Jim was thirty-six years old. Tall, thin, and lanky, he filled out the Southern Medical Services summer uniform of dark blue slacks and a light blue polo shirt reasonably well. He was considered a veteran medic at his seniority level and, though he had certainly not seen it all in his fifteen years, he had seen a lot of it. Working at SMS was, for many paramedics and EMTs, a springboard to higher paying jobs at one of the local fire departments, but, unfortunately, family genetics had cursed him with a case of stubborn, early onset hypertension that required a regimen of three separate medications to keep under control. And, since heart disease and cerebral vascular disease were both considered presumptive work-related maladies for firefighters under the civil service rules, and since hypertension was a huge risk factor for both of those diseases, no fire department wanted to have anything to do with hiring Jim. Of course, they never came out and said that was the reason they weren’t hiring him—oh no, that would be a violation of several anti-discrimination statutes—but it just seemed like he never placed very high on any of the lists once his preliminary medical report was taken.
He had given up even trying for a fire department job several years ago, tired of the frustration. Instead, he settled himself into SMS and, as a result, he felt himself to be in a bit of a rut these days. He loved being a paramedic, but he was now maxed out on seniority raises and there was really no room for advancement within the company itself. His was not an uncommon story among the ranks of private paramedics and EMTs.
“West-Co Medic Six,” his portable radio suddenly blurted. “Priority traffic.”
“Goddamn it!” Jim barked in frustration. Priority traffic could only mean they had another call for him and Carla, his EMT, who was currently inside the ER talking to the crew of the Pasadena Fire Department ambulance parked next to them, undoubtedly trying to coax one (or both) of them into a little hose coupling drill after her shift was over.
He pulled the portable radio from his belt holder and keyed it up. “West-Co Six,” he said, not bothering to hide the pissed-off tone in his voice. “Go ahead.” He lifted up his tag so he could write the latest call information on the log sheet taped to the front of the clipboard.
But they were not getting another call. “West-Co Six,” the dispatcher said. “We’re placing you out of service for a special assignment. Landline the West-Co supervisor for details.”
Special assignment? What the hell? This was certainly not a routine occurrence at SMS, where the philosophy was to have as few crews as possible running as many calls as possible at all times. He thought about asking the dispatcher for more details and then quickly reconsidered. She probably did not know anything anyway. He keyed up again. “West-Co Six copies we’re out of service. Will landline the sup.”
He thought about finishing his tag first, but curiosity got the better of him. He put the portable radio back in its holder and then, clipboard in hand, walked into the ambulance entrance of the hospital. He saw that Carla—a hot brunette with large, jiggling boobs and full, sensuous lips (called DSLs by the many firefighters who had experienced her skill with them)—was indeed chatting up the Pasadena crew, making all sorts of hair-twirling, eyelash batting, giggling signals of mating readiness toward them. She did not even notice his entrance. He walked over to an empty portion of the nurse’s station and picked up one of the phones there. He dialed nine, listened for a dial tone, and then dialed up the supervisor’s office number.
“Southern Medical Services, West Covina,” a male voice chirped. It was Steve Marx, a twenty-five-year-old ass-kissing up and comer who was padding his resume in the supervisor position under the assumption it would help him land a position with LAFD.
“Hey, Steve. Jim Ramos. Dispatch told us we’re out of service for a special assignment or something?”
“That’s correct,” Marx said and then, infuriatingly, said no more.
“So ... you gonna tell me what this special assignment is all about?” Jim asked him, fighting to keep his voice even.
“Oh ... right,” Marx said with a little laugh. “I guess you do need to know that, right?”
“Right,” Jim agreed, shaking his head a little. His suspicion that Marx might have a bit of a difficult time passing the general knowledge test for the LAFD occurred to him, not for the first time.
“Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when you ran that call on Matt Tisdale?” Marx asked.
“Uh ... yeah,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “I do seem to recall that call.” Do I remember running a call on Matt fucking Tisdale? Yes, he remembered it well. Tisdale and his band—who were supposed to be releasing their latest CD early next week—had been rehearsing for their upcoming tour at a warehouse over on the west side of the city when Matt had an episode of SVT and got short of breath and hypotensive. One of the band members called 911 and Jim and Carla had gotten the call, along with Engine 4 of the West Covina Fire Department. The engine arrived first, but it was not a paramedic engine, so they had been able to do nothing but confirm that Tisdale’s heart had been beating at 240 beats a minute and his blood pressure was 86/38. The guitar player looked like absolute shit when Jim first assessed him and told Jim that this had happened to him before and that Jim should ‘just light me the fuck up if you need to’. Jim determined that he needed to, but that Matt was not so unstable that he couldn’t start an IV and give him a little Versed for sedation and amnesia first. He did that, cardioverted the guitarist successfully after only one shock, and then transported him with lights and sirens to West Covina Medical Center. Since Jim was an Intemperance fan—and he kind of liked what Tisdale had done on his last CD—the call was a brightly glowing orb in an otherwise drab last few years of his life. Almost as cool as Ted Duncan, who worked over in the Pomona Division, playing drums for Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez. But what did Matt Tisdale have to do with the special assignment he was getting now?
Marx told him what it had to do with it. “Tisdale wants you to go back over to his warehouse so he can thank you for what you did.”
“Go back to the warehouse?” Jim asked. “You mean right now?”
“Right now,” Marx said. “As soon as you can get there.”
Jim raised his eyebrows. “You’re taking us out of service for this?” he asked in disbelief. SMS management did not like for units to go out of service. When they were out of service, they could not make the company any money. Everyone knew the story of when Julie Streng’s mother had died unexpectedly one winter night and the on-duty supervisor had tried to get her to work out the rest of her shift because: “it’s not like there’s anything you can do about it now, is there? And it’s really hard to get a replacement medic to come in for only half a shift.”
“That’s right,” Marx said. “This came from Bruce Graham himself.”
“No shit?” Jim said, whistling appreciably. Bruce Graham was the big guy, the CEO of SMS’s southern California operations from the Mexico border all way to Kern County. Jim had seen him in a mandatory meeting once a few years ago, spouting the company line, but other than that, he was nothing but a creature of legend.
“No shit,” Marx said, his voice almost awed. “He called me up not ten minutes ago and told me to take you out of service and send you over there. He said to keep you out as long as necessary and for this division to cooperate with Tisdale in any way possible. I’ve already let dispatch know what’s going on. I want you to drop whatever you’re doing and head over there now. Do you remember where it’s at?”