last call

I arrived on scene, alone, the ambulance lights the only illumination. Though protocol demanded I await law enforcement, I came anyway, as I had done before on other suicide threats.

Not because I’m a hero, not because I’m overly concerned with saving a life and not because I know what I’m doing. It’s because I’m…well, to be honest, I don’t know what I am.

A woman. Seeming tired, sounding vaguely British, wearing a robe. Appeared at the door holding an unlit cigarette. “He’s in the bedroom.”

She let me inside and pointed towards an unlit hallway. A closed door at the end.

“He lost his job today.”

1989
Did you catch Bill Hicks last night?

No.

Oh, man! He did a skit where Jimi Hendrix rips Debbie Gibson in half!

She began towards the porch.

I was about to ask her if she would open the door for me, but stopped. I’m a coward in so many ways, but I’m also annoyingly concerned with not imposing on people. I sometimes don’t know which has gotten me into more trouble.

I still get chills remembering standing in front of his door. My radio was a piece of junk. I could overhear the dispatch asking if they had heard from the unit on scene, 1710, my call number. I would have replied, but my radio would not transmit. Only receive.

To be honest, I fully expected that when I opened that door I would be met with a flash and a bang. I reconciled myself to it. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go back outside to the woman and say, “Look, you need to open the door. I’m not supposed to be entering lunatic lairs by myself.” That would be too reasonable for me.

1990
And then he talked about drugs, and how LSD gets a bad rap because of a few morons.

Funny, huh?

He said, ‘If a guy tripping on acid jumps from a building thinking he can fly, don’t blame the drugs; Blame the fucking guy for not trying to take off from the ground!

I did open the door. A lamp. A bed. A shape underneath the comforter. A full-grown man peering at me from beneath the covers, only his eyes and fingertips showing.

“I’m with the fire department,” I said. “I hear you’ve been having a bad day.”

He said nothing, and didn’t remove the blanket. I approached. At least I could see his hands. As soon as I sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, he whimpered, “I’m scared.”

“Me, too, man!”

I thought about how funny this might all be when I would tell it later on. But it didn’t seem funny at the time, only sad. Here were two full-grown men, both somewhere they had no business being, admitting to each other how frightened they were.

1991
He talked about how he hated his dad.

They all seem to.

He said kids would come up to him and say, ‘My dad can beat up your dad,’ and he would say, ‘Really? When?’.

He let me take his vitals. He told me in one-word sentences how his life had gone so wrong. He told me his date of birth.

Jesus. He’s the same age as me. This could be me. This could be my life. Suicidal from losing a minimum wage city parks job. Christ. I did my best to keep the guy talking, to make him feel better about himself, especially now since I was seeing myself in him.

A policeman eventually arrived. Stood at the doorway. Behind him, Don Roberts. Fucker. Don was smiling because he knew I was in trouble. I should have waited for the police. Don relieved me of my duties and had me do the little errands that subordinate, volunteer EMTs have to take care of. Don started asking the man questions. The man pulled the blanket back over his head and wouldn’t speak. Don and the policeman looked at each other and laughed.

Don said, “All right, look. We can do this hard if you want.” Don started barking orders at the man, now nearly catatonic in his non-responsiveness. Don gave him a few good shakes and told him to stop fucking around and be a man.

Be a man, I thought. Be a man.

But I couldn’t.

1992
I hear he’s got cancer.

He’s dying.

Fucking shame, I tell you. He was one of the greats.