Red Light

by J. D. Glass

  I hated to admit he might be right about that, but I couldn’t come up with any other reasonable explanation, and I had to let it go. We’d all applied to the city, though, and, like Jean, were waiting for that to come through.

  I saw Trace a few times over the next weeks but, between the facts that she hadn’t asked me before she tied me up and that I was so sore it hurt to piss, combined with Jean’s story, I begged off staying too long because of work.

  Barbara pulled me to the side one morning as I signed in on a clipboard.

  “What’s the deal between you and Jean?” she asked point-blank.

  “We work together, why?”

  Barbara scowled.

  “Aw, come on, you mean that whole on-air thing? Jean’s just playing, you know that,” I said. “She jokes like that with everyone.”

  The truth was, Jean did have a bit of a rep as a pick-up artist, and she did joke like that with just about everyone. I’d witnessed more than a few exchanges between her and other crew members or hospital staff, and Chuck and a few others had told me I was pretty much the only female on staff who wasn’t married or straight she hadn’t slept with, which seemed to be the only distinction I held as low man on the totem pole.

  I didn’t know if that was true or not; not only was it none of my business, I didn’t care because Jean was absolutely great to work with, and besides, we had fun hanging out.

  “No, not with everyone. In fact, not with anyone anymore, and definitely not on air,” Barbara clarified. “It’s just you, so you better not be leading her on or something.”

  “What? That’s…that’s not—” I spluttered, and Barbara’s expression softened as she interrupted me.

  “Look, Jean…she’s good people, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. She’s great medical personnel too.”

  “She’s one of the best, and she doesn’t belong here. She should work for a hospital or for the city, but just because she’s tough on the street…” Barbara sighed, then started again. “Look, the Ms. Psycho-Bitch thing, that’s a game. She’s good people, good-hearted, and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  I shook my head. “Look, Barbara, that’s not my game. I like Jean, I think she’s cool, and I don’t go out of my way to fuck people over.”

  Barbara nodded. “Just…just letting you know. You seem nice enough, Tori. You get along well with everyone, the hospitals and the patients like you, but you never know, and I just—”

  “You’re taking care of your buddy, I understand.” I smiled. “I’d do the same. But Barbara, I wouldn’t play with anyone like that and, really, Jean’s just joking around.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” Barbara answered as she ticked something off on one of her endless ledgers. “I wouldn’t be that certain at all.”

  I wondered about that comment as I readjusted my tech bag on my shoulder.

  “By the way, Ms. Scotty, would you like to know who you’re working with today?” Barbara asked without looking at me, her tone once again all business.

  “Actually, yes, I would.”

  Barbara glanced up and beamed at me. “We’ve saved the best for last—get through today, and you can get through anything. You’re on eight Danny with Lara. Have a great day!” She waved me off like she was Miss America as I walked to the rig.

  *

  “Hi, I’m Lara. I’m bisexual, I’m born-again, and I’m into anal sex,” she introduced herself, holding a hand out.

  I stopped counting bandages for the checklist to say hello and shake it. “Nice to meet you.” She had a good handshake, at least. “I’m Tori, everyone calls me Scotty, and I’m not, I’m not, and I’m not.”

  Lara laughed. “We gonna get along just fine, I think, just fine. You a gay girl, Miz Thing?”

  “You know, I’m feeling pretty cheerful right now, and,” I looked down at my chest, “last I checked I was a girl, so yeah, I guess you could say that.” I grinned.

  Lara chortled. “Yep, you and me, we’ll be just fine, I think.”

  Lara was hell to work with. She drove slower than snails on quaaludes, and I wanted to scream with frustration as we inched down the street under the L line in Brighton, Brooklyn, as she searched for the right bank to cash her check in.

  I couldn’t even nap, because she regaled me with tales about herself, her fiancé Pierre, her girlfriend, who was a “fine, just fine!” woman named Cerise, and she expected a response to everything she said.

  By ten that morning, I knew more about her sex life than I knew about mine, by twelve in the afternoon I had a thorough academic overview of every way she and Pierre enjoyed anal sex, and by three I wanted medication—for myself. It wasn’t that I had issues with discussing sex per se; it was just that this was so…raw, and from someone I didn’t even know.

  “Yeah, you know, I got the religion about two, three months ago, and you know, you’re not supposed to do the dicky-pussy thing before marriage, but it don’t say nothing about anal sex before marriage, so, since Pierre and I got engaged and he got the religion too, we do that now, and we’ll save the pussy for after that day,” she told me conversationally as she drove.

  “Uh-huh, yeah, I get that,” I answered briefly, hoping like anything she’d get the hint and simply stop.

  “And you know, ’ccording to the Bible, and you read it real careful-like, you know, you can suck all the titties and clitties you want, just so long as you have a man and a baby. Read it, you’ll see, I’m not making no lies.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, unable to believe that I was actually hearing what I was hearing. I’d never heard anyone, ever, speak the way she did, say anything like that, even with the crudity that passed for normal around the job. “I’m sure.”

  “But I love my Cerise, and if Pierre so much as even thinks I’ll let her touch his willie, he can go look for it in the trash. Pussy is so much better and hers is so fine, hmph! But you know, the Bible and all.”

  I looked out the window and prayed for a flag-down, or an extra-super-routine dialysis transport. I even prayed for a personal aneurysm, because I was pretty sure that listening to Lara was not only rapidly dropping my IQ, it was also making my brain bleed; I was expecting blood to come gushing out of my ears, nose, and eyes at any moment.

  “Um, what was that, Lara? I didn’t quite catch that,” I said as she made a sound that I now knew meant she was waiting for an answer. “The radio, you know?” I excused weakly.

  “I was saying, you know, I think it’s the rest of the world that’s crazy, and I’m normal, you know what I mean? They’re the wackos, out there,” she said, and took both hands off the steering wheel to gesture when she faced me. “You and me, we’re okay.”

  I could feel my whole face stretch with the alarm I felt at our imminent violent death by vehicular manslaughter, but I was careful as I leaned over and grabbed Lara’s wrist to place her hand back on the wheel.

  “Uh-huh, I agree with you, Lara, you’re right,” I said as I settled back into my seat after I was certain someone was actually driving again. What was it we had learned in tech class about EDPs, emotionally disturbed people? Don’t fuck with their delusions. I was definitely with an EDP, and I wasn’t going to fuck with whatever she said—she’d already let go of the steering wheel twice.

  “In fact, Lara, you’re so right that if you want me to call you Jesus, I will. I will call you Jesus. Is that okay, Jesus?”

  She cracked up so hard I was afraid we were never going to make it through that intersection alive.

  “Oh, my, you are so funny, Scotty!” she guffawed and punched my arm. “You…are such a card!” and she punched my arm again. “Jesus,” she exclaimed, “you called me Jesus!”

  For the rest of the shift, I was very sorry I’d said that, because she’d chuckle every now and again, say “Jesus—what a card!” and punch my arm. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to use it again.

  “Hey, you diddling Jean?” Lara asked me when we finally got back to base, th
irteen hours later instead of eight because we’d ended up with a rig down and too many extra calls.

  “What?” She was the second person to ask me about Jean that day.

  “I was just wondering, you know, everyone is.”

  “Really? Why’s that, you think?” I asked dryly as I removed my bag from the back of the vehicle.

  “Well, she’s not sleeping with anyone else. Hell, I asked her if she wanted to just two, three days ago, and she told me she was involved with someone. I asked about you, she said you were seeing someone and…you work together a lot, you the one she talks about on the air, so—”

  Ah. I got it. She’d added two and two and come up with twenty-two. Wonderful.

  “And she talks about how we’re not having sex,” I reminded her.

  “Well, you a gay girl, she’s pretty and tall—she got herself some nice titties—you pretty with a nice body. Why don’t you hook up?”

  I shook my head in negation, slightly irritated by the comment about Jean’s body, especially since I’d seen the part she’d referred to, and I didn’t want to think about that view, which, of course, now that I’d been reminded, was exactly like trying not to think about blue elephants. That and…it was wrong, somehow, to talk about Jean like that. And I didn’t want to ponder the implications of what Barbara, and now Lara, had told me. “Lara, I am kinda seeing someone, and it’s—”

  “It’s nothing,” Lara said. “Jean likes you, you like her, you should do something about it. Hey, look, it’s none of my business, but—”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Lara continued as if I’d said nothing. “—but if I was you, I’d grab a chance at her with both hands, you know what I’m saying?” She leered.

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  “No, you don’t, cuz, that other girl, what is she, like a sometime thing or something?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to answer that question despite the fact I’d spent the day listening to Lara’s most intimate details, none of which I’d wanted to know and most of which I hoped to forget.

  “You and she, you’d be good together. I know these things, I truly do,” Lara insisted as we walked into the dispatch office.

  I penciled in my hours and faced her. “Lara, it was an interesting day,” I said as I shook her hand. “Thank you.”

  “Why, you’re welcome, Scotty.” She beamed. “I had a most excellent day too.”

  “You have a great night,” I told her as I put my hand on the door, “and you take care.”

  “You too. Oh, and Scotty?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You think about it, what I said about you and”—she waggled her eyebrows at me—“her, you know? It’s got good feeling to it, I know these things.”

  I smiled at her. “I’ll think about it,” I promised. “Good night, Lara.”

  *

  I was given a regular shift the next morning, with Anton, who was a driver and not a tech. He informed me as we pulled out of the garage together for the first time that riding with Lara was the standard acid test for new techs and medics at the company before they were given a permanent shift: if the person survived both it and her report? Well, I had a regular shift and days now, didn’t I?

  Besides, despite the bruise Lara had left me as a souvenir of our day together, my arm functioned exactly as it should have, even if it was a bit tender.

  Anton and I got along well, though when things went south and down, and plenty of times they did, he was muscle, not backup, which meant every decision was up to me, from vitals to treatment, and if I needed help I had to instruct and direct him.

  It was too bad, because Anton had a decent brain and cared about people: he would have made an all right tech.

  But the fact that I’d been partnered with a non-tech meant Marco, and more importantly, Barbara, thought I had the necessary skills and knowledge. Still, I learned a lot (some of them little things, like calling the bathroom “the facility” or “facilities”), and as my neck and shoulders strengthened, because I had to do a lot of lifting, my instincts sharpened.

  I knew, for instance, that a patient with no legs in a closed room didn’t slip and fall in a shower and break their hip. I also knew that if their lips were blue and the paperwork mentioned a history of kidney failure, and their skin was clammy, then contrary to the report the orderly furnished me, something more than just COPD, or chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder, was going on.

  I practiced what I’d learned: to look for the little things, the small clues, the color inside the lips and the eyelids, rebound tenderness of an abdomen or rigidity in one of its quadrants; to look at the extremities and really check for ascites, which was swelling of the hands and feet as well as abdomen in right-sided congestive heart failure; and to listen very carefully to not only what the patient or their family told me verbally, but also to their body. Sometimes the stories didn’t match, at all.

  Which was how I ended up on a call that started out as an emergency pick-up at a private home for a suicide attempt.

  Anton and I got tapped for an extra shift because there was no one else to work it, and we had the least seniority.

  “Yeah, she took too many of her epileptic barbs,” a slender, short man said as he led us into the apartment. “She was trying to kill herself!”

  We had many protocols for psych calls, especially suicides. Only an active attempt required a call to the police department. These people had called a private ambulance, which meant they wanted no record on their insurance files since they were paying in cash.

  “Where is she?” I asked, expecting to find a blue-faced corpse.

  “Here, here.” He led me to the bathroom. “Honey, the ambulance people are here!” he called as I followed him down the hall.

  Female patient, approximately forty, conscious and sitting on the edge of the tub. She had a black gash on her nose, her lip was split in two places, and when she opened her mouth to say hello, I saw black between her teeth. There were brown-black stains on the gray sweatshirt she wore.

  “Hi, I’m Scotty. I heard you may have accidentally taken one too many barbiturates for your epilepsy?” I asked carefully as I pulled a blood-pressure cuff out of my bag. Anton waited anxiously in the doorway with the stretcher and the portable oxygen tank.

  I evaluated her respirations, her pulse, and her blood pressure. What the man had told us made no sense at all compared to the signals her body gave.

  Her pulse was high but within normal range, her breathing also at the high end. It didn’t seem like a downer OD. Her blood pressure, however, was higher than normal, and her pupils were constricted and nonreactive to light.

  “Is that what he said?” She sounded weary and resigned.

  “Yes.”

  I noticed the same dark stains along the waistband of her gray drawstring sweatpants. “Did you lose consciousness and fall?” I asked, keeping my tone even.

  “She got her period!” the man called in from the doorway.

  “Hey, Anton?” I called over my shoulder, and caught his eye. I nodded with my chin. “Would you take the gentleman to fill out the paperwork in the hallway while I finish my assessment?”

  As the guy tried to protest that he wanted to stay, I answered flatly, “It’s protocol.” No way would I let him interfere with my examination. I didn’t have to be an EMT to know that most women don’t bleed on their shirts or up the front of their pants and along the waistband when they are menstruating, but a bloody nose could leave that trail.

  “Whatever he says,” my patient said as I finished my exam. “What, I tried to commit suicide? Sure, whatever.”

  Between the evaluation and the history, an ugly picture developed, and every instinct in my brain and body screamed the answer at me. She hadn’t tried to commit suicide; he’d beaten her bloody, and despite the fact that she was alert and oriented to person, place, and time, I suspected a concussion and the force-feeding of a few uppers, either that or she was still adrenalized from t
he fight to have her eyes react like that, but nothing, nothing at all, even came close to being a symptom of barbiturate overdose, although her pupil reaction was a narcotic one.

  Either way, OD or head injury, she was getting supplemental oxygen, and I helped her get comfortable on the stretcher. She wouldn’t let me perform the rest of the exam, which would have required a head-to-toe evaluation; I didn’t wonder why.

  When the same guy who had called us, whom I started mentally referring to as “jerk,” tried to climb into the back of the rig, I told him he wasn’t allowed, that protocol required he sit in the front, which was true. If he had told the truth, and if she had OD’d, then she might go into arrest, and I might have to do CPR or whatever, which meant he couldn’t be back there.

  And the same reasoning and protocol followed when he tried to come into the emergency room; he would have to go in the front door and fill out her paperwork and wait, just like anyone else, since this was a potentially life-threatening emergency.

  I reported my findings as well as the presenting story to the receiving nurse. “This is what they say, this is what I found,” I concluded.

  The nurse reviewed my notes, glanced over at the patient, then fixed her eyes on mine. “You think he beat her?” She pitched her voice low so the patient wouldn’t hear us.

  “Her face is all gashed up, dried blood on her clothes…and she refused a full assessment, so yeah, yeah I do.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Thanks, good job,” and she handed me back a signed patient report.

  I had a cigarette outside in the bay while I waited for Anton, and all he could talk about was the jerk’s annoying whine as we rode back to base. I agreed with him, and when we finally parked the rig, I put my feet up on the dash and slept for the rest of the shift.

  When I got back to the house, I found a note on the kitchen table.

  Tori, there’s a full meal for you in the fridge, and yes, you have the other turkey leg.

  I smiled, because Nina had drawn a little picture of a turkey leg and a smiley face next to it—we always split them at family holiday meals. She got one, I got the “other.” My mom always said it was because we had the “right of primogeniture.”