Back at the airport, I park at a meter long enough to run in and get a soda and a snack. A bag of chips and a Dr. Pepper and I'm back in the car. I got a text from Riderz. Do I want to take a guy to Irvington? Sure I do, and I reply accordingly. It's a short drive from my meter to the departure gate, and I get there so quickly my fare hasn't gotten his luggage yet. No worries. I munch chips while I wait. I prefer not eating in front of the clients anyway.
By the time the older gentleman I'm waiting for arrives with a porter pushing his luggage in tow, I'm done with my snack and ready for business. I greet the man cheerfully. Other than a curt sentence stating his destination, which I already know from Riderz, the old dude is silent. Suits me fine. My other clients have been downright chatty today and I can always use a break from the small talk.
"Young man, I think I'm in a bit of a pickle." We're almost to the highway when he speaks, and I slow down to find out what's going on.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, my chest is feeling very tight, and I used the last of my nitro while I was away."
Nitro. Nitroglycerin. Prescribed for heart conditions. Shit.
"Sir, do you require medical attention?"
"I'm afraid so. I usually go to Indy West. It isn't far, is it?"
"No, Sir, not far at all. You hang in there and I'll get you to the hospital quick like a bunny."
Instead of heading for I-70, I cross three lanes of traffic to catch the 465 loop going the other way. Indy West is close to Avon, so we should be there within ten minutes or so. If the old guy's situation worsens, I can pull off to the shoulder, call 911, and begin CPR. I even have an AED-- a portable defibrillator-- in the trunk of my car if it came to that. The unit was outrageously expensive, but with my crazy life, it was worth the expense.
My exit to catch thirty-six is coming up fast, and I turn my blinker on to get into the far right lane. Damn! I don't know what the hell is going on, but it's as if every Sunday driver in the state of Indiana has decided to head west at the same time. Despite my best efforts, not one of the other drivers will let me merge, and the exit I wanted comes and goes.
Not to worry. I can get there almost as easily from the Tenth Street corridor. There's more traffic and stop lights on Tenth, but it's a straight shot to the hospital, which should make up for any delays.
Some yahoo in a beat up orange SUV has taken a position immediately to my right. When I speed up, so does he. When I slow down, the bastard does the same. I briefly consider honking my horn, but I'm afraid the sound will startle the guy in my back seat who is having a heart attack. Damn it! Who the hell buys a giant orange vehicle anyway? A damn jerk, that's who.
There's nothing more to do. Tenth comes and goes and the douche in the orange SUV drives like his car and mine are glued together. Obviously, the powers that be have decided the old dude is in no way going to Indy West today. I stop fighting it and consider my options. I have every hospital in the greater Indianapolis area committed to memory. It's not showing off, it's self-preservation. With my life the way it is, it's in my best interest to know the nearest hospital at all times.
Thirty-Eighth Street has a hospital which is not far from the loop. Community. Yeah, Community Hospital. That's where I'm going and if douche won't get out of my way I'll run into his stupid orange ass.
It's like magic. As I approach Thirty-Eighth, all traffic to my right disappears. Even douche-bag pulls over with a flat tire. Serves him right.
As I pull into the Ambulance entrance--ignoring the rules, but hospital staff will forgive me for as soon as they see my client--old guy stirs in the back seat. He isn't looking good. His skin has gone gray and he's having trouble catching his breath. A hospital worker comes out of the big double doors to scowl at me and I shout for a gurney as I get out of the car and open the back door.
"This doesn't look like Indy West," old guy manages, his voice weak and breathy.
"Don't worry. Change of plans. It ended up being faster to bring you here. They'll take good care of you."
Two nurses arrive with a gurney, and I help them get my client out of the car and on the rolling bed.
"What seems to be the trouble?" one of them asks me as we race inside.
"He began having symptoms of a heart attack around five minutes ago. He takes nitro tablets, but he was out of pills."
"What insurance does he have?"
"You'll have to check his wallet. I'm just a driver. I've told you all I know."
The nurses wheel the gurney into the bowels of the hospital and I veer off to talk to a man sitting at the desk in receiving.
"Hey. How you doing this afternoon?" One thing I've learned in my crazy life is it always pays to be polite.
"Not bad, man. Not bad. How can I help you?"
"I'm not sure if you can, but I need some advice."
"If you need medical advice, you should speak to a doctor."
"Not that sort of advice," I assure him. "I'm a driver with Riderz and my last fare had a heart attack and has been admitted. I was happy to bring him here, but I'm at a loss as to what I should do with the guy's luggage."
"What's the guy's name?"
I check the text from Riderz about the fare. "Henry Multree."
"Got it. Just bring his luggage in here and I'll put it behind the desk. As soon as they get Mr. Multree in a room, I'll see it gets to him."
"That would be awesome. Thanks, man."
"Not a problem."
After I drop off the luggage, I hear the guy arguing with an ambulance driver as I walk out of the hospital. Ambulance dude wants a favor but he was being a dick about it. Desk guy is having none of it.
Like I said, it pays to be polite.
Four
I have no idea why the universe conspired against me getting Mr. Multree to his hospital of choice. It wasn't faster to go to Thirty-eighth Street, regardless of what I'd told the old guy, so it wasn't a matter of time. Who knows? Maybe someone at Indy West would have screwed it up somehow. Maybe their ER was backed up and he wouldn't have gotten the help he needed soon enough. In any event, he's with the docs now, and they took him to get help immediately. I wish him well.
After my adventure, I don't feel like going back to the airport. I head east on Washington instead. A Wednesday afternoon might not be the best time to catch fares at the zoo, but I don't mind taking it slow for the rest of the day. I stop briefly behind a taco truck to get a bite to eat, and then find a place to park near the main entrance of the zoo.
The tacos are delicious. There are quite a few taco trucks which have permanent spots on Washington Street. These aren't the brightly colored trucks with catchy names that drive around town and hang out at art festivals. These are no-frills businesses setting up shop in the same place every day. The tacos are cheap and delicious, just as street tacos ought to be. My favorite of these places is called El Taco Veloz, and that's exactly what it is--fast tacos. I scarf down four pork tacos covered in smoky salsa and I wish I had bought a couple more.
While I wait for a fare, I catch Pokémon on my phone. I'm having a friendly competition with several of my nieces and cousins. The game is fairly simple, but it gives me something to do and something in common to talk about with my younger family members. They think it's awesome when someone as old as me plays the game, but I've seen folks much older enjoying it. Sometimes, on Saturday afternoons, I take a bunch of the girls down to the canal walk and we walk all over the place catching Magikarp and Poliwags.
I've just finished catching a wily Weedle when my phone chirps at me. I end the game and pick up a young dad with two little boys in tow. As I drive them to Broad Ripple, the boys tell me all about the newest member of the Indianapolis Zoo, a baby orangutan named Milo. Apparently, he is both the cutest thing ever and he looks like a wizened little old man. I'm not certain how this can be possible, but the boys assure me it is.
I drop the family off at their home, and the dad gives me a nice tip. Maybe my day is looking up.
I'm heading back to the zoo, driving by the Capital Building, when this middle-aged brunette woman runs to the edge of the street. Tears are streaming down her face and she waves madly at a passing taxi, which keeps right on going. I think about continuing on myself. I'm tired. I look at the woman's tear-streaked face and I pull the car over and roll down the window.
"Ma'am? Are you all right?"
She doesn't speak at first and takes a few steps back as she stares at me in horrified confusion. I don't drive a taxi. I look like a strange man in a strange car. Captain Stranger Danger, that's me.
"Ma'am," I try again. "I'm a driver with Riderz...you know, it's like Uber. I saw you try to hail the cab, and you looked so upset--"
"Oh, thank God!" she interrupts me as she dashes to the open window. "Can you please get me home? Please? I left some eggs boiling at home, and my little doggie is in there, and I have to get home. Please!"
I reach over and open the passenger side door. "Get in. I'll get you home."
The woman scrambles in, slams the door, and gives me an address only a mile or so away. As I pull back into traffic, she struggles with the seat belt. Her hands are shaking so badly she can scarcely manage it.
"I've been having trouble sleeping." She finally gets the seat belt in the right place and I hear the click of it engaging. "The doctor gave me a new medicine to try, but it's made me so forgetful. I completely forgot about the eggs...and I left home a couple of hours ago. My sweet little Mickey is home. What if I burned the house down? What if I burned up my sweet boy?"
She is terrified, almost hysterical, and she puts her face in her hands and sobs. I don't have any words to help her. The best thing I can do is get us to her house as fast as I can.
She seems to know when I turn onto her street. Lifting her head, she peers through the windshield, desperate to catch a glimpse of her house.
"I don't see any fire." She unhooks her seatbelt before we arrive, getting ready to dash to her front door.
As soon as we pull into her driveway, we can see the smoke. It seeps out from under the front door and from both front windows. The lady is sobbing again as we get out of my car. I stop her before she can run inside.
"Give me your keys. I'll go see what's going on and look for your dog. What's his name again?"
The question calms her, and she bites back her tears in order to answer. "Mickey."
"That's right, Mickey. I'll go get Mickey, you call 911. Okay?"
Grabbing her keys, I then jog to the front door. I place my palm against the door like they taught us in school. It feels a normal temperature, so at least I don't have to worry about opening the door on a fire in the entranceway. Unlocking the door, I pause for a second to find my courage and swing the door open.
My first ridiculous thought is there isn't even an entranceway. I am standing in a living room filled with black smoke. I drag the collar of my t-shirt up over my nose and mouth, but I am already coughing a bit. The house is small, and I find the kitchen with little difficulty. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks its head off. I hope it's not a big dog. It sounds mad.
There is no fire, only black smoke pouring out of a dry pan with black egg-shaped mounds stuck to the bottom. Turning the stove off, I find a hand towel to use as a hot pad and manage to get the pan into the sink. I turn on the cold water and leave it running. At least the eggs don't explode. I don't fancy being pelted in hot bits of burnt egg.
As the pan cools off under the running water, I reach up and turn the stove's hood fan on. My eyes are already burning from the smoke. I have to get more of it out of the house. The barking follows me as I scout out the bathroom and turn the fan on in there as well. A quick look reveals all the windows in the house have screens, so I go around and open every one I can find. The smoke begins to dissipate slowly.
As the lower part of the dining room clears of smoke, I spot my barking shadow. It is the tiniest Yorkie I have ever seen, and he continues to bark up a storm at me. Kneeling down, I take the shirt away from my face and try to entice the little hellhound towards me.
"Hey there. Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?"
He's having none of it. He barks louder and scurries a few feet farther away from me. I imagine he is trying his best to be brave, but is all too aware of his diminutive stature. I'm telling you, this dog is almost comically small. I'm not going to tease the dog about his portability. Small dogs can bite too.
"Hey, Mickey! Hey there, Mickey!" I keep my voice light and happy as if I am the most fun dude this side of funky town.
He stops barking when I say his name and his ears perk up, but he doesn't approach me. Distrustful to the end.
"Hey, Mickey, wanna go see mommy? Wanna see mommy?" I never found out the woman's name, but I hope this will work. Yorkies are smart dogs and have pretty good vocabularies. The vocabulary of words they understand, I mean. His spoken vocabulary so far has been terribly limited.
The mention of mommy does the trick, and the little guy comes slowly forward, wagging his tail tentatively.
"Yeah, let's go see mommy."
More wags and he allows me to pick him up.
"Good boy, Mickey."
The dog struggles a bit as I walk back to the front door, but I continue to croon in the voice of an over-enthusiastic child and we make it outside. On the front lawn, there is a joyous reunion between owner and dog. The little guy must have been frightened by the situation, but now he seems fine and is busy trying to lick his human's face off. Being so low to the ground, I don't think he inhaled much of the smoke.
The smoke is clearing out of the house, and I call 911 to tell them the situation is under control and no further assistance is needed. A moment later, I hear a distant siren fall silent.
Yorkie mommy is grateful for my help, and won't let me leave until she gives me a check for a hundred bucks. I try to decline. I can always use a little money, but I don't help people to try to get paid. The woman is insistent, and I agree before my protestations continue so long it makes me seem like a dick.
Shortly thereafter, I wish her well and get back into my car. When I leave I drive aimlessly for about twenty minutes. After a bunch of riders and two rescues on the same day, I'm tired. Doesn't matter where I pick up riders either. Everywhere I go, something happens. It's dinnertime, a great time to find fares, but I don't think I can manage another job. With the tip from the family and the check from a grateful dog owner, I've made enough money for the time being. I don't want to work anymore today. Hell, I might not work tomorrow either.
Thank goodness I have a job which lets me set my own hours. Life used to be more hectic and more stressful, even though rescues were fewer and farther between back then. Worrying every day about whether you're going to be fired is very stressful.
Calling it a day, I head back to my apartment building. I run into the woman who lives across the hall from me at the bank of mailboxes in the entranceway. This is the kind of coincidence I wish happened more often.
"Hey, Nick! Off work early today?" Daphne has a smile bright enough to chase away clouds. I mean, it has dimples and everything.
"Yeah. Had a busy afternoon so I decided to call it a day. How was English as a Second Language today?"
My dimpled neighbor teaches grade school during the school year and language courses at a community college in the summer.
"Last class of the quarter!" she crows. "Now I have a four-week break before school starts back up."
"Got big plans?"
"You know it. I have my Netflix to catch up on and three new fantasy books to read."
"Big plans indeed."
"I might even," she leans in towards me to whisper like a rebel conspirator, "go to the cinema to see the new Cumberbatch movie."
"Awww, now you're just talking crazy," I tease. "No one has so much fun on vacation."
"You just watch me."
She turns away then and laughs as she heads up the stairs. I do watch her. She's worth watching, especially with the motion of clim
bing the stairs putting a hypnotizing swing in her hips.
When she disappears on the landing, I shake my head to clear the remnants of my recent hypnotization and get my mail before climbing the stairs myself.
Daphne Jensen is a cross I bear with happy regret. She's a pretty woman, not gorgeous, but striking. With short red hair, blue eyes, and a pert, upturned nose, she reminds me of a fairy, or the female gelfling in the movie, The Dark Crystal. It's cute, but her looks aren't what is important about her. What I am so drawn to is her attitude about life. Whenever I see her, no matter what kind of day she's having, she always has a smile and a good word for me.
Some days, when the curse incidents are stacking up and my spirits are at their lowest, the thought of bumping into her in the hall is what keeps me going.
Don't worry. I know exactly how pathetic it sounds.
I adore my gelfling neighbor, but I'm not going to do anything about it. Girlfriends have never worked out for me. I always begin a relationship with high hopes and enthusiastic optimism, but they all turn out the same. I can't control my life and I can't bring myself to turn my back on people who need help. It's not surprising the women in my life have found dating me a trial. It might sound good on paper, having a boyfriend who's a hero on a regular basis, but it doesn't wear well. Even if it's for a good cause, a woman can only put up with so many missed dates and lonely nights. It doesn't matter if it's for a good cause.
Physicians and law enforcement both have high rates of divorce, both from long unpredictable hours and inability to leave work at work. It's not really a surprise I have the same issues. When you add in my inability to hold a traditional job due to unexplained absences and even in my present work, I don't make a lot of money, I don't have a lot to offer a partner. Any normal woman would think twice about getting involved with someone like me. Hell, I'd break up with me.
Nick of Time Page 3
