Tomorrow We Die

by Shawn Grady

  “Quick, Bones. Go buy some Twinkies.”

  “What?” Bones blinked as if he’d just woken up.

  “Spitzer’s going to be here in seconds. We need an excuse for why we’re not parked in front of the post.”

  Realization flashed in his eyes. “Right.”

  The supervisor’s car passed on the opposite side of the street. Spitzer. Tom the mechanic rode in the passenger seat. I waved. Spitzer didn’t return the gesture. They’d make a U-turn at the intersection and pull in next to us. From the way I’d angled the ambulance, I was pretty sure they couldn’t see Bones.

  I clenched my teeth. “That’s them. Go, man. Don’t let them see you.”

  Bones glanced in the side-view mirror and slid out his door. He disappeared between two cars and the gas pumps. Even I couldn’t see him after a couple seconds. I was impressed.

  Spitzer pulled up next to the ambulance. I shut off the motor and rolled down my window.

  He got out like he was the town sheriff, aviator glasses on, strutting with his thumbs in his belt. “Hey, pal.”

  I nodded. “Hey.”

  Spitzer looked at the passenger seat. “Where’s your partner? Snoozing in back?”

  “Nah. He’s inside getting a Twinkie.”

  “A Twinkie, huh?”

  I glanced through the store windows. No Bones in sight. “You know Thaddeus. Super health foodie.”

  Spitzer laughed and stopped abruptly, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

  Mechanic Tom walked up wearing grease-stained blue coveralls.

  He nodded. “Hey, Jonathan.”

  “Hey, Tom.”

  Spitzer ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. “Why’re you guys parked over here, anyway? Too long of a walk from the post for you?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Here? Oh, right. Actually, you know, Bones has been in there a seriously long time. I don’t know what’s up with him.”

  “Probably letting out a growler,” Tom said.

  Thank you, Mechanic Tom. “Yes. You know, I mean, that’s probably it.”

  Spitzer folded his arms and stared at the convenience store. “You know, you guys really should use the post bathrooms. This is horrible customer service. That’s why we provide these posts. They’re there so you’ll use them.”

  I tapped the steering wheel. “You’re absolutely right. I really don’t know what Bones was thinking.”

  How’s that for throwing my partner under the bus?

  Spitzer leaned an elbow on the doorframe and took off his glasses. “You know, these posts are a privilege, not a right. That privilege can be taken away at any time.”

  Bones walked across the parking lot, unwrapping a Twinkie.

  Spitzer straightened and raised his chin. I could tell he was about to lay into him too.

  Bones opened his door, and I said, “Feel lighter, Bones?”

  Bones hopped up in the passenger seat, giving an inquisitive look. I gave him the heat-vision stare.

  His eyebrows tightened and he swallowed a bite of Twinkie. “Oh yeah. Man. I seriously couldn’t hold it. I had this Thai soup last night that you would not believe, and – ”

  “Okay, okay.” Spitzer put his hands in the air. “Spare us the nasty details. Sheesh. You guys. Let’s keep a demeanor of professionalism around here, huh?”

  I turned toward Bones and rubbed the back of my neck, glancing toward the ceiling in reference to the foil. I turned to the window. Only Spitzer stood there. My heart dropped. “Where’s Tom?”

  I felt the back of the ambulance dip. He was on the tailboard. The back door opened. I leaned to look through the doghouse and saw a pant leg and boot disappear up to the roof. I dropped back against my seat.

  We are so hosed.

  The whole ambulance shook. I heard scuffling and movement.

  I scratched my head and stared out the windshield. The ambulance rocked again, followed by the sound of boots clacking on the tailboard and then dropping to the ground.

  Spitzer looked toward the back. Tom stood somewhere in the blind spot of the side-view mirror.

  “Oh my.” Spitzer put his hands on his hips. “Now that is completely unacceptable. Is that all you found up there?”

  I rubbed my brow and shut my eyes. Well, I was planning on quitting soon anyway.

  “Can you believe this?” Tom said.

  Spitzer shook his head. “This will definitely get back to the board. There is no way we can allow this to happen.” He turned to me. “Did you know about this, Trestle?”

  I had no idea how to respond. I looked at Bones. He was texting on his phone. Probably putting out resumés.

  Time to face up to it. “It really is – ”

  “Unacceptable.” Spitzer pointed at Tom, who walked up, his coveralls stained with bird droppings and dust. “This is absolutely unacceptable. I know you guys are tired at the end of shift and you expect the vehicle service technicians to do everything for the rig, but come on. These rigs need to be clean. This is what we were just talking about. Pride in your job, guys. Come on now.”

  I swallowed down the wrong pipe and coughed. “Right.” I coughed again. “Absolutely. Our oversight. We really do need to help those guys get this thing back in service each night.”

  I looked over at Bones. He smirked as he texted.

  Spitzer’s phone rang. “Spitzer. Yeah? Good. Satellite glitch? All right. Good work.” He hung up. “Well, your GPS is working fine now. Just a technical issue, but you guys don’t have to worry about that.” He tapped on the door. “Just keep in mind what I said. Professionalism. All right, pal?”

  I nodded. “Sure thing.”

  “Stay safe out there.”

  Spitzer hooked on his aviators and swaggered back to the SUV, scanning the near horizon as if to make sure no trouble loomed. He nodded to Tom. “Hey, brush that off before you get back in, will you?”

  I rolled up my window. “Bones, how did – ”

  He twirled a piece of aluminum foil between his fingers. “Never again doubt my mad ninja skills.”

  “When did you . . . Before I came out of the house?”

  “A good ninja never reveals his secrets.”

  “That’s for magicians.”

  “Every good ninja is also a magician.”

  I started up the engine and shook my head. “You’re incorrigible. You know that? You could have at least told me sooner.”

  He chortled. “But it was so much more fun this way.” He unwrapped the second yellow pastry from the package. “Want a Twinkie?”

  CHAPTER 17

  “There she is.”

  The only person I saw through the windows separating the hallway from dispatch was an overweight woman with a microphone headset on, a computer mouse in one hand, and a bag of frozen bonbons in the other. I glanced at Bones. He had the boy at the toy store look again.

  “That’s . . . ?” I leaned my head forward to insinuate the rest of the question.

  “Her.” He smiled.

  I tried to picture Bones’s sinewy frame next to hers. The word eclipse came to mind.

  Bones sighed.

  “You want me to drop off your radio in there for you?” I said.

  “No way. That’s my chance to talk to her.”

  I handed him mine. “This should buy you another five seconds.”

  He took it. “Thanks. Wish me luck.”

  “Godspeed, friend.”

  He straightened and punched in the door code to enter dispatch. The sultry-voiced bonbon-eating dispatcher’s face brightened, and she twirled her headset cord around her fingers when she saw Bones. He spoke, fidgeting like an elementary schooler the whole time. I chuckled and adjusted the strap of my workbag slung across my shoulder. Turning to leave, I nearly collided with Aprisa Vice President of Accounting, Lawrence Shintao.

  Shintao stood in the center of the hallway, his graying hair combed straight back with plenty of body, lending the appearance, along with his sour disposition,
that he’d been forced to inspect a huge operating ventilation fan for some time before coming in to work that morning. It was nearly six in the evening now.

  “Mr. Shintao. Excuse me.”

  He looked at the name sewn on my shirt. “Trestle. I needed to talk to you. It was mentioned to me that you’ve been having trouble remembering to call on scene.”

  Here we go. Another “Did you get your TPS reports in” lecture. Only a few more weeks and I wouldn’t have to put up with this anymore. Forever. I swallowed my frustration and nodded. “I did overlook that on a call last shift.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, like Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid. “This is a serious infraction.”

  “No doubt.” He was going to give himself an infarction if he didn’t relax.

  “Serious.”

  I raised and lowered my eyebrows.

  “You,” he said, “do not strike me as a young man who comprehends the gravity of such a mistake.”

  I cracked the knuckles of one hand with my thumb, one by one.

  “Perhaps,” he continued, “you need some remedial radio training. I will speak with the supervisors to set that up. It is only four hours. You should be able to come in on one of your days off to get it taken care of.”

  Since when did the accounting VP become involved in operations discipline? I stood in silence, quite sure that if I opened my mouth, the conversation would rapidly digress into the inappropriate.

  “Okay, then.” He fashioned something resembling a smile across his lips and turned toward the business office. “Have a nice night.”

  I stood there and stared at the closed business-office door, feeling as if Shintao had sucked any tailwind I’d had from my sails. I took a few more steps forward only to encounter another executive-board member.

  Dr. Kurtz grabbed me by the shoulders. “Hey, Jonathan.” He grinned, crow’s-feet wrinkling beyond his black-rimmed glasses, a bit of gray accenting his otherwise dark straight hair pulled back in a ponytail. “How’ve you been? You excited for school?” Fluorescent light mirrored off his spectacles.

  I put up a hand. “Hey, Doc.” I lowered my voice. “Shintao just finished giving me the third degree.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. That guy.” He shook his head, giving it a quick tap with his fingers. “All numbers for him.” He stepped aside. “You walking out to your car?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “You know, I just realized that the person I was going to talk to is already gone, so I’m about to leave too. Walk with you?”

  “For sure.” I tilted my head from side to side to relieve tension.

  Trent Matley strode down the hall toward us. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  I nodded and stood to the side.

  “Trent,” Kurtz said.

  He stopped with eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

  “Let’s talk later on those patient-comment forms. Shouldn’t be a big deal.”

  Trent shifted and put a hand in his back pocket. “Right. Sure, no problem.”

  “And get some sleep, buddy. You’re putting in a lot of good hours out there.”

  “Right. Thanks, Doc.”

  We resumed our stroll down the hall. I rested a hand on my workbag strap. “I didn’t think you made too many board meetings anymore.”

  “Got to justify being medical director somehow.”

  I smiled at the self-effacing response. Every single medic in the company operated under his license to practice medicine.

  He patted me on the back. “At least I get to see guys like you who do the real work around here.”

  I pulled my time-clock card from my wallet. “So, how’s the medical school?”

  He huffed. “What part? You know, you try to get in there and run things right? You try to get good candidates recruited and train them up to be good doctors. That’s what it’s all about.”

  “I sense a but . . .”

  “Yeah, but . . . Anyway. I told them, ‘Hey, you guys picked me to be dean. Let me run this thing and quit calling audibles from the sidelines.’ ” He gave an exasperated laugh. “You know what I’m saying?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “But anyway, I’m rambling. How about you? You’ve got to be jazzed about the scholarship.”

  “Oh, like you can’t believe. Thanks so much for the call.”

  “Should only be a few weeks now until you won’t have to deal with guys like you-know-who anymore.”

  “That’ ll be nice. The summer-school thing was a bit of a surprise.” We came to the time-clock room and I swiped my card. “But I understand that the board wants to see my commitment. I do take it that means my scholarship isn’t set in stone?”

  “No, no. You know, people think it’s like a one-time done deal, like a free movie pass. But it’s not. It’s an ongoing thing – for everyone, not just you. But here’s the deal. You’re super smart. I’ve watched you grow in your career. You’re capable. And you’ve already got hands-on skills that put first-year residents to shame.”

  We walked through the door to the ambulance bay. “Well, I appreciate that.”

  A vehicle technician sprayed down the side of an ambulance with a pressure wand. I walked through the mist behind him, the moisture feeling brisk on my skin as I exited to the evening air. With the setting sun, the parking lot glowed burnt sienna.

  I pushed the key-ring button to unlock my car and opened the trunk, sliding the strap of my workbag over my head.

  Kurtz patted my shoulder. “You don’t have anything to worry about. Just stay the course and you’ll be fine. Set your sights on the future. Focus on your studies. Forget about this place. It was a means to an end. Right?”

  I nodded and took a deep breath. He represented the world I wanted to enter. He had a keen understanding of the world I was coming from. “Thanks again, Doc.” I closed the trunk.

  “Good seeing you, Jonathan. You ever have any questions just come by my office. Anytime. I mean that.”

  I settled in the driver’s seat and dropped the Passat in gear, eager to get home and out of my uniform. Despite Joseph Kurtz’s encouragement, visions of Shintao’s scowl and Spitzer’s plastic smile still hung in my mind. What was it with authority and me? Why was I getting raked over by management? Maybe I should have been a fireman. At least they had a union to check and balance things.

  It was the nature of the beast – an inherent, irreconcilable conflict for any business seeking to provide emergency medical care within a capitalistic context. Everyone should have the right to it. Not everyone can afford it. Therein lies the rub.

  Call volumes were increasing faster than billing rates. In order to make County-mandated run times, the company would have to put more ambulances on the street. That cost more money. I could smell the underlying stress seething from management’s pores. Even more than usual. Something was going on. Probably why Kurtz had been called in for a board meeting.

  Our new schedule took effect tomorrow. Just when we needed to shed light on things, Bones and I would take our turn at the night shift. But I had the feeling that whatever was lurking in the shadows just might be more apt to rear its head in the open field of midnight.

  CHAPTER 18

  A light haze hovered in the kitchen that smelled of burnt bacon. My dad swayed by the counter as if he stood in a ship’s galley.

  He held a short glass of amber liquid with an ice cube. “Hey, Jonner.”

  He was unshaven, wearing tan slacks and a stained white T-shirt under an unbuttoned chalk blue collared shirt.

  “Hey, Dad.” I turned the burner down from high and moved the pan. “Your bacon’s done.” An unfamiliar patio table stood outside with an ashtray on it. “You just buy that?”

  “Oh, that. Guy gave me a great deal at a garage sale down the street. Come here, you.” He gave me a hug.

  The stubble from his face scratched my cheek.

  “You want some dinner?” he said.

  Only bacon was out.

&nb
sp; “Sure, Dad.”

  He opened a cabinet and reached for two plates with one hand. He set them down hard on the counter. I grabbed two bagels from the pantry and sliced them.

  He put the bacon on the plates and stared at it. “There should be some scrambled eggs in the fridge.” He opened the refrigerator door and searched.

  I closed the door. “It’s cool, Dad. I’m only hungry for this anyway.”

  The bacon was hard – harder than beef jerky. I had to suck on it for a while before I could chew it. I wished we had a dog.

  Since we were doing breakfast for dinner, I said, “You want some orange juice?”

  “No, thanks. My stomach can’t take that stuff.”

  I poured a glass for myself and sat. He ate the bacon as if it were a cheese stick. His eyes were bloodshot behind his bifocals.

  I palmed my bacon and pocketed it as I took a sip of OJ. “So, did you go to the bridge club today?”

  “I’ve been lousy at it these past few weeks. Anyway, I might be coming down with a head cold.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been living on antibiotics.”

  “That’s why you’re sick, Dad.”

  “I’ll tell you, if I could make money off of selling snot – ”

  “Dad. Please. I get enough of that at work.”

  He swallowed. “How was work, anyway?”

  I exhaled. “It was . . .”

  He flipped open the newspaper – stale headlines stretched across it.

  I lowered my eyes and took another sip of orange juice.

  “There’s a couple good matinees at the Riverside tomorrow,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “There’s that one Siskel and Ebert gave two thumbs-up for.”

  “Dad, Siskel’s been dead for – ”

  “Here it is.”

  I took a bite of bagel.

  He spread the paper flat. “Remember, when you were just a little squirt, how you used to love the movie-review section in the Chronicle with – ”