Emergency! - The First Season Titles
[The place is L.A. County, California. The year is 1976. Itís been nearly four years since the Wedsworth-Townsend Act was signed into law, allowing properly trained firefighters to operate as paramedics.]
L.A. County Fire Station 51ís crew walked wearily--and wordlessly--into the Day Room.
The Stationís mascot, an obese basset hound named Henry, almost raised his head and greeted them with a few half-hearted wags of his tail.
Four of the six men headed for the chairs in the rec area, the other two for the kitchen.
Chet Kelly pulled a cupboard door open and took a family-sized can of Vegetable Beef soup from the lazy susan.
"Donít feed us that!" Mike Stoker pleaded.
"Why? Whatís wrong with soup?" Kelly queried.
"The canís all bent out of shape. You should never open damaged cans. They could contain the botulism toxin."
Chet tossed the damaged can goods into the garbage. "Gee...Maybe I should set the table and YOU should take the Cookís Tour?"he pouted.
"Not a chance," Stoker quickly came back, with a grin.
"Thatís the fourth brushfire weíve been called out to assist on, today," Marco Lopez lamented.
"Yeah," Roy DeSoto quietly commented, "And, I wish theyíd quit dealiní us in."
"Thatís not too likely," their commander, Captain Hank Stanley, joined in, "According to the latest weather report, these Santa Anas will be with us through the weekend. Not only will we continue to be called on, it looks like itís gonna be Ďdealerís wildí. At least, for awhile, anyways..." he added, seeing the frowns on his mensí faces.
"On a lighter note," Kelly called out from the kitchen, "Pete Henschel is throwing a sort of Ďbon voyageí beach party for his kid sister Saturday. Heís invited the entire Department. You goiní, Gage?"
"Depends," John Gage thoughtfully replied.
"Depends? Depends on what?" Kelly wondered. "I mean, itís not like your social calendar is booked solid, or anything..."he taunted.
The guys exchanged grins.
Gage gave his taunter an annoyed glare, "On whether itís an all guy party, or if thereís gonna be any girls...besides Peteís sister."
"Pete also extended his invitation to the entire staff at Rampart. He claims most everyone plans on coming," Kelly further informed him.
Johnís face lit up. "That means thereís gonna be nurses. Wild! Count me in! My car or yours?"
"Yours," Chet quickly determined. "I got the place and time. The least you can do is supply the gas."
"Fair enough," Gage agreed. "Speakiní of supplyiní things. Are we supposed to bring anything? Yah know...food...drinks..."
"I donít know. But, thatís a good question. Maybe you call over to 8ís and ask him," Kelly suggested.
John got stiffly to his feet and strolled over to phone. He pulled a slip of paper from his wallet and then placed his call. "Hi. This is John Gage over at 51ís. Is Pete Henschel around?...Thanks..." There followed several seconds of silence. Well, except for the nervous drumming of the firefighterís fingers on the door frame. "Hi....Well, Iím calling about your party Saturday....No, no, I didnít see it on the Bulletin Board...Nope. Didnít read it in the newsletter, either...You didnít! Man, youíre a regular publicity hound!...Oh. Chet told me about it...Yeah...Look, we were wondering if weíre supposed to bring anything...Oh yeah?...Man! Thatís weird...Wednesday is out of the ques--" he stopped speaking, as the Stationís alarm suddenly sounded.
"Station 51..."the dispatcher began.
"Uhhhh..." John stammered into the phoneís mouthpiece.
"Hang up," his Captain advised, upon seeing his dilemma.
Gage did. Then, he went barreling around the back of the Squad and collided into its passengerís door with a resounding Ďcrashí!
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