It’s peak season here at the lake – a hundred in the shade, breeze like a sadist hair-dryer, speedboats stirring up alga scuzz. Weekends like this, the whole town’s packed with Utah runaways getting high like only Mormons can, making it the busiest test-market I’ve worked so far, and I seen a few. As one of Arizona’s top domestic violence/sports accident nexuses, Havasu’s ideal to trial a project like this.
"Hi there, I’m Kylie, Angel Operator, at your service." That’s what I say to the tragedies when they come in. Which may sound dumb seeing as they can’t hear me, but you’re getting intimate with someone, you introduce yourself at least, is my thinking.
The software’s called Sweet Parting. According to Threshold, it’s "inspired by the William Shakespeare quotation parting is such sweet sorrow." Some of us Angel operators think it’s classy but the encrypted chat-room consensus is, it’s lame. Some of us came up with our own: My Way, Over and Out, Je Ne Regrette, Die Nice, I’ll Pass.
Anyway, it turns out the local death rate’s so high I’ve barely switched the machine off since I got here four weeks ago: murders, boat smashes, cooking explosions, car wrecks, drugs-and-alcohol offences, pervert auto-asphyxiations, you name it. And suicides up the ass. Had one come in last night, a bleach-swallower, sweet sixteen, with eyes all big and dark and shit-scared till the Angel worked its magic. No way, I thought. There’s still such a thing as bleach?
A primitive, the sexy new doc on the ICU called her. But truth is, she could’ve been me a decade or so back, before I quit Kentucky and straightened out.
When I sent the kid’s report in to the Operator Feedback Division, I flagged up the exit shot, told them Threshold should use it in the promotional material when they launch, cuz bleach or no bleach, she went out with the best smile I’ve seen all year.
Her final wish? A ten-inch butterfly tramp-stamp, one wing either side of the coccyx. I kid you not.
Anyway according to the grapevine that we Angel operators aren’t supposed to even have, except we do, they’re designing the next generation before we’ve even fixed the glitches in this one. The jury’s out on what that means. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have a job at all, with my history. In fact I think I speak for all of us in your employ, O mighty Threshold Care Corporation, when I say us Angel operators would go just about anywhere you choose to send us. Wouldn’t suit anyone with a family and ties, but the pay’s sweet, and you get to see places you’d never go otherwise: I’ve lived in Woonsocket, Rhode Island; Paragould, Arkansas; Black Diamond, Washington; Bismarck, North Dakota. And now hello, Lake Havasu City.
I drive over the original London Bridge every day on my way to the hospital. It must’ve been quite a landmark when the millionaire dude imported it stone by stone from Ye Olde England to make a tourist feature, but now it’s just part of the general shitscape: highway, hotel complexes, Walgreen’s, and – which is where I’m headed – Starbucks. I’m a creature of habit. I stop, buy one, and drink it in the car. Ew, yeah.
I roll into the ICU and fire up the Angel, and see the sexy new doc’s there again, the one that called the bleach-swallower a primitive.
"Hi Medicine Man."
"Hi Kylie. Call me Angus."
He’s early twenties, but I’m in good shape, so I’m on his radar. Hmm. Dr Angus van der Kamp. Sounds like a bull.
"How’s it hanging today, Angus?" He can rampage me any time.
"It’s hanging good thanks Kylie. We’ve got an ambulance due in fifteen. Car smash on the highway, oncoming truck driver DOA, two Angel candidates."
"Cool. I like the challenge of multiples."
He smiles. "Funny you should say that. I do too. I appreciate that extra layer of decision-making."
Twenty minutes later I’ve hooked both tragedies into the system, an old man and a teenage girl, a family combo. The junior cop who came in with the ambulance must be a newbie, cuz she can’t stop staring at the messed-up leaking bodies.
"It used to get to me too once upon a time. But not any more," I tell her. "Hasn’t for the last three postings. Can’t afford it, mental-health-wise. You get jaded instead, is what happens. These two’ll get a good send-off I promise. They’ll leave this world happy. Off you go kid, we got work to do."
When the door’s swung behind her, Medicine Man shoots me a look. "We’re not supposed to discuss it."
"I didn’t say anything," I say, adjusting the old man’s head-mesh.
He face-shrugs. "Be careful, is all."
"I worked obstetrics once," I tell him as we prep up. "Loved it. You know, when you see them born, covered in blood and that white waxy shit and all, wriggling and then screaming and your heart goes yeah, yeah, yeah, you know? Life."
He smiles. "Sure. I been there too. Nothing like it."
"When I joined Threshold, I expected the same kind of kick. I mean, departure shouldn’t be that different from arrival. Not if it’s done right. Big spiritual moment, right?"
His eyebrows go up. "But?"
"Doesn’t happen. When I get into their cognitive system, you can see it’s not working how it should. I’m not the only one that thinks that. So operating the machine’s a bittersweet experience, is what I’m saying."
"You seemed happy enough with the kid last night, how that went."
"The one you called a primitive? I was and I wasn’t. I mean, she smiled nice when she got her ass-tattoo. But there’s more to a good death than a smile, right? You have to look at what the Angel’s promising here, then figure out if it’s delivering."
"Isn’t that why Threshold’s trialling it?"
"Sure. I’m just saying, they haven’t thought it through."
He looks at me sharp. "Kylie. Be careful. You can trust me – but you can’t trust everyone."
"Confidentiality pledge doesn’t say you can’t discuss philosophy with colleagues."
He thinks for a minute, then grins back at me. "She wants philosophy, huh. OK. You know what this reminds me of?" he cocks his head at the tragedies.
"No, what?"
"The one that goes: I’d like to die peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror like his passengers."
I’m not expecting it: I laugh so hard I spit my coffee back into the cup.
I’m still chuckling as I calibrate the Angel to my pulse, put on the helmet and dock in.
"Hi there, Kylie Wells, Angel Operator, at your service." The old geezer on the slab goes by the name of Jerry according to his ankle-tag. "So where have you mentally transported yourself to, my senior friend?" He’s well into shut-down but I have a knack with cognitive pathways, so I’m in real quick. It takes a moment to adjust to his mind’s eye cuz he’s clearly been drinking but when I do, the image is clear.
We’re entering a casino, name of Treasure Island. Las Vegas, I’m guessing. It’s a popular destination. Symbolic in some way I guess. The lottery of life and yada yada.
He loiters a bit near the entrance, taking in the ambience: the ventilated spice atmospheric, the horizon of heads, the clack of chips, the jewelled fingers, the beer-guts, the leathery cleavage-cracks. He’s feeling a hell of a lot younger than he really is. The old folk tend to. It’s a self-perception slash vanity thing.