saying all this because I haven’t been correcting him or guiding him. He reminds me that he and his first partner had what he calls issues. And by issues, he means neither of them had any idea what the hell they were doing. That nobody was harmed, killed, or left where they fell because those two couldn’t locate the address is pure luck. They knew so little that they couldn’t even ask for help—whoever showed up wouldn’t have known where to start. So, rather than ask for help, they got lost, got into fights, and treated patients who—miraculously—survived. Eventually, by chance and to the relief of the city’s ailing citizens, they got split up. But that’s over, and here he is, ready to work, ready to learn. Problem is, who am I to teach him? I haven’t been here a year. Most of the medics here have forgotten more than I’ve learned. In a vague sense, I’m scared. Scared he’ll fuck up, scared I’ll fuck up. Scared for our patients, for our jobs. I could bring this up, but there’s no point. Because people don’t stop getting hurt just because the medics on the other end of the phone aren’t ready. The calls will come in and we’ll have to run them. More than that, I don’t say anything because though Marty claims he doesn’t know anything—and he truly doesn’t—that fact doesn’t bother him. I don’t know where it comes from, but he’s bubbling over with confidence. He’s young and naive and totally devoid of body hair, and yet here—saddled with a tough job he admits he’s not ready for—he’s more relaxed than I am. He swigs from a Coke bottle, blue Grady hat on backward.
“I’ll figure it out,” he says, “but in the meantime? Let me know if I do anything stupid.”
• • •
The dispatcher is chattering away in our ear, but we’re no longer listening. Once she gave us the complaint—person down, not breathing, possible overdose—we tuned her out. There’s nothing left to say. I’m driving, so Marty’s the one who’ll treat the patient, the one who’ll write the paperwork. Ultimately, the one responsible. There’s a rhythm to working an overdose, a sort of easy glide that’s nothing like the usual stomp and shuffle of a patient found not breathing. With an overdose, the situation is bad but doesn’t have to end badly. The trick is in understanding that though the patient isn’t breathing and may be a step away from dead, if we get there fast and do everything right, if we keep calm and don’t panic—and so many people panic—we can save him. Marty doesn’t know any of this because he doesn’t know anything. Sure, he’s heard of the drugs people OD on, but he doesn’t know what sort of evidence they leave behind. He doesn’t know what to look for or where to find it, and when he can’t, he doesn’t know how to tease the details from nervous bystanders. He doesn’t know which of the six things that all need to happen right fucking now he should do first. He just doesn’t know how to run an overdose. And yet from the moment we arrive, he’s a natural, a soothsayer, as if he’s stepped outside of himself and is the only person capable of running this call.
It starts right away, as we’re walking across the lawn. There’s a guy standing at the door, big and doughy like Vince Vaughn in Wedding Crashers. He’s frantic and trying to block our way. He’s telling us that even though he’s the one who called 911, he doesn’t know anything, can’t tell us anything. He wasn’t here when it happened. And the patient? The one lying inside on the floor? They hardly know each other. Marty ignores him, doesn’t say a word, simply pushes past the guy and goes in first, drug bag slung over his shoulder, arms slack at his sides.
The guy yells at Marty to stop and listen, to acknowledge that we understand that whatever happened here is—from a legal standpoint—not his fault. Marty keeps going, disappears into the house, a one-man armada navigating by instinct. The guy at the door is thrown off, his whole defense shot to hell because nobody’s listening, nobody’s hearing. The guy looks at me, desperate, as Marty aimlessly wanders the house, Moses trekking quietly across the linoleum. Finally, from somewhere inside, Marty’s voice: “This him?”
The guy, flustered, follows. “Well . . . shit. Hold on.”
I follow the guy into the