slowly curling into a smile, while my partner runs up and down the block as if it’ll be there, as if it hasn’t been stolen but simply hidden. Even the patient knows it’s gone. It’s late—three in the morning—and here we are, two lonely medics pushing a stretcher down a dark street.
The phone picks up on the sixth ring. Across town, our supervisor is huddled in her office, feet up on the desk, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. Her voice sounds groggy, like she’s been asleep, like this is the last conversation she wants to have.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” I say.
“Try me,” she says.
“My ambulance has been stolen.”
“Great.”
“I’m serious.”
“It’s too late for this.”
“I know.”
“So quit fucking around.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m not.”
Our supervisor shows up, the police show up. Another ambulance is dispatched to transport our patient. We’re sent back to Grady to fill out departmental incident reports. My partner is panicking. I’m almost happy. I’ve wanted this to be over for so long.
A few hours later, while our fate is being mulled over, the police find our ambulance. It was driven across town and abandoned in a vacant lot, keys in the ignition, gas in the tank. For some reason, before the thief left, he whipped out his dick and pissed all over the cab. He got the dash, the steering wheel, both seats, the radio. The absurdity never ends.
That morning I sleep better than I have in months. It’s exhaustion, yes, but also the knowledge that it’s over. Finally. The next night I shower, put on a fresh uniform, and show up at work to have my sentence read. But no one mentions the ambulance. Ever. Not the cops, not the supervisors, not the unlucky medic who had to mop up all the piss. Certainly not the guy who stole it. It’s the crime that was never committed.
Imagine my disappointment.
35
Mold Them in Your Image
After my stolen ambulance has been found, after it’s back on the road and no longer smells like urine, after I’ve endured the embarrassment of a local news cycle, I’m named an unofficial field training officer. Grady’s turnover rate is enormous, worse than ever, and they can’t keep people on the streets. Nor can they get new ones in fast enough. We’re getting a dozen new hires a month, too many for the current FTOs to handle. They need more, but there’s no time to go through the process—the applications, the testing, the interviews—so the existing FTOs get together and suggest a handful of experienced medics. People who’ve been around, who are good at their jobs, who have the respect of their peers. To my shock, I’m among those mentioned.
The night before the start of my workweek, the phone rings. It’s the director of training. Even though I haven’t applied, even though I’m visibly and all but irreparably burned out, he says I’d make a good FTO.
“Are you interested?” he asks.
I accept the job without hesitation.
My first new hire is from New York, with years of experience, and this should be easy for her. A quick three weeks to prove she won’t kill anyone and then off on her own. It should be nothing more than a rubber stamp. It should be relaxing. It’s a complete failure. She doesn’t know the protocols, can’t handle patients, can’t handle pressure, can’t hustle, can’t multitask—can’t function as a medic.
At the end of the first week, someone from training asks how she’s doing.
“Terrible,” I say. “Worse than terrible. That she hasn’t killed anyone yet is sheer luck.”
I go home that night, expecting her to be taken off my bus and given to someone else. Instead, they double down and saddle me with a brand-new EMT as well. Now I have two new hires, both clueless, both looking to me for help. We’re pitiful. Things reach a boiling point one day when we’re busy as hell and calls are dropping back to back. The EMT can’t drive, and the medic can’t tell him where to go. She’s buried beneath a pile of paperwork, he’s sweating and wobbly and complaining about missing lunch. Then we run a patient with low blood sugar who’s barely conscious and totally pissed off. The medic doesn’t know what to do; I’m running around the room, trying to keep the EMT from punching the family and the medic from giving the wrong medication. Any time I focus my attention on one, the other starts fucking something up behind me.
I take over and tell them both