Bugged by Ross
The Mad Hatter
Roy DeSoto, juggler of hats.
On any given day the hat Roy wore could change from one to another at the drop of a ha.. OK, you get the idea. <grin>
When I say hat, I mean that figuratively.
What I’m talking about are the hats that are, Roy DeSoto. Hats of the father, husband, firefighter, paramedic, peacekeeper, voice of reason, partner and best friend. All these and more, ready to wear no matter the need.
After almost six years, I’ve seen Roy’s many hats. He wears each with pride and honor.
I tip my hat to him.
Gage, The Ingrate
By: Vanessa Sgroi
“So, Roy, what’s for dinner tonight?” John Gage walked next to his paramedic partner, Roy DeSoto, heading for Rampart Hospital’s exit.
“Yeah, dinner. You were going to invite me, weren’t you?” He slapped a hand on Roy’s shoulder.
“Um . . . well, I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .”
“Ah, c’mon, you always invite me over when I’m injured.”
“Injured? You’re not injured.”
“Sure I am.” Johnny pointed to the small bandage on his forehead.
“That? That’s just a scratch.”
“Hey, I had to have three stitches to close that ‘scratch’!”
Rather than argue, Roy shrugged and said, “Okay, fine, you can come over.”
“So what’s for dinner?”
DeSoto sighed. His partner certainly had a one-track mind.
“Meatloaf?” Gage followed his exclamation with an exaggerated groan.
“What? What’s wrong with Joanne’s meatloaf?”
Johnny stopped walking, forcing Roy to do the same. “Between you and me, Pally, Joanne’s meatloaf is a little dry.”
“Sure. Haven’t you noticed me putting ketchup all over it?” The duo started for the exit once more.
“You put ketchup all over a lotta things,” the blond man pointed out.
Gage thought about that for a second. “Well, yeah, I guess I do. But her meatloaf is still dry.”
“I can’t believe you!”
“You invite yourself over to dinner and then you complain about what we’re having!”
“Complaining? I’m not complaining!”
“Then what do you call it? You said her meatloaf is DRY.”
“That’s not a complaint. I was just stating a fact.”
“Now, wait a minute—if you think Joanne’s meatloaf is that bad, then don’t come to dinner.”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
“You did too!”
“No, I said it was dry.”
At wits end, DeSoto rubbed his hands over his face and stopped at his driver’s side car door. “Listen—do you want to come to dinner or not?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then get in and let’s get going.”
DeSoto started his car and backed out of the parking space.
“So what’s she making to go with the meatloaf?”
“Scalloped Potatoes?” Gage followed his exclamation with an exaggerated groan.
“Oh, no, not again,” DeSoto muttered, wagging a finger at his partner, “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Hear what? All I was gonna say was . . .”
This time Roy’s groan was louder and longer than any recently emitted by John Roderick Gage.
* * * The End * * *
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