Twenty minutes later Ian had put his bag on the upper shelf(carefully avoiding the brown bag on the lower shelf) and collected his keys. A stack of sheets in the main office labeled Daily Ambulance Check -- ALS gave him a place to write down the numbers of the drug bags' tags, and a list by which he made a cursory check of all their equipment. Richter had neglected to mention the two bags (one a large, fold-open box-shaped thing, the other a small duffel) and the Lifepack, but Ian checked them, too. "Where to?" He asked Richter as he buckled his seatbelt and adjusted his mirrors.
"Make a right onto the street and go to the end of the block."
"And then?"
"And then stick it somewhere, we’re getting coffee."
Ian pulled out, merged into traffic and parked at the end of the block. "Lock it and leave it running," his partner said, and the two of them walked into the diner.
"Hiya, Frank" said the counter woman as they walked in. "You guys have a call?" She picked up a cup in the counter, said, "Oh, that's too cold," and poured a fresh cup of coffee with milk Sweet & Low.
"Thanks, Angel," Richter said as he paid her.
"Who's your partner?" Angel asked. "What happened to Richards?"
"He retired. He had his twenty years in."
"I wish I could do that. Who's your partner?" She asked again.
Frank turned to Ian, and Ian watched Frank's eyes go to the nameplate on Ian's chest. "Steele," Frank said, "his name's Steele."
"Well, hello, Mr. Steele," the woman said, "what can I get you?"
"I'm Ian. I'll have a small coffee, please, black."
"Sugar? Equal?"
"No, thank you."
Frank had returned to the ambulance by the time Ian paid. Ian grabbed a few napkins and followed, stuffing the napkins into a map pocket that was already overflowing with wrinkled, though generally clean napkins and paper towels. "Post is two blocks further down," Frank said, "then make a right onto Hill Street. Go to the police station, then make a left on Maxwell Street. Go two or three blocks and park."
Ian's coffee, lacking the benefit of milk, was still too hot to consider holding it in his crotch, and the design of the console, with the switches and computer display, was such that it blocked a any cup holder that the ambulance might have had. Ian looked over to Frank, and saw that he had wedged his between the dashboard and the windshield prior to picking up his newspaper. It seemed precarious arrangement to Ian, guaranteed to cause a spill. There was no other place for the cup, though, so Ian balanced his cup in the same way, taking inadequate comfort in the fact the slope of the dashboard would drain any spilled coffee forward, away from him. He shifted into drive and pulled out into traffic.
Surprisingly, the coffee cup stayed in place, never spilling in spite of two monstrous, water-filled potholes that Ian was unable to avoid. He parked the ambulance at the corner and shut it off.
"Leave it running." Frank said from behind his newspaper.
Ian mastered an involuntary frown; he was not the most long-suffering of men. He started the engine, which labored unevenly for minute, then settled down to a normal rhythm. Somewhere church clock struck for a half hour: 10:30 a.m. Two minutes later, several other churches began to strike, one of them with a cracked bell. A quarter of an hour later, the churches struck again, then again for the hour. By 11:30, Ian had decided that the church with a cracked bell was probably the red brick one that he could see two or three blocks down. He also read the legend to every switch an indicator light on the dashboard and console no less than five times, determined that while the FM stereo worked well enough, the AM radio only pulled stations in from the upper two thirds of the dial, plus TV channel 6 at the extreme bottom.
Frank had fallen asleep sometime ago. He lay slumped against the window, the sections of his newspaper spread over his lap and spilling onto the floor. His cigarette, burnt to the filter, had gone out. Ian cracked his window open to clear the air of the stale smoke, then lay his head back to try to sleep.
He was not immediately successful. The steady, unfamiliar mumbling of the ambulance's motor and the intermittent whine and click of the windshield wipers distracted him. The construction of the ambulance was such that the seatback could not be reclined more than a few degrees; he found a cramped position to be an even worse distraction. Nevertheless, he must have fallen asleep at some point, because a cold, wet sensation on his shoulder woke him. Water had seeped in through the small opening at the top of his window, forming a small rivulet and spilling onto his uniform. Ian dabbed ineffectually at himself with a napkin for a minute or two before deciding that he was now stuck with a damp uniform. He shivered once convulsively, closed his window and turned on the heater.
Some minutes later Frank awoke with us in a yawn, made an awkward stretch within the confines of the ambulance and blinked two or three times. "Coffee," he said.
"Coffee?" Ian asked.
Frank sniffed again. "Coffee," he confirmed, then opened his door and stepped out into the drizzle. Ian checked his mirror against passing traffic, then did the same.
Outside, Frank completed a much more luxurious stretch than the ambulance allowed. He reached up to the radio extender on his epaulet spoke into it. "Three-five X-ray on radio."
"10 - 4 Three-five X, " the extender replied. Frank began to cross the street. Ian followed.
Almost across the street stood a bodega. Frank gave his order at the counter, and Ian was doing the same when the radio spoke up again. "-ree Five X-ray."
Frank cursed, then reach up to his shoulder to reply. "Five X."
"Three-five X, take it down to 721 East 203rd, meet Three Two Boy."
"Ten - 4."
Ian walked quickly to the door. He pushed it open, stepped out into the street and crossed to the ambulance. In the driver seat, he buckled his seatbelt and looked down at the console to turn on the emergency master, then dropped the transmission down to drive.
But Frank wasn't there yet. He looked out his window: his partner was just emerging from a bodega, with a cup of coffee in each hand. He crossed the street, circled around the front of the ambulance, and climbed in. "You forgot your coffee, you owe me eighty-five cents," he growled, handing Ian the steaming cup over the console.
Ian took the cup and placed it in the corner of the windshield. Of all the times to worry about coffee and 85 cents, Frank picked now? "Where do I go?" He asked.
"Take it down to 202 and make a right." Frank said, punching up the dispatch info on the computer as he did so. "721 East 203rd apartment 19G," he read, "difficulty breathing. Also dispatched, Three-two Boy." He pulled a pad of paper from the map pocket in his door and copied some of the information from the computer.
Ian glanced into his mirror and pulled out into the nearly empty street, then rolled down to the red light at the end of the block. Frank glanced out his window. "You're clear," he said.
Ian was busy checking the intersection and didn't reply for a moment. "Clear for what?" He asked finally.
"Clear of traffic to the right." Frank said, still busy copying information into his pad. "What's your numbers?"
"Numbers?"
"Your numbers. Your medic number. And you feel like turning on the siren, maybe?" Frank asked.
Ian blushed. He had forgotten about the siren. He reached out for the knob and twisted. "Two four six oh one"
"Damn, that's a high number. You're clear on the right."
Ian slowed for the red light and flipped the siren over to the next higher frequency.
"I said you're clear on the right -- go." Frank said.
201st Street was one way to the left -- as Frank had said there were no cars approaching from the right, and Ian took the ambulance through the intersection. The next cross street was 202nd St, a major thoroughfare, and Ian had to creep into it one lane at a time, tapping his air horn and watching the oncoming cars until their front bumpers dipped in submission. Frank directed him around the block to approach the scene of the call from the right direction. "721 is this block probably on the left," he said.
Down the block they saw Three Two Boy unloading their equipment. They pulled up to the row of parked cars and double-parked on the left one space back. "Get the defib," Frank said as he punched a button on the computer and opened his door.
By the time Ian had shouldered the defibrillator, Frank had taken the bag and was halfway to the building. Ian followed, catching up as they mounted the steps.
[END OF CHAPTER]
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