is proving himself a genius with the overdose, but I know damn well he can’t start an IV. I drop to my knees, find a vein that hasn’t been ruined by heroin, and slip the needle into our patient’s yellow skin. Once I confirm the IV is good and tape it down, Marty tosses the BVM and grabs the patient’s wrists. He winks at the friend. “Go ahead and back up, because it’s about to get real in this little bathroom.”

I depress the plunger, and two milliliters of Narcan disappear. In a few seconds there will be no heroin, just a sweaty patient, confused and ready to vomit. Marty starts the countdown as we wait for the freak-out.

One Mississippi, two Miss—

“WHOAWHATTHEFUUUUUUUUCK!!!”

Marty smiles. One more white boy saved from oblivion.

26

Hearing Voices

Marty and I keep running calls, and each time I wait for the genius to shine through again, but it never does. Inexplicably, he has mastered nothing but the OD. The rest of the time, he’s new and clueless. As for me, I don’t have a specialty. At least not a medical one. What I have is a belief. It’s probably misguided and definitely flies in the face of logic, not to mention the (usually) overwhelming evidence, but it’s there all the same. I believe I can talk my way out of anything, diffuse any situation, talk anyone off any ledge. I always believe my patient—the one who’s angry and violent, who’s tearing up his mother’s apartment—won’t attack me. I may believe this, but Marty’s skeptical, so I’m alone in the ambulance with Cordell.

Half an hour ago we got called out to a psych patient, possibly violent. We drove to the Greyhound station—a plate-glass eyesore oozing vagrants, addicts, and the occasional lost traveler into Atlanta’s already beleaguered downtown—and realized we weren’t here for just any violent psych patient.

“Tell me that’s not Cordell,” Marty said as we pulled up.

“Maybe he’s calm tonight.”

Cordell is a schizophrenic, a regular. He’s chronically noncompliant with his meds, and when he goes off his meds, his mind catches fire. Even with our windows closed, we could hear him screaming.

Marty nodded. “Doesn’t sound calm.”

“No,” I said. “He doesn’t.”

Marty wasn’t in the mood for games. He wanted to call the cops and the fire department, wait for help to arrive, and then, with numbers, take Cordell down. Marty thought it’d be easier if we tied him to our stretcher and drowned him in a river of sedatives so he’d be snoring by the time we reached Grady. And we’d be well within our rights to do so. Cordell was screaming at passing cars and parked buses, at bystanders, the night sky, everything, at nothing. He’d attracted a crowd and was lashing out. Eventually, he’d hurt someone, maybe himself. Still, I thought we could handle this ourselves.

Cordell heard my door shut and turned. I was one of a dozen people standing around, but this uniform, this ambulance, they imply authority. Cordell stopped yelling. I’m not terribly big. Cordell is big. Three hundred