A Thousand Naked Strangers - Kevin Hazzard Page 0,64

bad call right now. It’s almost time to go.

Time unwinds slowly, as if the clock is not merely an object but a cruel and calculated tormentor—the indifferent hour hand, the sadistic minute hand . . . it’s torture. The final forty minutes of the shift are waterboarding in fluid Swiss motion. We stare out the window. The sun’s not up, but it’s close—the hint of light is there, levity after a long black night. And then mercy. A dispatcher comes over the radio and sets us free.

We throw it in gear and race through the streets. We’re tired and we’re beaten, but we’re going home.

By the time we hit the gas station, the sky is no longer black but gray, a thin line of silt blue visible in the east. With the windows cranked down and fresh air streaming in, the city isn’t so mean. Back at Grady, we restock the equipment, wipe down the ambulance, and turn in our keys. We talk to the day crews and tell them what we did, how they never could have done it—not like us, no way in hell—until it’s time for them to clock in and take over. They’re day-shifters, so they’re weak, they’re backups—except they’re family, too. Be safe, guys. Be safe.

Minutes later, I walk past the hospital, sneaking around the homeless guys waking up. Then I’m in my car and out on the streets and at last I can say the words: It’s quiet. Back at home, I strip down and shower. Sabrina isn’t awake, not yet. I slip between the sheets and know there’s nothing to do but sleep. Real, genuine sleep. No ambulance, no radio, no one waiting to die.

I’m unconscious before the bed knows I’m here.

29

A Long Answer to a Stupid Question

The clerk is horrified. I’m standing before him in a bloodstained shirt, my eyes red from not sleeping. The blood is Gumby’s, and it’s smeared across my stomach as if somebody sponged it on. Marty and I ran a call this morning, tiny little Toyota versus dump truck that went exactly the way it should have. The Toyota was broadsided, and the driver’s door was punched in thirty-six inches. The impact was so intense, the gas cap popped off. That cap—black molded plastic worn brittle by spilled gas—was the first thing I saw when we got on-scene. The next was Gumby. He was slouched over the console, a broken and pulpy mess, his body contorted into something less than human but, remarkably, alive. His face was purple and swollen. How old he was, I couldn’t say. But he had a flattop shaved at a slant that looked like Gumby’s head. So we called him Gumby.

Extrication took forever. Minutes, hours, days, I don’t really remember. Almost without our noticing, he was cut free and in the back of our ambulance. We worked him all the way to the hospital—suction and oxygen and a pair of huge IVs—and I wasn’t careful enough to make sure that big floppy hair didn’t touch me. I didn’t notice the blood on my shirt in the ambulance or at the hospital or even as I clocked out. Who looks at his own stomach? But now I’m here in the hardware store, trying to buy a new plunger, and the clerk has brought it to my attention. “I hope that’s not real,” he groans, pointing to my stomach.

“As long as it’s not mine” is all I say in reply. I hold out my credit card, but he isn’t ready to move on, is either unwilling or unable to complete our transaction.

The interrogation continues. “Did he live?”

“Last I knew.”

“What happened?” Before I can answer: “I bet you see some horrible things.”

“I guess you do, too. I mean, you’ve seen me.”

But he’s in no mood for jokes. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?”

Again with this fucking question.

There’s a line behind me, people who no doubt normally resent any delay not of their own making, though they, too, have forgotten their purchases and are leaning in to hear what I have to say. The patch on my shoulder says Grady, and the bloodstain on my shirt says, Yes. The rumors you’ve heard, they’re all true. Except they’re not. Grady’s an incredible place, but it’s just that—a place—and being a medic is a job, something I do to make money. Money I use to buy things. Like plungers. Except when I can’t. Like right now.

He’s waiting. Hoping all the tax dollars spent to train, equip, and