SPEED bump.
The Russian woman’s eyelids raised—first the left, then the right. The mouth opened, but no sound came out. I looked to Cakers, who was busy washing his hands in a bucket of bright blue, sloshing water. His hands were of the color when he brought them out, yet he made no attempt at wiping them dry.
Headlights blinded us. My breath snagged on something as I saw another ambulance heading right for us. Cakers pointed and screamed, “Get ready!”
Tranzam stepped on the gas.
“I won’t flinch!”
My body froze as my mind did summersaults. My mouth was racing with sounds, but it made no difference. The other ambulance’s headlights grew brighter and brighter. I caught a glimpse of the driver: A pasty woman with wild hair and messy eyes—shrieking, she was, as she pulled a hard right and her ambulance veered off into the night, taking its blinding headlights with it. My pupils took a bit to normalize, but during those few seconds I swear I saw the silhouette of a large plan against the whiteness.
Our ambulance screeched to a stop.
Everyone fell forward, including the Russian woman. She was on her side—awake with those fat eyes, drooling along with the shocked silence.
I broke it.
“WHAT THE FREAK, MAN?! WHAT—THE—FREAK—OVA THEA?!”
The air freshener shaped like a Christmas tree swayed from the rear-view mirror.
They were all hyperventilating. Cakers waved me away—his other hand on his heart.
“I didn’t want to scare you. So I kept my lips pursed. You dig?”
“Ohhh mannn…I’m in deep! I’m in deep, ova hea! My whole next life flashed before my eyes! What the freak was that stunt? It was weird! You better tell me what’s going on toot sweet or I’m gonna get stink on you!”
“Long story short…Ambulance Chicken. And we won.” He let out a nervous laugh that tried so hard to be joyous. He reached up and opened the camera and took out the tiny tape, then looked at everyone. “We all just made ourselves a tidy profit!”
Cakers saluted me.
“You did well.”
“I didn’t even do anything!”
“Exactly. And yet the night keeps turning.”
“I’m tired of your riddles, man. So very tired and so very sick. I’m outta here. Poof! Gone. Now I will say good day to you, sir.”
I made for the backdoors. The Russian woman—in an odd, manly voice—blurted out, disrespectfully:
“PAIN!”
She stood up like garbage and waved her arms around, slapping herself in the face. She yanked out fistfuls of her hair, stuffing her mouth and eating as dark matter spilt from the hole in her head—gloop that got on my pants. Cakers shouted demands at the woman, but she was a long gone loon. She bolted for me—for the doors. I cried out, “Foul!” and covered my face with my arms. Cakers tackled the woman against a wall and a thick layer of her head-goop flew onto Tranzam’s lips. She moaned in a scary way and heaved bits of sick onto the windshield. Cakers yelled, “Tranzam! Take action!” She nodded many times and cursed the world and stepped on the gas. Before I could reject her action, I felt my body being pulled back through the doors. I landed on the hard dirt, on my back.
Why did I see a flock of colors dancing behind my eyelids?
Cakers and the Russian woman fell on me, performing a mad, horizontal tango.
Panic raped me, and I inched away on my hands and knees whilst making chirping sounds.
The ‘loser’ ambulance was parked nearby—silent with its emergency lights rolling—halfway in a ditch.
Cakers and the Russian stood up, strangling each other for some reason. She was a zombie of sorts—inarticulate, yet full of motion and want. It was clear to me then that Cakers was trying to protect me. He kicked in my general direction, stomping the ground to seem serious.
“Scram, boy! Scram!”
The thick fear that screamed all over me vanished somehow and I jumped to my feet and ran to them, punching the woman three times on the back of her head in a series of delayed bursts. Black slop splattered all over the lower half of my head. Our ambulance began to reverse—fast. Cakers grinned and nodded.
“That’s my girl ova thea!”
He kicked me and I stumbled back, but my feelings weren’t hurt.
“Boy! Make haste!”
I cartwheeled out of the way. The ambulance reversed into them and they fluttered through the air with a loud WHOOSH and looked like confused birds trying to take flight. Cakers landed on the soft, obese woman, whose face was now asleep.
Was she smiling?
Cakers hugged the woman, and squeezed out a tense string of understandable laughs.
I looked at my hands, shaking my head as Cakers’ giggles bounced off my surprised bulk. I didn’t know I could do a cartwheel. But under times of extreme pressure….
Tranzam ran out—festive and clapping—and we all helped to carry the woman back into the ambulance. Cakers gave Tranzam a pat on the upper back.
“You did good, girl. Your aim is wonderful.”
“Thanks. It wasn’t her I was aiming at. But hey, I’ll take all the complements I can get from a cheater.”
“Goddamn YOU.”
“Your God has no control over me.”
I wanted to take a few steps back, but didn’t want to draw their attention, or embarrass them. I looked around and realized where we were.
We were at Round Top Drive on Mount Tantalus, a long, nine mile loop around and around upward. It’s a popular sightseeing spot that I rarely have time for. The chilly night breeze put me into some kind of trance as I awed at the hundreds of lights below me—of the sleeping houses lined along the mountain, of distant Waikiki, and of the cars on the streets and highways. It’s always a gorgeous sight, but there was no time to ogle.
Tranzam and Cakers instructed me to stand behind the ambulance and watch over the patient, and make sure she didn’t do anything weird as they ran to the other ambulance. They yanked open the driver’s door, and after much discussion, were able to coax the woman with the crazy hair outside, tenderly holding her hand as they babied her in my direction.
I could feel my face shrink. She looked like a tangle of something my shower drain sometimes threw up. I mumbled how I didn’t want to sit next to her, due to my childhood fear of catching hepatitis. They eased her inside, whispering sweet somethings into her ear, which was moving on its own, mind you—up and down, like she was showing off or something.
It was irksome, and it’s making me mad just thinking about it.
I was pushed into the ambulance by unknown hands, and we zoomed higher up the mountain.
The woman was shaking in a corner, cuddling herself into a ball of sweat and contradictions. She gawked and gawked at me and it was thick and all over my skin. I focused on keeping the Russian woman from sliding off the gurney—known as a trolley in British medical context—as the ambulance ran over bump after bump. I side-eyed the crazy woman out of reflex action. Apparently, I rolled my eyes at her, and that did it. Her mouth imploded as she bellowed at me.
“Chillax, Broseph! Chillax!”
Vaguely understanding what she meant, I put my hands up, to soothe. She turned up her nose and looked away with a “Hmph!” We ran over a mighty bump and I caught the Russian just as she rolled off the trolley.
No one saw the flub, and I said, “Whew...”
Cakers looked over his shoulder.
“Everything all right back there?”
I had my hands locked around the Russian’s wrists, mainly to show off how strong I was.
“Everything’s hunky-dory, boss!”
“Aww, come now, boy, don’t call me boss. I’m just a hard working homo—just like you! And by homo, I mean Homo sapien, so let’s not get any bright ideas.”
Tranzam let out a guttural, sarcastic laugh.
“Oh teehee. It is to laugh.”
Cakers straightened his back.
“Shut up, you! Or so help me I’ll punch your lights in.”
There was an awkward silence. It had to be sliced, and Cakers was the man to do it. He turned from the window to look at Tranzam.
“Err…good work back there.”
Tranzam grunted and wiped a bit of sick from the windshield.
“Let’s just make this fast. I suddenly have an urge to have to go somewhere.”
Cakers exhaled—giving up.
“FINE.”
Trying to stabilize myself, I half walked, half crouched over to Cakers.
“Where are we heading? The observation deck at top of the mountain is closed this time of night.”
“We’re not going sightseeing, lad. There are friends up there. Friends that I work for…and some I work with. Are you fearful? Are you so Goddamn full of it? Oh, boy. Fear not! They’re nice. Feel better now?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Ambulance Chicken, boy. That’s where the currency be at. Four thousand shillings. That’s how much we won!”
“So…if you would pardon this possibly insulting question…when are we going to take this Russian woman to the hospital? I’m getting the bumps.”
Silence. They all looked over. At first I thought it was at the Russian woman, but no…it was at me—like I said something that was so blasphemous. I wanted to apologize, but could only look away.
Cakers smiled, I think.
“So young and pure.”
I looked up and then saw that he was crying?
He gave me the thumbs up, thank God. “Listen, child. The hospital is too far. She’ll never make it. Our way is better.”
The Russian’s skin looked pale—although it was hard for me to tell, seeing as how I’m colorblind.
“How much longer?”
The crazy woman perked up.
“Yes, do tell. I’m cold…and there’s a high pressure system in my bladder.”
Tranzam whipped around, pointing.
“WHAT DID I TELL YOU BACK THERE, WENCH?! Don’t you dare even think it! Take the muck out of your ears and stand attention to my ways!”
Cakers was a tad nicer to her.
“Please. Do not urinate, Spicey. You promised you wouldn’t if we gave you a ride to the meeting.”
This ‘Spicey’ nodded.
“Your sounds are very soothing to me, Cakers. I appreciate that.” Spicey gave Tranzam an eye that was so very cocked. “Unlike your emissions, Tranzam. Your sounds thrill me in the most awful of ways.”
Tranzam shook her head, and said, “You Goddamn baboon.” The pot in her belly was boiling and threatened to burst a bad stew. Her internal revenue was now fat with anger, and she wished to make a withdrawal.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. I should have left you back there with the zombies.”
Spicy immediately began to shake all over.
“GOD! No.” She put out a lazy hand that was rather pathetic in aura. “Nooooooo. Pleassssssssse. Err…I apologize?”
After that odd exchange of spiteful words, no one said anything. It was understandable. We were all exhausted, and needed a break from all the tongue-flappings.
I was also bursting—not with a hateful stew, but with bubbling questions. What was at the top of the mountain? What was Ambulance Chicken, really? And what did Tranzam mean when she said Zombies?
Cakers smiled at me.
“Nervous? Don’t worry. I got your back.”
I smiled, suddenly eased.
“And I got your front.”
OUR ambulance climbed up the dirt road, toward the shimmering stars, and turned right…into the parking lot. There were around fifteen other ambulances, all strewn about the place. Three were on a mini, grassy hill, facing each other; some were on the sidewalks; a few were on the edge, overlooking the city lights; and one blocked the Men’s restroom. More than half of the ambulances were unfamiliar in design to me. Cakers told me to keep silent. Something about this felt very illegal, but I kept my mouth glued to the back of my hand.
The ambulance drivers were all in different uniforms, sleeping on the grass, chatting on cell phones, getting drunk in their vehicles, and smoking herb in the woods whilst doing God knows what. Two people—a chubby girl and a skinny male—were on the roof of an ambulance, French kissing and on their knees as their hands explored certain districts. Her top was off, and he was wearing it. Most of these people just stood about in groups of 3, drinking Amber Bock.
A dog wandered here and there with a carton of Marlboro cigarettes strapped to its back. I assumed these were free, so I chased after the fiend, only to have it whine at me and flee into the woods. I think people were laughing at me.
Good.
The world needs laughter. In the middle of all of this stood a tipi, and I could have only assumed that an Indian was inside. Cakers went in while I climbed back inside the ambulance—not daring to be left outside alone with these fools—where Tranzam was asleep. Or pretending to be asleep. I rolled my window down to get some air.
The place was a gaggle of foreign languages—ambulances shipped from India, Australia, Canada, London, Philippines, France, Russia, etc. I could snatch a familiar word or two. There were talks on Obama, horror films, unidentified flying objects, college life, Egypt, Britney Spears, tips on parenting, and infections.
There was a fight in a swaying ambulance, but no one paid any mind. The brawlers were screaming in Yiddish, and I heard one of them say, “Gayn Cacken Ofn yam”, which I’m pretty sure means: Go shit in the ocean.
Spicy ran out after the dog, yelling at it to give her a smoke. She gave up and sat on the ground, meditating with her legs crossed. A man from India strolled up and put food into her mouth. They were friends, I hoped.
The tipi glowed as a video projector played large, confusing images on its wall.
Tranzam was snoring so loud that she woke herself up with a snort. She looked around—confused and unnerved—lit a cigarette, THEN put it in her mouth, sucking it while giving me the old side-eye. She wasn’t painting layers of screams onto my face. That was a good thing. Maybe she warmed up to me—saw the logic in the situation—finally saw that I was an innocent in this whole shebang. I leaned over.
“May I please have a cigarette?”
“Yes. Fuck you.”
“So…yes, then?”
“Turn away from me, youngling.”
“I’m probably older than you.”
“The more you talk…the more I want to die.”
I was being filled with that old, familiar heat—and it took all I had to keep it from reaching my clenched fists and balled toes of uncharacteristic rage. I looked outside, to the tipi. Marijuana smoke was rising out from it, and giggling. There were dark birds circling above it, as well. They were probably high and daydreaming about eating worms—the people inside, not the birds.
“How long is he going to take?”
“Why? So you can suck on his tongue? What was that? Yes? Why am I not surprised.”
“Pardon?”
“What? Now you say you want to stick it up him? How gross.”
“I didn’t say that. You’re just putting words all over my mouth. Stop it.”
“You stop it,” She exhaled. “Seriously though, stop having sex with my man behind my back.”
“WHAT!”
“You heard me, swine.”
I laughed in a nervous way.
“I’m not gay. I like women so much. Whatever gave you the idear that I would make moves on your man? It’s disturbing and scary. Sheesh!”
“You’re all he talks about—morning…night…when we’re taking a shower together, touching things…when he’s eating and forking scrambled eggs into his hole…when we play tennis…when he cries at night…and so forth, and so forth. Thank you for ruining what could have been a perfect marriage.”
“Man alive…I’m very sorry. It was never my intention to cause harm. It’s just that my dreams…they have been messed with. They have been soiled.”
“I don’t even want to know what you two do in the dream world
. But I imagine sucking is involved, as well as the exchange of liquids.” She put her hand on her stomach. “Oh God, my belly. Will I vomit?”
“There is nothing of the sort going on here! My dreams involve kicking him out! This I promise you.”
“You are in NO position to promise me sweets!”
“Hey! I have morals, you know! I was born a Catholic. So that proves it. I wouldn’t dream of inflicting harm on matters of the heart. This would be folly.”
“Then why did you cheat on him in your past life?”
The world beyond the windows dimmed like lights on a stage, and I turned my head to Tranzam, slowly for dramatic effect…my eyes fat and glowing as cinders.
“Did he say something to you? What words fell from those dim-witted lips?”
“Leave him alone. He was having a bad night. Bad, bad madness. I held him—cradled him, even. Time stopped. We had a moment. He vented.”
“These are private affairs! You are excluded!”
“What goes on in his life—his soul—is my business, you hear me, boy! This is what it means to be a couple. We share everything! Evvvvveeerrrryyythingggggg.”
“Leave me alone! I did nothing!”
She punched the steering wheel and it honked.
“The day you kissed him past tense was the day you pissed all over my dreams.”
“No, no, no, no, no. This is dirty. That might’ve been me in the past—some version of me—a tiny bit of my source energy—but I’m a new person now. I did not cheat on Cakers!” I opened the door. “The very idea of embezzling spit with a male makes me ill! Good day to YOU!”
I slammed the door as hard as I could and stomped away. People were staring, murmuring. How do homosexuals do it? How do gay men do it? Look at a man’s nude body? It’s disgusting and not shaped in an elegant way. The male body looks like a standing elephant. Our bodies are bad on the eyes: There are bumps in all the wrong places, whereas the female body has curves in all the right places. Making love to a man must be as fun as making love to a bag of trash. It’s repulsive. The naked man is revolting. This is why I close one eye when I watch pornography, or mute the volume whenever the male “performer” gets a wee too excited. The cigarette dog ran by and I was able to catch him and steal a pack of smokes. I gave a German ambulance driver the universal sign for a light and inhaled. Damn if I care my chest started to hurt again. The lightheaded feeling was worth it. I walked toward the tipi as two Polynesian drivers juggled large knives on fire back and forth while bongo players sat around them, thumping a seductive rhythm.
I needed a spit of beer to drown out the images bombing my eyes. I could’ve asked for a blazing knife and stabbed my eyes out right there and then.
But you can’t stab your mind’s eye.
Just then, as I massaged the middle of my eyes and groaned, the backdoors of a nearby ambulance flew open and threw up a flock of five nuns. They wore the standard issued black and white headgear and were in bra and panties, beer bottles in hand spilling here and there, chased into the woods by a fat, Filipino ambulance driver. The girls were yelling his name and laughing as they ran.
“Oolong! Oolong! Oolong!”
He burped as he followed—his beast of a belly jiggling like a heavy weight threatening to be dislocated.
I had stopped dead in my shoes.
These fiends.
Their vision was based on movement, and I didn’t want to be involved in any kind of sexual altercation and develop bumps around my mouth that bled whenever they damn well felt like it.
I walked by an open, black tent where some drivers were sitting around a stereotypical-looking doctor. He was standing in front of a large picture of a deformed fetus—pointing at it with a tree branch and giving some sort of inspiring speech. He had a very soothing face. He opened a plastic bag and everyone stood up, tossing in spoons and little bags of white powder.
Something shimmered and I looked down.
One of the nuns had dropped her beer bottle and it magically landed on its feet, still full. I stood over the beverage as it tempted my chapped lips, but I won the round by walking away, albeit sad.
I was too shy to ask around for a beer. A little flame for a cigarette was OK, but a beer is more personal. One doesn’t walk into a party or a bar of strangers and ask around for a free bottle. Unless you were an asshole. It’s rude. My only chance was to walk around and hope that I was offered one.
Didn’t happen.
“Eh, boy, get over here.”
It was Cakers, and he had a blue envelope in his hand. He was smiling.
“Some of this money is yours. Satisfied?”
“Give it to your lady.”
“What was that?”
“I feel too guilty.”
“Dang it! I told her to cool it! Whatever she told you, don’t take it too hard. She can be extremely cruel at times.”
“It was fair. I deserved it. I lost my cool.”
“Honey child, ain’t seen nothing yet. I’ll straighten this out. Where is she? I’ll teach her a thing or two about manners. Again. With my stern fists and equally stern face.”
“She’s in the ambulance—but let’s just drop it. She’s gathering herself. No violence tonight. It upsets me to no end.”
He exhaled and rolled his eyes.
“Damn skirt. FINE. We have work to do anyway.”
An Indian chief, in full getup, walked out from the tipi and stretched his back. He waved at everyone—face serious—and the drivers yanked open the backdoors to their ambulances, showing him their patients. I could immediately tell that some of them were dead, seeing how more than one was missing a head.
The chief walked to each body and felt their limbs and smelt their skin, writing his findings into a green, spiral notebook.
Cakers whispered for me to step aside as the Indian chief approached Cakers’ ambulance and examined the Russian woman.
Was she dead, too?
My stomach punched me, and said, “Take a wild guess, you stupid fool! This whole thing is mashugena!”
I felt sick all over, and I wanted to cry. Some kind of lump was in my throat.
The chief took hold of the Russian lady and dragged her out. With one meaty arm wrapped around her waist, he reached behind his back and gave Cakers another envelope—this one yellow.
His eyes lit up. The other drivers began yelling things, like “No fair!” and “Mine is better!” and “Mine is cleaner!” and “I can get another one with arms this time—I promise!”
The chief whipped a cold stare at them that shut them all up toot sweet. He nodded to us and fireman carried the woman into the darkness of the tipi. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and things immediately began running from my nose.
“Oh…Jesus. I thought we were going to take her to a hospital? What in blue blazes?”
“Boy, this is better than a hospital. This is the bee’s knees!”
“What’s going to happen to that poor Russian? What’s that big guy going to do to her?”
Cakers slapped my sternum with the yellow envelope.
“Relax. All I can tell you—at least for now—is that she’s dead. She was a goner since we found her. Her body’s going to great, wondrous use here. Oahu will benefit.”
I looked around as people were leaving and saw lights coming up the road. It was a cop.
“Oh, piss!”
How did HPD know I’d be here on this day at this time? The car drove into the parking lot and I ran into the woods, but no one seemed to care. No one panicked. The police officer stepped out and walked to the tipi, where the chief was waiting for him and wearing a butcher’s apron, covered in blood. He handed a garbage bag to the officer, who clapped his hands in approval.
My mouth dropped and hands flew out from nowhere and covered my eyes.
“Don’t look!” Cakers whispered into my ear. “Be quiet!”
“Too much!” I struggled. “Too much!”
The cop nodded to the chief and went
back to his car—whistling the theme to the X-Files—and drove away.
Cakers sensed that I was calm and slid his hands off my mouth.
“Where’s Tranzam?”
WE looked all over the mountain top for her—even after all the ambulances left, but it was no good. There was no sight of Tranzam. Cakers was biting his nails. He began pacing back and forth in the parking lot with his hands behind his back, darting British curse words under his breath—words like “Bloody” and “Arse” and “Blast” and “Fanny” and “Queer” and “Redundancy” and “Sod off!” and “Wanker (pronounced Wankah)”.
The chief stayed in his tipi.
I tried calling out for Tranzam, but Cakers didn’t like that idea and told me to—and I quote—“Shut my shit dam.” We rationalized that she caught a ride with another ambulance and we drove out from the parking lot. There were 4 or 5 police cars making their way up to the top of the mountain—most likely to see the chief. I was tempted to ask Cakers what this was all about, but I knew it would’ve been futile.
He was in no mood.
SIX
Ambulance Masters Page 7
