by E!lf

March 17, 1960

"Teacher's coming!"

Johnny Gage carefully lowered himself into his chair, then stood up on the surface of his desk, squatted down, slid down onto Billy McGee's desk, stepped off into Billy's chair and made the floor.  Reaching up the two nine-year-olds pulled Johnny's chair down, then lifted Johnny's desk from its perch atop Billy's and Mary's desks.  By the time the teacher opened the door and came in her class of fourth graders were all in their places, apparently reading quietly.

"I was the last king of the mountain," Johnny muttered out of the corner of his mouth.  Billy waited until the teacher looked away and stuck his tongue out by way of reply.

Mrs. Riley had returned to the room with a platter of decorated cupcakes.  She set it down on a table near her desk and turned to the room.

"All right, guys.  Who knows what today is?"

Johnny's hand shot up.

"Johnny?"

"A day we get to eat cupcakes?"

She laughed good-naturedly.  "Thank you, Johnny's stomach.  Would anyone else like to weigh in on the matter?  Billy?"

"It's St. Patrick's Day!"

"Very good!"  (Billy shot Johnny a smug look.)  "And who was Saint Patrick?  Do you know?"

"Um . . . a leprechaun?"

"Ah, not quite.  St. Patrick, class, is the patron saint of Ireland.  His feast day is the day that the people of Ireland celebrate their national history.  In America we associate today with Irish food and music, and also with Irish symbols.  Ireland is called the 'Emerald Isle' because the rich soil makes the grass there grow so green, so green is the color connected with both Ireland and St. Patrick's Day.  The Irish also traditionally believe in luck and superstitions, and green is supposed to be a lucky color.  People wear green today to show their affiliation with Ireland.  Do you know what happens to someone who's not wearing green on St. Patrick's Day?"

Billy reached over and pinched Johnny.

"YOWCH!"

The teacher gave him a small frown and he answered with an angelic smile.  "Johnny's not wearing green today!"

"Am so!"  Johnny reached into his shirt pocket and came up with a green ink pen.  "Ha!  So there!"

"You can't wear a pen!"

"Can so!"

"Can not!"

"Can so!"

"Stop." Mrs. Riley said in her teacher voice.  They stopped.

"So, as I was saying, St. Patrick's day is a time for luck, for wearing green, for celebrating Irish heritage and . . . anything else?"

"Eating cupcakes?" Johnny prompted hopefully.

"And eating cupcakes," she agreed.  "But . . . not until we take that math test we've all -- I hope -- been preparing for."

The class as a whole moaned in protest.

"Before we start, though, I'd like to direct all of your attention to the cupcake tray.  Notice the cupcake in the middle?"  The cupcake in the middle was a thing of beauty.  Considerably larger than the others, it was decorated in four leaf clovers.  The tiny figure of a leprechaun perched atop it and it sparkled with spun sugar.  Johnny's mouth watered just looking at it.  "This cupcake, class, is a prize for whoever gets the best score on the math test."

Johnny leaned over and whispered to Billy.  "I'm gonna win that cupcake!"

"How do you figure that?"

"Easy.  Luck of the Irish," Johnny answered, repeating a phrase he'd heard over and over all day.

"You ain't Irish!" Billy mocked.

He was right.  With high cheekbones, a ruddy complexion, deep brown eyes and a mop of coal black hair that seemed to grow as fast as his mother cut it and that would not stay tamed, Johnny was very definitely not Irish.  This did not put him off in the slightest, however.

"Don't gotta be Irish.  You just gotta use some of their luck.  I'm gonna use my lucky green pen."

"That ain't gonna work."

"Is so."

"Is not."

"Shush."  Mrs. Riley put their tests on their desks face down and gave them both a teacher look.

They shushed, waited for the signal and turned over their tests.

It wasn't until after the last recess that they found out who had won the cupcake.  One by one the teacher called them to come up to the desk and get their corrected tests and a cupcake.  When Johnny came up she not only handed him his test, but also the special cupcake.  "Class," she said, "Johnny Gage has won the cupcake.  He not only got the highest score, in fact he got 100%.  You did very well, Johnny.  I'm proud of you!"

Johnny went back to his desk carrying the cupcake and beaming.  "See?" he said to Billy.  "I told you it was a lucky green pen!"

March 17, 1966

"Ah, Megan, me lass.  Surely this is my lucky day!  Not only am I about to cover our school with glory in the track meet, but the prettiest girl in the whole class is sitting at the registration table!"

Red-haired, green-eyed Megan Callahan squinted up, the sun in her face, her expression less than impressed.  "Have you ever been to Ireland, John Gage?"

"Sadly, no.  I cannot claim to have had that pleasure."

"Are you sure?  Because you sure talk like someone who's kissed the Blarney Stone!"

"Blarney?  Me?"  Johnny Gage put his hand to his chest, fingers splayed dramatically.  "Never!  Every last word is absolute truth, Meg!"

"Uh huh.  Look, Johnny.  Did you come here to sign up for the four hundred yard dash or to hit on me?"

"Can't I do both?" he asked, giving her a crooked grin.  "Say, Megan, I was wondering . . . how'd you like to come to the spring dance with the fastest guy in southern California?"

Megan choked on laughter and Johnny felt his face darken.

"I was talking about the race," he growled.

"Oh, yeah.  Sure you were."  The pretty sophomore handed him a big red and white ink pen with a thick barrel and four buttons around the top.  "Tell you what, Gage.  You live up to your boasts and win that race for us today and I'll go with you to the dance on Friday.  How's that?"

Johnny took the pen, glanced at it and clicked the green button down with a grin.  "That's perfect!"  He signed his name to the race registration in green ink.  "This green pen is going to be just the luck I need."

Two hours later Johnny, dressed in running shorts and a tank top, his long, lean figure drenched in sweat, stopped by the table again.  He leaned over, resting an arm on the table so he could look Megan in the eye, and the gold medal still dangling from a ribbon around his neck clanked on the wood in front of her.

"Wear a green dress Friday, would you?"  he asked.  "It'll go with your eyes.  Besides, green's my lucky color."

March 17, 1972

'Ah, this is stupid,' John Gage thought to himself.  'They're never gonna let a bunch of firemen practice real medicine.'  But another tiny little voice in his head argued, 'and what if they do?'  This guy here, his name was DeSoto, had already explained how few qualified paramedics there were in Los Angeles County in the event that the program received the legislation it needed, and how thinly they would be stretched.  Right now there were only six of them.  If the program became operational, it would do so with only that half dozen men, plus whoever passed this second class.

Johnny had come to this place seeking only information -- information that he wasn't at all certain he would ever do anything with.  He hadn't intended to commit himself to anything.  But DeSoto was so passionate about it, so committed, and Johnny found himself getting excited by the idea as well.  DeSoto's vision touched on dreams that were dear to John Gage's own heart -- thoughts of all the people they could save and the good they could do.

Johnny pulled the registration paper over.  "Can I borrow your pen?"

"Sure!"  DeSoto pushed a clear cup full of ink pens towards him and Johnny reached in and pulled one out without looking.  He signed the registration and was surprised to see his name in green ink.

"Hey, a good omen!"  Johnny grinned.  "Green's my lucky color."  He reached to return the pen to the cup, but DeSoto stopped him.

"Keep it," he grinned himself, clearly delighted to have another convert.  "We can use all the luck we can get around here!"

March 17, 1975

"Heck of a time and place to have a flat tire!"  The early spring thunderstorm that had settled on the Los Angeles basin acted like it was set to stay awhile.  An artificial twilight darkened the city.  Johnny slowed his Land Rover, signaled and pulled up behind an ancient sedan that was parked on the side of the highway.  A trio of teenage girls stood next to it, peering down at their flat tire and looking helpless and pathetic.

Chet Kelly spoke up from the back seat, where he was wedged in among the fishing and camping gear.  "So, tell me, John.  Would you have been so quick to stop if they were teenage boys?"

"Ah, come on, Chet," Roy, as usual, was quick to defend his partner.  "Johnny's just being helpful.  You don't expect him to leave a bunch of kids stranded in a rainstorm, do you?"

"No.  No.  Just don't be too helpful, Gage.  Those girls look like jailbait to me."

"That thought," Johnny said loftily, "had never even considered crossing my mind."

Roy popped his door open and climbed out.  "Do me a favor, Junior?  Slide across and get out on this side.  That traffic makes me nervous."

"Yeah," Chet agreed.  "Rush hour traffic plus the fire department's biggest disaster magnet doesn't make for a very good combination."

Johnny scowled at him and scoffed under his breath, but did as Roy had asked.  Chet levered himself out of the back seat and followed and in just a few seconds they were approaching the trio of stranded females.

"Looks like you girls have a little problem," Johnny observed as they were surrounded by the three teenagers.  "But don't worry.  My friends and I are gonna help you out and make sure you get back on the road safe and sound."

The three girls were a typical sample of mid-seventies youth.  One was tall and thin with straight dark hair and big glasses and wore bell-bottoms, a long-sleeved blouse and a fringed vest.  The second was average height, a bit overweight and frumpy in too-tight jeans and a football jersey.  The third was a bouncy little blonde who wore her hair in ponytails and spoke around a wad of chewing gum.  She was dressed in a tiny mini-skirt and a tight, thin tee shirt, now sopping wet with the rain.  She was obviously without a bra and she pointed her ample boobs in their direction and giggled provocatively.

"Oh, look, girls!  Our luck's just changed!  A handsome dude for each of us!"

"Jailbait," Chet sing-songed quietly.  He had grabbed a couple of flares out of the back of Johnny's car and now he lit them and dropped one behind and one in front of the two vehicles.

Roy pulled a face, shrugged out of his lightweight jacket and draped it around the girl's shoulders, trying to lend her some illusion of decency.  "Here, you better wear this.  You look cold."  Johnny snickered quietly and shot his partner an amused look.

The tall, thin girl came up.  "Oh, thank you so much for stopping to help us!  Do you really think you can fix the tire?  My old man's gonna kill me!  I wasn't supposed to take his car!"

"Well," Johnny answered her, "I, uh, I . . . by the way, I didn't catch your names?"

"We didn't throw them," the chubby girl said nervously and laughed too loud.

"Oh, hush, Marcie!" the tall girl told her.  "I'm Shirley, this is Marcie and the blonde there is Raina."

"How do you do?" Johnny said politely.  He, in turn, introduced himself and his friends.  "My name is John Gage, this is my very good friend Roy DeSoto and that's Chester B. Kelly.  We let him tag after us because we feel sorry for him."

"Oh, ha ha!  Very funny, Gage!"

Raina giggled prettily and attached herself to Johnny's left arm.  His smile froze and he very carefully disentangled himself from her.  Roy took over the conversation.

"So, Shirley, wasn't it?  You say that this is your dad's car?  Well, do you know if there's a spare tire in the trunk?"

She used one finger to push her glasses up on her nose as she nodded excitedly.  "Oh, yes!  Yes, I think there is!  Only, we don't have one of those," she made pumping motions with her hands, "those liftie things you put under the car, you know?"

"A jack?" Roy asked, bemused.

"Oh, yes!  I think that's what you call it!"

"Well," Johnny said, "that's no problem.  I never go anywhere without a liftie thing.  I'll just go grab it."

"I'll get the spare out," Chet volunteered.

Roy considered, very briefly, the prospect of being left alone, even for a few seconds, with the trio of girls.  "I'll, uh, help Johnny."

The three teenagers flocked around Chet as he sent Shirley in through the passenger side door to get her keys so he could open the trunk and Roy followed Johnny back to the Land Rover.  When they were alone he leaned in close.

"Remind me to warn Christopher about girls like that!  And to have a good long talk with my daughter, too!"

Johnny snorted.  "I don't think you need to worry about your kids, Roy.  At least not until they hit grade school."

As they walked back to the girls' vehicle, both men were relieved to see a deputy pull in behind them.  He hit his lights, waited for an opening in traffic and climbed out to join them.

"Well, well!  You fellows are out of uniform!  You don't mean to tell me that the fire department lets you out of your cages once in a while, do you?"

"Once in a while.  Once in a while."  Johnny turned to the three girls.  "Ladies, allow me to introduce Deputy Vince Howard of the Sheriff's department."

The three girls, suddenly subdued, smiled sickly little smiles, waved at him and moved off towards the front of the sedan.  Chet dropped the spare beside the car and motioned to the other men as he knelt and started working on the lug nuts with a four-way.  "The inside of their car smells like pot.  Not too strong, but definitely there."

"Figures," Vince said.  "So what's wrong with the car?  Just a flat?"

"Yeah."

"All right.  While you fellows change it for them, I'm going to radio in for a couple of policewomen to come pick them up.  We'll have the car towed and call their folks to come get them.  I don't wanna give them a hard time, but I'm not gonna take a chance on them driving under the influence."

Vince moved away as Chet loosened the last lug nut.  Roy and Johnny put the jack in place and Roy started pumping the handle to raise the car.  He got it just high enough for the tire to clear the ground, then knelt there waiting while Johnny and Chet spun the tire, using the four-way to get the lug nuts the rest of the way off.

Shirley returned hesitantly.  "Where'd the cop go?"

"Oh, he just went back to his car," Roy answered easily.  "He's gonna stay there, keep the lights going to warn other traffic away from us."

"That's all?"

"Sure.  What else would he be doing?"  Roy was a lousy liar and Shirley went back to the front of the car, still uneasy.  The three firemen, working over the flat, could hear the girls' voices though they were nearly drowned out by the rain.

"Cop . . . ."

"Gonna get busted!"

"Aw, man!"  Raina burst out angrily.  "This is such a drag!"  Frustrated, she slammed her hand down on the bumper, then jumped up suddenly to sit on the hood.  The sudden jolt bounced the sedan off the jack.  Johnny and Chet jumped back just in time as the car fell where they'd been kneeling.  At the same time the jack handle flew up and caught Roy just above the Adam's apple.

Roy dropped without a sound, choking, both hands clutching at his throat.  Johnny was at his side in seconds, Chet pausing only long enough to wave frantically at Vince Howard.  The girls ran up just afterwards, providing a shot of instant hysteria that drowned out Johnny's voice and helped nothing.  Chet immediately took charge of them, herding them into the car and telling them to sit there and stay out of the way until he came back for them.

"Vince," Johnny was saying, "call for a squad and an ambulance!  Find out what their ETA is!  He's not getting any oxygen here."  Vince moved a short distance away to make the call and Johnny turned his full attention to Roy, lying on his back on the muddy roadside, still clutching his throat, eyes wide with panic.  "Let me see, Pally!  I know you're scared!  You're gonna have to move your hands and let me see!"

Fighting his own reflexes Roy lowered his hands and Johnny examined his already bruised throat.  "Crushed larynx," the younger paramedic decided, "and the swelling is cutting it off the rest of the way."  Roy's struggles subsided as he lapsed into unconsciousness.  His lips and fingernails were turning blue from lack of oxygen.  "Vince!  What's the ETA on that squad?"

Vince ran back up to them, face grave.  "All the squads in this area are out at a multiple MVA on the 405 right now.  ETA on the closest squad is thirty-five minutes.  Ambulance will be here in ten to fifteen."

"Thirty-five minutes?" Johnny echoed in horror.  "He's not getting any oxygen!  Vince, he'll be dead in thirty-five minutes!"

"Put him in the back of my car," the deputy said.  "We can have him at Rampart in eight or nine minutes."

"It's too long," Johnny said.  "It's still too long.  After four minutes we're looking at brain damage.  Can you get me through to Rampart?"

While Vince moved to comply Chet leaned in.  "What are you going to do, Gage?"

"The only thing I can do.  Grab the alcohol out of the first aid kit.  We'll need to sterilize a few things.  Then grab a tarp and try to hold it up to keep this rain off of him."

Chet ran off to do his bidding and Johnny squeezed his best friend's shoulder, then reached into his pocket.  "Luck of the Irish," he muttered, "don't fail me now!"

#-#-#-#-

"I gotta admit," Chet said, "I was really scared there!"

"Scared!"  Johnny snorted derisively.  "Look at Roy!  He wasn't scared!" 

"Yeah, I know.  He was unconscious."

"Yeah!  And do you know why he was able to relax and go to sleep under the circumstances?"

"Lack of oxygen?" Chet asked sarcastically.  Johnny gave him an irritated look, mouth drawn tight, the corners turned down.

"He was able to relax and go to sleep," he asserted, "because he knew that I'd never let anything happen to my partner.  That's why!"

Roy, lying in a hospital bed with his throat bandaged and a ventilator pushing air through a clear plastic trachea tube for him, could only smile quietly and listen to their bickering.  There was a pad of paper and an ink pen lying beside his right hand and he fumbled for it now.  The machinery he was hooked to afforded him only limited motion and he wrote blindly, his penmanship even worse than usual.  Johnny picked up the pad and read from it.

"Why not dead?"

Dr. Brackett, standing at the end of the bed with his hands in his coat pockets, grinned at his star paramedic.  "No one's told you what happened yet?"  Roy shook his head as much as the equipment would allow.  "You're not dead," Brackett said, "because you have a very inventive partner here.  Johnny performed an emergency tracheotomy right there on the side of the highway."

Roy motioned with the pen he was holding and Johnny returned the pad to his side.  He scrawled, no gear?

"No medical gear," Johnny agreed.  "I used my pocketknife for a scalpel and for a trachea tube," he reached into his shirt pocket and took out his lucky green pen, newly cleaned and re-assembled.  He laid it on his partner's chest.  Roy picked it up and studied it with wonder in his eyes.

"See?" Chet said.  "Now he's scared."

"No reason to be scared," Johnny said easily.  "I had the luck of the Irish on my side."

"Well," Chet puffed up a little, "I suppose it's a good thing I was there, then."

"Oh?  Why's that?"

Chet glared at him.  "Because I'm Irish!  I mean, okay, maybe Roy's a little Irish.  But I'm the one who's really Irish."

"Oh," Johnny considered this.  "Yeah, I guess you are.  I didn't mean your luck of the Irish, though.  I meant my luck of the Irish."

"Gage!" Chet Kelly exploded.  "You're not Irish!  You're not even slightly Irish!"

"I know."  Johnny shrugged.  "It doesn't matter.  You don't gotta be Irish.  You just gotta use some of their luck.  I'm just glad I had my green pen handy.  'Cause, Roy, a best friend like you is better than a giant cupcake any day.  Even with a spun sugar leprechaun on top!"

Chet reached over and pulled the note pad away from Roy's side.  "Roy," he said, "do me a favor and don't ask until after I leave.  Because I really, really don't want to know!"

The End.

*Click above to send E!lf feedback

Stories by E!lf          Guest Dispatchers