By Ross
Roy DeSoto heard the alarming sound of squealing brakes and tires and snapped his helmeted head around just in time to watch an 'inattentive driver' plow into the mangled vehicle his partner was currently working in.
Of course, that's not how the fireman referred to the jerk on the scene. That's just what the paramedic would later put down on his written report of the 'unfortunate incident'.
Los Angeles County's Fire Station 51 had responded to a 'vehicle accident with injuries' at the intersection of Howe and Pruitt.
The dispatcher's antiseptic description of the call did not prepare the rescuers for the gruesome site that greeted them upon their arrival.
Two cars, of unrecognizable make and model, had collided in the center of the busy intersection and then four more vehicles had proceeded to plow into them.
Over the sound of creaking metal, and steam escaping from leaking radiators, the firemen could hear muffled moaning and groaning.
Half of 51's engine crew began popping crumpled car hoods and disconnecting battery cables.
The other half went to work hosing down fuel spills.
The paramedics set their heavy equipment cases down in the street and started 'triaging' their accident victims.
Johnny had deposited his helmet on the roof of one of the crushed cars and then gained access to its groaning occupant by crawling in through its shattered windshield.
He'd heard the ominous 'squealing', too. In fact, it was the last sound he heard—before the sudden impact spun the vehicle he was in violently around, causing his un-helmeted head to come into forceful contact with a steel doorpost.
The next thing the groggy rescuer knew, he was lying stretched out on the pavement and somebody was shining a bright light in his eyes. "Ohhh-ohhh…"
"Welcome back," a vaguely familiar voice greeted him. "What's your name?"
Gage actually considered answering the ridiculous question—for an instant. But then the infernal pounding in the right side of his head took precedence. "Ow-ow…"
"Okay then. What's my name?"
"Ro-oy?"
"You asking me? Or telling me?"
"Roy," the prone paramedic replied, with a tad more confidence. "Can I get up now?" he pitifully inquired, and attempted to rise.
"Not until you can tell me what MICU stands for."
"Am I what?" John dazedly demanded and was immediately shoved back down onto his bright yellow drop sheet.
Chet Kelly retrieved his dropped reel line and returned to his task. "Roy wins Round One—by a unanimous decision?" he queried, and shot his crewmates a questioning glance.
The guys grinned and nodded.
A few seconds later…
Gage's groggy head suddenly rolled in DeSoto's direction and then raised up off the pavement. "Man! It's Certainly Unusual?"
His partner, who was now on their Bio-phone, waiting for a reply from Rampart, pursed his lips and simply shook his head.
Gage emitted an exasperated gasp and obediently settled back onto his drop sheet bed.
Mike Stoker glanced up from his engine gauges. "Round Two definitely goes to DeSoto, too," he determined aloud.
Marco Lopez directed his hose's stream under another leaking gas tank. "Maybe," he admitted. "But Gage should at least score a couple a' points for originality." He and his shiftmates swapped smiles.
Five foggy, groggy minutes later…
The prone paramedic's glum expression suddenly brightened and he propped himself up on his elbows. "Mobile Intensive Care Unit!" he loudly—and quite proudly—exclaimed.
Almost as if they'd been 'summoned', both of 36's paramedics suddenly appeared at his sides.
"No. No. You don't understand," Johnny protested, as he was promptly shoved back down—again. "My partner said that, if I could tell him what MICU stands for, I could get up."
"I see-ee," one of his colleagues pensively stated. "I don't know how to tell you this, Gage, but…your partner lied."
John's bottom jaw fell open and all the 'fight' went right out of him.
Roy flashed his frowning friend a bashful grin and his shoulders arched upward, in an innocent shrug. "What can I say? It was the only way I could think of, to get you to hold that 'hard' head of yours still for me."
It was a damn good excuse for the deception.
But his betrayed partner apparently remained slightly peeved with him. "Oh yeah? Well, I'd rather be hard headed, than hard nosed."
51's Captain overheard the exchange and traded grins with his engine crew. "John should prob'ly score a couple a' points for that crack, too."
"Yeah," Chet Kelly concurred. "But Roy still wins the match."
The guys' grins broadened.
'We all do,' Hank Stanley silently—and rather relievedly—realized. "We all do," the Captain repeated, speaking just beneath his breath.
*Click above to send Ross feedback
Guest Dispatchers Stories by Ross
