The Gap

by Benjamin Gilmour

  On Victoria Street, a flock of women dressed as nurses are heading to a costume party. As Jerry and I fly past they kick up their Barbie-doll legs in our headlights and swing toy stethoscopes in the air.

  ‘Check my heart!’ Jerry shouts from his open window, but he’s barely audible over the siren. His bravado tonight is extreme and I’m pretty sure I know the reason. Earlier on, when we stopped to refuel at a Caltex, he visited the toilet and returned with a mischievous grin.

  ‘Smell anything?’ he asked me.

  ‘No. What?’

  He leaned across and pulled his collar down, exposing his neck. ‘Go on, take a sniff.’

  I did, but still couldn’t smell anything.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked him.

  ‘There was a vending machine in the toilets dispensing pheromone wipes. Passion Wipes, they’re called. I’ve always been curious. So I put a coin in and got one and dabbed it on myself.’

  No wonder he’s been acting like he’s irresistible. I can only see it leading to trouble. He’s the friskiest married man I know, even without the aid of Passion Wipes.

  When we arrive at the scene, the cops direct us to a man lying on his back with two stab wounds to his abdomen. The footpath is crammed with people, but no one saw anything, or so they say. It’s crowded, and a passing drunk trips over our stab victim and lands on his face. Others stand about, filming the victim with their mobile phones, laughing at the spectacle like it somehow isn’t real for them.

  Jerry pulls the stretcher out of the ambulance straightaway, setting up for a ‘load and go’. It’s the best approach in a major trauma. I remember Jerry’s story about sticking his finger in a guy’s heart and whisking the patient off, saving his life. Now I’ll have just one minute, in the back of the ambulance between Kings Cross and St Vincent’s, to examine the patient for other stab wounds, to connect the oxygen, to auscultate lungs, to do a blood pressure, to attach the monitor, to get an IV and to set up fluids. All this can be achieved, of course, but it’s a juggle. More difficult to manage are the other intoxicated punters who get in our way and slap me on the shoulder and ask, ‘Oi, ambo, what the fuck happened?’ as if we have the time to stop and satisfy their morbid curiosity while trying to save a man bleeding to death.

  Friday and Saturday nights can be enjoyable for a short while around midnight, about halfway through the shift. That’s the time we’ll find ourselves pushing through dense and pumping dance floors to reach our patients, with revellers grinding up against us in the hope we’ll drop our gear and join the fun. But that peak is quickly over. By 3 am the streets are ugly. Drunk men kick over bins for no good reason and stumble onto the road, oblivious to traffic. Women carry their high heels and walk barefoot in crooked lines down filthy pavements or sit in the gutter, crying about bad boyfriends while waiting for taxis that never show up. Fights, sometimes brawls, break out at regular intervals. And that’s what we’re called to next, a brawl on Darlinghurst Road.

  We arrive in the middle of it: men grappling and punching each other while girlfriends do their best to drag them off. Jerry flicks on the siren to try to disperse them, but none of them cares. We can tell by their haircuts they’re not from the city or the eastern suburbs. Like many of our customers on Friday and Saturday nights, they’ve come into town from the suburbs out west.

  A man dumps his semiconscious friend at the front of the ambulance. He bangs his fist on the bonnet and yells, ‘Don’t just sit there, dickheads! Look at this guy!’

  Where are the police? Tied up at another assault, no doubt.

  We open our doors and get out to treat the patient. But our ambulance is quickly overrun by souped-up brawlers. They climb into the back, their faces sprayed with blood, demanding to be treated. Five patients are on the stretcher, spitting teeth onto the floor. I lock the doors to stop any more from getting in and call for a second ambulance.

  There are few older paramedics left in the inner city. Some shifts now, I look around and realise I’m the longest-serving officer on duty. Most of the others have wisely escaped long ago to the suburbs or up the coast to country towns. Ask them why and most will mention they got fed up with the never-ending barrage of abusive, alcohol-affected patients. I often wonder why I’m still here when I know how unhealthy it is in the long term. It’s not that I’m addicted to the danger and adrenalin, more that I’m drawn to the craziness of humanity pressed together in the city, the horror and the beauty of it. I’m drawn to people, to observing the wonders of our species in a concentrated setting.

  Until I’m caught up in a brawl, that is.

  Jerry’s pheromone scent has not been working well for him. Nurses at the hospital seem to pay him less attention than usual, and he’s not happy about it.

  ‘Cost me two dollars,’ he complains, shaking his head.

  Then, at 4 am, it finally takes effect. Our patient, Ethel, is an eighty-year-old woman who can’t control her bowels. This, it turns out, is not the only thing the old duck can’t control. Poor Jerry. She can’t keep her hands off him. Ethel tells us she used to be an accordionist who travelled the countryside playing in roadside pubs. But tonight her hands are playing Jerry’s leg as he tries to do his paperwork beside her in the ambulance.

  ‘Now, now, dear,’ says Jerry, trying to calm her down.

  ‘Oh, Jerry!’ Ethel coos. ‘How about I take you home and we make love all night? What do you say? Forget about the hospital. Turn this ambulance round and take me home again, will you? Or we could get a room. Yes, what a fabulous idea. Shall we get a room? Let’s get a room!’

  I angle the rear-vision mirror down a little and see my partner squirming around, trying his best to politely fend off her prying fingers. Ethel’s got him backed right up in the corner of his seat and is reaching for his crotch.

  ‘Madam, we’re not permitted to make love with our patients,’ he tells her.

  Jerry climbs awkwardly over the treatment console and into the front cabin to escape her. Then he reaches for a box of tissues, pulls a few out and starts feverishly rubbing his neck and wrists, trying to remove the remnants of his service-station Passion Wipes.

  We’ve been up all night without a break, and if not for the heat and Jerry’s hilarious antics I wouldn’t be so alert. But as we head to Maroubra to treat an unconscious man, the creeping weight of fatigue descends on me. Before we’re out of Kensington, Jerry’s fast asleep against his window and I’m drawing on every bit of willpower to stay awake. A giant copper-coloured moon hangs above the suburbs and gives me strength.

  Pulling into the street, I catch sight of police red-and-blues and I nudge Jerry. He opens his eyes and yawns.

  Our patient is lying on someone’s front lawn. He’s built like a rugby player. It seems to us a simple case of intoxication. But the man doesn’t budge when we shake him. None of our painful stimuli work, and I’m reluctant to try too many arm pinches on account of the last experience.

  Jerry and I decide to load the guy up with the help of two cops and let him keep snoring. The police drive behind us to hospital as they have some other business there, and we’re grateful they do. At a set of lights, without the slightest warning, our patient awakes with a jolt. Unlike the usual slow and bewildered regaining of consciousness we usually see, the man switches on like a floodlight, and he’s angry.

  In the rear-vision mirror I see his fist lash out and strike Jerry in the face. Jerry tries defending himself but the guy is too big. He swings again and Jerry ducks. I slam my foot on the brake and halt in the middle of the road, then press the duress button on our dash. I switch on the flashing lights and jump out. At the rear of the ambulance I wave to the cops, but they’ve already seen the ambulance rocking and are running over. I fling the back doors open and see our patient pinning Jerry to the treatment seat with one leg, and kicking him with the other.

  The two policemen dive into the ambulance and pounce on the man, but he throws them off with a beast-like strength. His feet and fists pummel the air, s
triking out at anything. The cops try again, just as police reinforcements screech round the corner and another three cops bundle in. A minute later five police have the man restrained.

  I find Jerry ambling in a stupor down the middle of Anzac Parade. His uniform is torn and bloodied, his hair all over the place, his shirt hanging out of his trousers. While the police handcuff our patient and put him in a cage truck I guide Jerry to the passenger seat of the ambulance. I check his wounds then drive him to hospital.

  Jerry stares blankly ahead. ‘I was just sitting there,’ he murmurs. ‘I didn’t do a thing.’

  But aggression isn’t always provoked. Patients can wake up like this: confused, disorientated, violent. Waking the unresponsive is a roll of the dice. Who knows what nightmare we’re dragging them out of. And if they wake in our ambulance we’ve got nowhere to run. We’re trapped in a cage with a tiger. A friendly face and a soothing voice work wonders, but there’s no guarantee. If a paramedic as jovial and charming as Jerry gets flogged, none of us is safe.

  Once Jerry’s been checked by a doctor he takes the rest of the shift off. There’s only a few hours left of it, anyway. ‘I’ve had enough of this bullshit,’ he says. I can tell that he means it. An hour earlier we were laughing hysterically about Ethel’s advances – now this. Sometimes even our comedy won’t shield us from the onslaught of violence.

  I drive Jerry back to the ambulance station and help him get his stuff together. Then I give him a handshake and tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.

  After leaving work I do something terribly stupid. I’m exhausted, delirious, not thinking straight. And even though I curse myself, I can’t stop.

  I drive to Kaspia’s place in Balmain.

  Before I know it I’m in the Cross City Tunnel then over the Anzac Bridge and taking the turn-off to Mullens Street. The suburb is quiet; it’s 7 am after a Friday night and people are sleeping in. I park just down from Balmain Town Hall and walk the rest of the way. I go up the stone steps to her terrace on the ridge. I’m not sure why I’m here or what I plan to do.

  The front door is closed, and I can’t hear anything when I put my ear against it. Then I go to the window next to the door. The bamboo blind is up, and I peer into the room. When I’m sure that Kaspia isn’t in there I put my face to the glass and have a better look. The room is nicely decorated; she’s very good at that. Then I see something on the floor near the hatstand that makes me sick. It punches me in the guts as hard as I’ve ever been hit.

  Lying there, as if thrown off hastily in passion, is a pair of male boots.

  CHAPTER 15

  I’m stunned. My heart pounds in anguish and anger, my head races with thoughts: how could I have been so mistaken? How quickly I dismissed John’s pessimism, the reality checks he always tried to give me. Suddenly, with a pair of male boots, my assumptions have collapsed. This isn’t how things were meant to pan out. Our separation wasn’t intended as an opportunity for us to sleep with other people. We separated to experience life apart, to give us space to ponder, to reflect on the relationship from the outside in. But what if I’d misunderstood all along?

  I drive away with tears on my face, barely able to keep my car on the road. I’ve been awake for twenty-six hours. It feels like I’ve endured a lifetime of drama in the space of a day and a night.

  Back in my apartment I pour a bowl of cereal but decide I don’t feel hungry. I leave it in the sink and take a shower. Then I fall on the bed like a tree cut down. My breathing is shallow and it feels like I haven’t exhaled the breath that I took back at Kaspia’s window.

  The truth is, I’ve blown it. I was doubtful, indecisive, neglectful in our relationship. Kaspia suggested the split, but I’d driven her to it. In the months before we separated, Kaspia and I were talking about marriage and kids. I told her I wasn’t ready for either, but realise now that’s not what a partner wants to hear after a decade together. While Kaspia never said it, I know my lack of commitment was part of why she wanted to separate. At the very least, I suppose, to see if I could hack a life without her.

  Even as we packed our stuff into separate boxes, I didn’t protest. The break never felt permanent because I told myself it wasn’t, but maybe in her mind it was.

  I roll out of bed and go to my cupboard. I find a scarf: silk, paisley print. It’s one of Kaspia’s that I packed by mistake. I go down the stairs and loop it round the banister. I’m not good with knots, but I know what’ll work.

  Then I hear my own voice talking me down.

  Stop! Look what you’re doing. This is forever! Think about that. Think about your mother …

  I think about my mother getting the news from the cops who come to her door. The tears come again and I reach for my phone to call my folks. My mother answers and I try to sound normal, like there’s nothing wrong, but she knows, she can tell, that there’s something not right. She says, ‘Hold on, we’re coming over. Don’t do anything till we get there, okay?’ She knows, as my father does, what I’m capable of.

  I take down the scarf and fold it away. I could never let Mum see it there.

  My parents arrive. They want to know what’s going on, but I refuse to talk specifics. I just tell them I hate the silence, that I miss my life with Kaspia.

  They stay all afternoon and beg me not to work. Take the next shift off, they say – the week, the month. But what’s my other option? To bum around and wallow in self-pity? To use up all my sick leave till I get an official letter putting me on notice? My parents worry I’ll be tired, that I’ll make foolish choices. But my love for them is endless and I realised the moment I was hanging up that scarf that I couldn’t put them through such grief. I also know there’s beauty in this life, even if at times we’re blind to it, like the New Year’s fireworks behind an overpass. The inner voice that talked me down is using all the classic lines I’ve used on others. Being on the receiving end, I see how I do sound ‘a little bit Oprah’, as my patient Courtney pointed out. But these talk-down clichés are what I now grasp onto. They’re small but solid footholds.

  My parents insist I stay at their house for a couple of days. None of us mentions it, but we all know it’s suicide watch. I reluctantly agree. I can leave for work from there.

  At the home I grew up in there is safety and love, but it also feels like I’ve come full circle, like I’ve failed at life. As if my shot at being an adult didn’t work out and here I am, a child again. I promise myself I won’t stay for long.

  When I wake up after two hours to get ready for work I know I’ve paid only a fraction of my sleep debt. My palms ache and my fingers are stiff. It’s a sign I’ve been clenching my fists in my sleep again. I’ve been doing it for years now, long before Kaspia and I moved apart. I think it’s the job, the shift work, the city. I get palpations too, every now and then.

  I shave, take a shower and drive to the station. The world outside seems slightly blurry, like a poorly filmed flashback in a poorly made movie.

  Down at the station I team up with another Bondi paramedic just back from annual leave. Her name’s Donna and she’s filling in for Matt. Donna’s been around awhile and has a reputation as a good clinician. She could have studied medicine, become a doctor. But she loves the streets like I do, and in this country doctors don’t work on ambulances. She rolls her own cigarettes, smokes as hard as Barry. She likes to be called Sydway, after the street directory, because she reckons she never has to look up an address. And she’s pretty good, I admit, although I’ve caught her more than once having a peek at the directory, at which time she’ll say she’s just ‘confirming’ that she’s right.

  Our shift starts slow, and for once I wish it wouldn’t. I want to get moving, I want the distraction. I want to announce to the suburb that I’m ready for action.

  We’re sent to a girl at a barbecue who’s throwing up cheap wine. She’s been drinking since 10 am and now she’s on her hands and knees, spitting and drooling.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so sick! I don’t know what�
�s wrong with me … I just don’t understand.’

  When I politely suggest she’s vomiting because she might’ve had too much booze she loses her temper.

  ‘I’m not fucking drunk, you fucking arsehole! Are you calling me drunk? I only had some champagne, three rums, and two shots, for fuck’s sake!’ Then she clutches her friend’s leg and cries, ‘Get him away from me. Get him away!’

  Donna watches from a distance, letting me solve my own problems.

  It hurts to grovel, but the patient’s always right. So I ask her to forgive me for suggesting she might be intoxicated and she softens enough to accept a lift home. There are plenty of temptations for an argument in this job. And even though I’ve learnt the hard way not to bite, I still get myself in trouble for it now and then.

  We take a patient from one hospital to another, then we treat a man with cellulitis and one with trouble urinating. The cases are banal, but as soon as I’m chatting to my patients I’m in their lives and not in mine, and that is what I’m here for.

  Sometime after midnight we’re sent to a Vietnam War veteran, Richard. He phoned one of his friends and hinted at suicide, so his friend called an ambulance.

  Richard’s front door is already open, and we go in to find him penning the lines of a suicide note. He stops and looks up.

  ‘Bloody hell! Karl called you, didn’t he? Bastard! The deed would be done by now if I had a gun.’

  He puts down his pen and begins reading aloud his unfinished suicide note. Donna and I pull up chairs and sit at the table and listen. It’s often like this, our patients presenting their innermost feelings without hesitation, as if they’ve known us a lifetime. The least we can do is spare them our ears.