X-ray vignette

GLOSSARY

SPOILER ALERT: depressing material follows

006 was old. It was a pre-merger bus that had seen an
incredible seven births and more deaths than anyone could
renmember. Iw was on its fourth transmission. Through its
fourth transmission. Motor Pool wasn't interested in discussions
of a fifth.

006 sat forlornly at Station 57's diesel island, marrooned,
as it were, with a full tank and no motivation. Frank and Ian
pulled their bags from its cabinets, crossing the wet pavement to
bus 439 and tossing the bags in there. Then they stood quietly
before 006, Frank gave a tire one last respectful kick, and they
climbed into 439. When they returned three hours later to bring
a patient to the Gantry, 006 was gone.

Motor Pool had a parking lot buried in far Queens for
retired busses. On the official city register the lot was
designated "Lot M," but Motor Pool called it the Decommision
Yard, a field of rumpled blacktop with a growning fleet of worn
out ambulances that leaned against each other for support, huddled
close for warmth. Together they watched the sunrises in the
east, unless they faced the other way, in which case they waited
for the sunsets in the west.

Row after rown of empty widshields gazed at the leaden sky,
waiting to donate doors, alternators, wheels to their brethren
still in service before they quietly rusted away. 006 was
dropped off unceremoniously by a flatbed wrecker beside the
crumpled wreck of 216, victim of a city transit bus. The wrecker clanked
off and the seagulls returned.

When Ian wanted to be depressed, this was where he went.
There was a gaurd shack near the locked gate, but Ian had never
seen itused, so he ignored it. He ducked through the fence at
the usual cut in the chain link, stepping into the ambulance
graveyard.

Ian had tried to count the busses at one time, but had given
up. He wandered through the rows, pausing from time to time,
running his eyes over the faded fenders, trying to imagine what
each of the busses had seen in their lives, trying to guess what
illness or injury had finally claimed them.

Stains littered the pavement: coolant, brake fluid, oil. A
pink puddle grew slowly grew beneath 006. Three busses over a
fresh graphiti tag gleamed on another bus's box. Ian considered it,
trying to decide what he felt about it as he walked over and
stood before it. Black spray had run down from the tag, dripping
over the stripes, into the HHC legend. Ian crossed his arms over
his chest.

When he looked up again the filtered light had started to
redden. He turned from the desecrated ambulance and started to walk
away, bending over suddenly to vomit, staggering over to a 006
to kneel before it and rest his head on its bumper. The cool
metal was comforting.

Breathe, he decided. In, out. In. And out. The heavy
twisting in his stomach slowly receded.

* * *Ian woke up with a stiff neck and stiff knees. He sat silently
for a few minutes before painfully rising and tracking back
through the lot to the cut in the fence. He slipped through,
found his car, and drove away.

GLOSSARY