Heat Truck

Editor’s note

For years, “Storm Desk” has stood as the Ambulance Guy’s only attempt at EMS fiction. Critics loved it-“It had fewer misspellings and run-on sentences than most stuff that comes out of the office” said one such scribe.

“Why not a sequel?” we asked. As a special holiday treat, we present the Ambulance Guy’s HEAT TRUCK”

Nobody WANTS to work the heat truck. The heat makes everything suck. People smell, trucks overheat. Unlike snow, there’s no romance to the heat. New Englanders understand snow. When we have a storm we EXPECT power outages, long lines for bread, milk and Ring Dings. Long response times. “ Oh, that’s okay. We thought it would take hours in this snow. Would you boys like some hot cocoa?” In snow, everyone is nicer, more helpful, and more neighborly. You’d almost forget you were in Boston. The heat truck is not glamorous. It’s just a bad day, multiplied by the heat and living in damp underwear.

My plan was to ignore my pager and spend the evening with a friend in my air-conditioned bedroom studying hydraulics and fluid dynamics.

Unfortunately, I had left the pager on an end table in the hall. By the time we were done it had vibrated itself off the table and down the stairs like some high-tech slinky.

Three days into the heat wave and they were offering complete sets of Tupperware to anyone who volunteered for the heat truck. I have a weakness for (Or obsession with) Tupperware. I picked up the phone.

The Ambulance Guy doesn’t do much overtime. (None being considered much) My first two attempts were treated as prank calls and followed by hang-ups. (Whatever happened to always hang up last?) “This is not a joke, please don’t hang up. I want the OT on the day tour.” I said really fast. I was told to report to Bob’s Super Pre-owned and Used Ambulances at 07:00.

I hand a plan. I would get up early and shower, then apply medicated powder. A layer of “wicking” miracle fiber and then the uniform. For this day I chose the light brown shirt with the dark brown pants. I’m a traditionalist.

By the time I was out the door and in the car the powder had turned to paste, the miracle fiber was wicking nothing and my shirt had begun to stick to my back. Not a complete failure, the medicated powder in liquid form gave a frosty, not un-pleasant chill to my nether regions.

“Oh yes, I am having many good ambulances today for sure!” said Sam. The accent being somewhere between a Minnesota bachelor farmer and a Moroccan camel-trader. Sam was lying. These were spares. The runts of the litter. Built on Friday the 13th on a long weekend. Beaten like baby seals, My expectations were low. Six wheels radio and AC.

I settled for amb. 666. By the end of the shift, the front ac shit the bed; the radio locked on a country oldie station and the tailpipe became an EPA supersite.

I was supposed to be working with the Godfather of Overtime, so I was surprised to see Nikki (“Nikki with two Ks”)

“Who you with?” I asked casually, trying not to show fear. Nikki with two Ks was tall, bleached-blonde and green eyed. Only the tall part was real.

Nikki had a reputation as being “difficult”. She was great with sick people, unfortunately we didn’t have many sick people.

“It’s you and me, cupcakes” she said. The Godfather of OT had taken a sweetheart deal in A7.

“Doing a shift to help the cause?” I said.

“Doing a shift to help pay for the lipo this Christmas” said Nikki. “Screw the cause. Let’s get this pathetic show on the road. Mind if I drive, I was at JJ’s last nite and I get carsick in the back, I also need coffee. Come on, Chop chop!”

We headed for Cardio Coffee, near the BCH, where the coffee drinks were named for EKGs. I had a regular, the Sinus Tach. Nikki had the VTach. Four shots of espresso in 22 oz of French roast.

I thought Nikki’s driving was due to lack of caffeine. After the V tach, it got scarier.

“That was three red lights “I said, trying to keep my Sinus Tach in its cup and off the windshield.

“You gonna keep score or enjoy the ride?” she said.

Nikki was all about enjoying the ride. After the dispatcher had made the usual threats to field-dress us and feed our entrails to wolverines, we reluctantly logged on.

We were at ED 126, not a good sign. ED 127, the unknown EMS, was ours. Nikki recognized the address as a rather notorious halfway house.

A former four-bedroom Victorian, it had been converted into a twelve bedroom “psychiatric Facility” by a for profit concern.

From the curb it looked like any other house on this residential street. Well, except for the two thousand cigarette butts, the smell and the man on the porch dressed as Zorro.

The bold Renegade stepped aside to let us into the chaos. The ‘residents’ had the ‘staff’ cornered in the downstairs bedroom. The “staff” in this case consisted of one over-worked and under-paid grad student named Stu.

“They’re all acting out and need to go to the hospital” said Stu. “You’re going to need more ambulances”

“What’s all this about?” I said. Zorro fessed up. The weekend staff let them have unlimited Popsicle’s in the summer. Stu said “the orders” were for Popsicle’s no earlier than 3 PM.

Nikki sent Zorro to get the Popsicle’s and handed them out to the residents. ‘Save me a banana one, Zorro”. She yelled.

“No Popsicle’s before 3, these people need to go to the hospital, they’re out of control” Whined Stu.

“Chill, Stu, no-ones going to the hospital, it’s too hot. Relax, have a Creamsicle, we’re leaving”>

The residents chanted “EMS-EMS” and gave us sticky high fives as we exited. I was beginning to enjoy the ride.

There was an official heat emergency. The rules were changing. Too many calls, not enough ambulances. The protocols were melting like Brighams Vanilla on a hot sidewalk.

ED 142, the syncope at Last Chance Junior College, on the practice field .At Columbia Road, the front AC quit.

“Well, we can change trucks. We can open the windows and go deaf or we can shut the siren off. What’s your vote?” said Nikki.

“If we shut off the siren, how will people hear us coming?” I asked.

I screamed as the woman with the stroller leapt back onto the sidewalk. I had answered my own question.

We arrived at LCJC and drove around back to the practice field. The LCJC Pit Bulls were in full pads and running wind sprints. Actually only a few were in the actual act of running; the rest were falling down and throwing up.

The Coach met us on the sidelines. “I got a couple of Mary’s that can’t handle the heat” he huffed. Coach was riding a golf cart and sipping a Mountain Dew Code Red.

“Are you out of your mind?” screamed Nikki. “It’s way to hot for this!”

:”They have to work if they expect to make the NFL” said Coach.

“NFL?” said Nikki “these kids will be lucky to see KFC after they graduate. I’m shutting this practice down”

“You can’t do that,” shouted Coach.

“Public Health Commission, Official Heat Emergency. I’m shutting down this practice,” said Nikki. She had taken the coach’s bullhorn and had commandeered his golf cart.

“Everyone start drinking water, then strip down to your jocks and line up while I hose you down and cool you off…Now!” Nikki was on a roll. She went up and down the line in the coaches golf cart, trailing 200 feet of hose, spraying the team.

“Couldn’t they just hit the showers?” I asked.

“Don’t mess with my fantasy. If we go to a lingerie model convention, you can do the honors” she said, smiling for the first time all day.

We had cracked 200 on the ED list. Dispatchers were offering sexual favors and Caribbean vacations to anyone who would come out of the hospitals. No takers.

ED 211 was a man down outside the shelter. On the way across town Nikki found that the black exhaust smoke could be used to amuse the ambulance driver and punish unsuspecting motorists and pedestrians.

We woke up seven men down before we found our patient. Blind Melon Dilantin, famous Hasidic bluesman and legendary man down. He’d been drinking house brand Listerine and taking benzo’s before laying down on the blistering asphalt hours ago.

“ Let’s get him in the truck, dude. This guy’s a butterball,” said Nikki.

Blind Melon had suffered countless falls, hundreds of seizures and had been hit by, not one but two MBTA buses. His luck was running out.

Nikki flashed a twenty at one of the more sober men down and said “Get me all the ice at the 7-11, and a bottle of Mad Dog for yourself” He put the LCJC Pit-bulls to shame as he dashed up the street.

Getting Blind Melon undressed and cooled down was no easy task.

“Eleven”, I said to Nikki-“eleven layers of clothes”

“Start cutting, you get the bottom,”she said. Story of my life.

“Son of a bitch! A down vest!” I heard her exclaim as a feather floated by. My scissors hand was beginning to cramp. The floor of the truck began to look like a mad tailor’s shop. Too bad it didn’t smell like one. We finally got him down to his shorts. Actually, they were Underroos. Under the layers Blind Melon Dilantin was not a large man.

Mad Dog had returned with the ice, complaining that the guy in the 7-11 had over-charged him. I made a mental note to deal with him later.

We lifted Blind Melon up, wrapped in a wet sheet and slid the transfer sheet (With six handles, not five) under him.

By the time we got him packed in ice, we were both dripping. “My miracle fiber boxers are soaked through” I said.

“Tell me about it. My thong is just plain evil. Thank God for Brazilian waxing.” Nikki returned.

“No more sharing, please” I told her. I thought I saw another smile. Blind Melon Dilantin

Was on ice and ready to roll. He was still alive and had yet to seize both points in his favor.

Nikki handed me two instant ice packs. “Crack those for me, cupcake” she asked. I cracked the ice packs and handed them back. She turned modestly and unbuttoned her shirt, deftly slipping the ice packs inside.

“Don’t ask me how I know, but it actually works” she said, buttoning up.

“No more sharing” I yelled. She smiled and hopped up front and off we went. Me, Nikki with two K’s and Blind Melon Dilantin. All but one of us chillin!

By three o’clock we were up to ED 416 and ready to go home. The dispatchers were threatening to take people’s family members hostage if they did not clear the hospital. No takers.

We (Nikki and I) had shut down a drum and bugle competition, opened up a university pool to kids from a nearby housing project, shamed a wealthy doc from Duxbury into having AC installed in his elderly mom’s apartment and took care of several minor emergencies without taking anyone to the ER. In between we handled a couple more “hot” calls, pun intended. (a nasty head bleed in a thirtysomething stockbroker and a lower GI bleed of Biblical proportions.)” Kind of makes me feel like a real EMT again” said Nikki.

Three trucks ended up on the hook and the A-15 crew ended up plugged in at the MGH after lugging a fat tourist with an MI down from the top of the Bunker Hill Monument.

Nobody crashed. Nobody died. Nobody expired in the street waiting for an ambulance that never came. Looks like we had survived another shift. No-one more surprised than ourselves.

The media was announcing that the heat wave was indeed over, as the temp at Logan would go “only” to 89 degrees that day.

“Logan's in the middle of the harbor” said Nikki. “They should put that damn thermometer on a shopping cart in the parking lot outside Liquor Land.”

We were heading back to Bob’s Excellent Used and Pre-owned Ambulances. When ED 454 came in. Heat related illness at the Bayside Expo.

“Isn’t that the lingerie model convention?” I asked. Nikki had already started turning the truck around, much to the alarm of the other southbound travelers.

She cracked an ice pack and handed it to me as she cut off a soccer mom in a SUV. I slipped the ice pack into my shorts as we chased a tandem bike onto someone’s lawn.

“Remember, you get to hose them down this time. “Shouted Nikki.

“God, I’d forgotten how much I loved this job! I yelled.

Happy holidays from the Ambulance Guy. Seeing as I already have everything I need. I am sending Santa a list for my co-workers. A happy and healthy New Year to you and yours.

To Rich Serino- some warm bodies to bring our numbers up and bring us back to national class.

To the residents of the South End and Roslindale- an ambulance of their own.

To AMB 7, Amb 14, AMB 5, AMB 15, AMB 6 and AMB 3- real satellites.

To every EMT that responds to an EDP or a domestic situation- a real car that’s really there before you arrive.

To this years “Retirees” -many years of well-earned relaxation and joy.

To Sarge Haley-some bodies to make Special OPS a first /one of a kind in EMS

To all- swift passage of retirement and line of duty bills.

To all EMCO’S - increased staffing and the right to use common sense when dispatching without fear of second-guessing or discipline.

To the Current Recruit Class- a field internship with the chance to prove you’re not the worst class in recent memory.

To Laura Ryan- more guests for “The Show” (and maybe a hobby for all her free time)

To all the Ambulance Drivers- New Trucks

To all the mechanics- Ambulance Drivers who will take care of the new trucks.

To Neil Blackington- a new look at our lights and siren policy.

To Felicia Robinson- a bumper crop of recruits and EMT students (you know where to find them)

To all my brother and sister EMTs and Paramedics, especially you veterans who have become disenchanted since 9-11. I know you’re not rescue workers or medical workers or “others”. I know you are EMTs and Paramedics in Boston that you do more than the other services with a fraction of the manpower and budget. I know your work ethic is legendary. You are a model for others.

Maybe this year, Santa will bring you the recognition you so richly deserve.

Until then, be well and take care of each other.

TAG

^{Christmas 2002}