Rotten day

 By Marty P.

Thursday began much the same as any other workday.  It was after I got out of bed that everything went downhill.  I didn’t oversleep but it was the little things, like neglecting to plug in the iron, finding only my left shoe and tracking down my rent check that delayed me.

I walked through the door at work two minutes early.  “You’re late.”  My boss, Mr. Houston, announced first looking at the wall clock and then his watch.

“Mr. Houston, you always set your timepieces five minutes fast.  I can call time and temperature so they can be correct for you.”  I offered, moving toward the phone.

He grunted, “Where’s my coffee?”  He drank that beverage almost as often as he breathed.  One of these days I expected his skin to darken because of all the caffeinated mud that went through his system.  But, he refused to learn how to make java.  The longer he went without, the surlier he became. 

“Sir, I’d be happy to show you how to make it.  It’s three scoops of Maxwell Hou-“

“Fix it,” he blustered.  The door between our connecting offices slammed and I heard him on the phone.

I’d been hired as an executive assistant, a misnomer for a receptionist/travel agent/waitress/housekeeper.  Whenever I reminded dear Mr. Houston of the difference, he cut me cold.

I addressed the percolator, conjuring up a method to keep it ever full, ever hot.  I’d make a fortune if I succeeded.  Five minutes later, he cracked the door, “Isn’t that ready yet?”

“Yes, Mr. Houston.”  I picked up my steno pad as I ventured into his domain.  After placing his cup on the desk, I settled in the straight chair in the corner of the room.  He fired the contents of letters at me for the next forty-five minutes.  When his dictation ended I dashed from the room before he created any other work for the next several hours.

As I was typing up the envelopes, I rolled back on my desk chair and a wheel rocketed off plunging my knee into the corner of my desk.  The nerves in my patella jangled into overdrive and my face warped with pain.

It was then Mr. Houston bellowed,  “HESTER!” 

With a gait favoring my right leg, I responded to my employer’s beckoning.  “Yes?” 

“Aren’t you done with that correspondence yet?”  My taskmaster concealed his crossword puzzle and scowled at me.

I attempted to stand upright but the intense tingling threatened to topple me over.  “Almost, I had a setback.”

“What now?  Run outta stamps?”  He slapped his empty cup in front of me.

“Could I take my lunch early?  I whacked my knee and can’t concentrate.”  I grimaced as I reached for the beaker.

He noted the hour, “10:45?  Next thing you’ll wanna say the day should end at 2:00.” 

I considered discussing the matter with him but I knew by now it would be like arguing with a mirror.  I gimped back to finish the job, exasperated at the lack of sympathy from my overseer.  At last, the pain dissipated and I could concentrate on work again.

The day improved after my slave driver went to a meeting across town.  Well, except for the ketchup I spilled on my white blouse spicing up my bologna sandwich.  It was fruitless to leave the office to correct the matter or give my still throbbing knee a break.  My supervisor always had a habit of returning before closing time so I couldn’t slip away.

The afternoon continued on a positive note until I stepped into the ladies’ room.  Perhaps I should say, until I got ready to step out of the ladies’ room.  I grabbed a paper towel and it fluttered to the ground.  Stooping down to get it, my injured leg groused and I lurched forward, my skull making contact with the bottom of the dispenser.  I squashed my fingers onto my head to discover blood trickling from the source.   The flow stemmed after I applied some cold water and paper towels.  Now I added a dull headache to my other soreness.

Quitting time!   I hustled out of the office faster than a bee escaping a bonnet!    As I journeyed home visions of milk and bread wafted through my head.  If I didn’t purchase them, I’d be lecturing myself tomorrow.  When Albertson’s grocery store came into sight, I dropped in.  After garnering a cart, I scurried down the aisle, muttering to myself that the milk was always in the back of the store.

The dairy case was in sight when I spied the mountain of toilet tissue.  Mr. Whipple would’ve been proud of the display at this establishment.  I glanced at the price:  $.29 for a four-pack of two-ply.  Not bad.  Call me crazy but I was drawn to the unit forming the uppermost crag.  Perhaps it was the culmination of the entire day but I felt driven to reach the summit.  I stretched to my maximum height and was just inches from my goal.  A slight leap would handle the situation.  Counting mentally to myself I prepared for the task.  One, two, three, GO!

Got it!  The emotions of an Olympic athlete overcame me and so did the entire formation of paper products.  Avalanche!   Faster than I could avoid the trajectories, I was pelted.  My left arm slammed into the cart, and off balance, I landed on my back.  I was stunned and soon buried in a white cocoon.

Someone was saying something, “Don’t move.  We’ll have you out of there real soon.”

I reached up to scratch my nose, only to discover I was pinned, or confined, by a sea of ivory bundles.  There was shifting around me, and then a face appeared.  He took his helmet off as he crouched over me, revealing his dark head of hair.  An independent tuft enticed me to pat it down but moving my left arm caused me to cry out in pain.  For a second, he looked worried but a calm demeanor quickly replaced it.  “Hold still while we check you over.”  My peripheral vision caught sight of another shirt, the same shade of blue as his. 

His dark eyes swam in front of me as he reached to palpate my head.  His fingers met the bump I’d attained earlier in the day and he studied my scalp.  “This isn’t new, is it?” 

“No, it’s been quite a day and not my all-time favorite either.”  I rolled my eyes toward the stack of toilet tissue, now surrounding me.

“I’m sorry; I should’ve introduced myself.  I’m Johnny Gage, a paramedic with the Los Angeles County Fire Department.  My partner’s name is Roy DeSoto.”   A man with sandy colored hair came into view.

“And you are?”  John had my wrist in his hand now.

I blinked as he put his hand on my diaphragm.  “Hester, Hester Stengle.” 

“Could you tell me your age?”  I heard the tearing of Velcro as he fastened a cuff around my arm.

The man identified as Roy was bandaging my left arm and applying a splint.  He worked deliberately but with great care.

“23,” I replied as he pulled the stethoscope out of his ears. 

A smile lit his face, it was a tad crooked, but touched my heart, “I only have ya beat by a few years then.”

He continued his assessment and all seemed well until his palms reached my right knee.  A cringe clung to my face.  He lifted my mid-thigh skirt to reveal the joint.  “Roy, judging by the bruising I’d say this happened several hours ago.”  I raised my head to peer at it.  Much to my surprise, it was swollen and colorful.  Johnny leapt to my shoulders. “Hester, it’s important that you stay still right now.”

He was hiding something from me.  “Why’s that?”   

“You could injure yourself further.”  Convinced that I understood, he patted me on the arm and proceeded with his examination.

“Just what I need,” I mumbled.  My conversation with myself was interrupted when I heard Roy speaking.

He clicked an orange box on, “Rampart, this is County 51.”

Go ahead, 51.  Sounded like someone in authority to me.

“We have a 23-year-old female, trapped for a short time, with a broken left arm, which has been splinted.  She also has a contusion on head and an injured right knee.  Both occurred earlier in the day.  Vitals are:  BP 108/76, pulse is 112 and respirations are 20.”

51, start an IV with NS TKO.  Continue monitoring vitals and transport as soon as possible.

Sounded like a bunch of gibberish to me.  It made sense to them but I was taken aback when Johnny came toward me with items in wrappers.  “Is this really necessary?”

He tied a piece of rubber around my upper arm before answering, “It’s a precaution.” 

“Can I refuse?”  By now he’d swabbed the area around my elbow and held a needle in his right hand.

He paused, “Yes, Hester.  You could but I wouldn’t recommend it.”  Without further ado, he inserted the needle into my arm and attached tubing to it.  After taping everything into place, he gave me a soft grin, “Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“I guess not.”  Before I could add anything else, there was movement nearby and men dressed in white appeared with a stretcher. 

“I’ll go in with her, Roy.”    I was in midair when Johnny explained, “We’re gonna get you settled and then deliver you to the hospital.” 

I didn’t know how to say it but I appreciated him taking the time to tell me what was going on.  I was out of my normal realm of experience and it suddenly struck me that I was scared.  He must’ve noticed my face as he tightened a belt across the blanket.  “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

I relaxed as the ambulance took off, though the siren was disconcerting.   Johnny hovered over me, reaching for my wrist.  “We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

After he’d accomplished his tasks, he perched on the bench near me.  “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a…an executive assistant in an office.”

“Must be dangerous work,” his eyes flitted from my head to my knee.

“Well, I cracked my knee on the desk due to faulty office equipment and,” I lifted my right hand toward my scalp until his hand shot out, stilling my motion,  “this happened later when I bumped into something.” 

He tucked my errant limb back under the blanket.  “Sounds like you had it kinda rough today.”

“Yeah, and I bet you don’t rescue people buried in toilet tissue very often.”  A smirk grew on my face.

His face reflected my amusement.   “No, you’re the first.” 

The ambulance jostled me and then came to a halt.  Johnny stayed by my head as I was rolled out.  A nurse, who directed us to a treatment room, met him in the hallway.

They transferred me to a table and Johnny hung up the IV bag on a pole nearby.  The door swung open and a doctor entered.  He and the paramedic exchanged greetings and Johnny filled him in on my condition.  “Need me anymore, Dr. Brackett?” 

“No, Johnny.  Go ahead.”

Before he left, his head came close to mine, “I’d like to see you again, Hester.”

“You, you would?”

He squeezed my hand, and then waved as he exited.  Maybe it hadn’t been such a rotten day after all.

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