“The Imperfect Storm”

By Ross

LA County Firefighter, John Gage, listened as the dispatcher sent another squad out on another response. The paramedic paused, right in mid-polish, and turned to his partner. “Did you hear that? That’s the second run 45s been on—in less than an hour! Every squad is busy—but us!”

Roy DeSoto gave their squad’s windshield another squirt of Windex and smiled at his friend’s strange vexation.

Johnny was the original adrenaline junky. Gage’s mind and body were both geared for action.

So DeSoto wasn’t surprised that his partner despised inactivity. “Relax!” he advised his bored buddy. “And just enjoy the break. I’m positive things’ll pick up. This is just what THEY call ‘The lull before the storm’. Before yah know it, we’ll have more excitement than we can handle.”

His antsy associate shot him an appreciative glance…and then went back to his polishing.

Five minutes later, DeSoto lowered his Windex bottle and stepped back to admire the Squad’s glistening glass surfaces. He smiled approvingly and then turned to his partner—who was still polishing the same side panel. “Johnny?”

Gage ignored him. He was too busy listening to the monitor chatter.

“Johnny!”

John jerked, startled. “Huh? Wha-at?”

Roy motioned to the highly polished panel. “You should probably leave a little paint for the other shifts,” he teased.

Again, Gage ignored him. “I just realized…that I am actually standing here…waiting for something bad to happen to somebody…so I can go out and rescue them. That’s sort a’…demented. Isn’t it?”

DeSoto fought back a smile. He never ceased to marvel at some of the things his partner’s bored brain could come up with. “Yeah…we-ell…It’s all in the way you look at it. I figure something bad is bound to happen to a few people everyday. We’re just waiting to go out and help them, when it does.”

His companion’s countenance brightened—considerably. “Yeah…Yeah. You’re right!” he acknowledged. Then he flipped the white cloth in his hand over and resumed his polishing.

Fifteen minutes—and another side panel—later their Station’s tones finally sounded.

“Squad 51…” the dispatcher began.

The dark-haired paramedic appeared positively ecstatic. He tossed his polishing cloth onto the call station and then climbed into their very shiny vehicle, to pull on his helmet.

“…Woman complaining of leg cramps…”

“Leg cramps?” John remarked, as his partner slid into the seat beside him. “Gee…Sounds exciting!” he added. He did his level best to appear sincere, but a small smirk betrayed him.

Roy couldn’t help but smile. He took the call slip his Captain handed him and passed it on to his impossible to please partner.

Gage glanced down at the address. “Hang a right,” he advised.

DeSoto did, and the polished to perfection fire truck headed off down the street—with its lights flashing and its siren blaring.

Within a matter of minutes, the racing squad reached the call site: 3121 East Crescent.

DeSoto pulled into the circular driveway and parked in front of the rambling, ranch-style home. He cut the siren and exited the truck.

Gage piled out on the opposite side and began pulling compartments open. He grabbed their base kit and the drug box and then joined his partner on the home’s front porch.

Roy rang the doorbell again and then called out, “Fire Department!”

The pair heard some movement from inside the house, closely followed by a feeble invitation to ‘Come i-in!’

DeSoto opened the door and they stepped inside.

A middle-aged man was kneeling in the center of the living room, swaying back and forth.

The rescuers hurried up to him.

Roy took the man’s arm and tried to steady him. “Are you okay?”

The guy nodded and gave the pair a silly grin. “I’m fi-ine! A man can outdrinkawoman…anydayoftheweek!”

The firemen got a whiff of the guy’s breath and backed off some.

Gage exchanged glances with his partner and then gradually lowered his heavy cases to the carpeted floor. “We got a call that there is a woman with leg cramps at this address. Do you know anything about that?”

The man started struggling to his feet. “Yup!…Maggie…my wife…the woman’s l-l-libber!”

The firemen assisted the guy to his feet.

But he was way too drunk to stay standing. “Can’t handle her l-l-liquor,” the drunk continued, as he slowly slid back onto his knees. “Passedrightout! An’…an’ no-ow, she’s com-complaining of stomachpains…oh…yeah,” he turned to his dark-haired visitor, “an’ l-l-leg cramps.”

Gage managed an impatient gasp. “Sir? Sir! Where is your wife?”

The guy ignored him. “Always arguing over the equality of the sexes! ‘Womenareequaltomen!’ she says. Beats me at ev-er-y-thing!” he turned to the blond-haired fireman and tugged at his trousers. “But I won this one!”

The paramedics were rapidly running out of patience.

Gage stooped down to the guy’s level, grabbed him by the shoulders, and forced him to make eye contact. “Where is your wife no-ow?”

“Out back. When she came to andsawthatIhadwonthedrinking con-contest, she got allbentouttashape…and challenged me to a couple a’ l-l-laps across the poo-poo-ool—” the homeowner stopped speaking, as he suddenly realized he was now talking to himself.

His visitors had disappeared out the patio doors...and into the backyard.

Roy ran along the edge of the pool. He spotted a body resting on the bottom of the deep end and dove in.

John dropped his cases. “I’ll get the O2 and a backboard!” he shouted and went racing back into—and through—the house.

Roy reached the bottom of the pool. He latched onto the wife’s bobbing body by the back of her blouse’s collar and started swimming towards the surface.

As soon as his face cleared the water, he positioned their drowning victim, so that he could begin mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

When the dark-haired fireman flew past him—for a third time, the guy kneeling in the living room opened his mouth, to inquire as to what was going on. But, before he could even pose his question, his visitor had already vanished into the backyard. The guy's curiosity got the better of him and he started heading towards the patio doors—on all fours.

“Full respiratory arrest!” Roy informed his returning friend, between breaths. “Pulse is barely palpable!”

John jumped in—feet first. He pulled the backboard into the pool with him and then swam over to where his partner was administering AR.

Gage got the still-non-breathing woman’s body strapped in place. Then he began towing the backboard over to the edge of the pool.

DeSoto swam alongside and continued to give their victim mouth-to-mouth—all the while.

The victim’s crawling husband reached the edge of the pool and halted. The guy saw the blond-haired fireman pressing his lips up against his wife’s—and flew into a rage. “Hey! What the hell doyouthinkyou’redoing? That’s my wife you’re…k-kissing!”

“Your wife isn’t breathing!” the dark-haired paramedic patiently informed him. “My partner has to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, or she’ll die!”

The guy completely ignored the explanation and nose-dived into the water.

John reluctantly released his hold on the backboard. He swam over and latched onto one of their newest drowning victim’s thrashing limbs and began towing him back over to the edge of the pool. “Listen to me! Your wife isn’t breathing! She nee-eeds our help! So, you’re just gonna hafta settle down!” He shoved the drunk and disorderly guy’s upper body back onto the deck and then pushed him the rest of the way up out of the pool. “Now, plea-ease, just stay put! And let us do our jo—!” The paramedic’s plea was interrupted, as the sloshed homeowner suddenly leapt back into the pool—and landed right on top of him! Gage didn’t get a chance to take a breath before going under. He came to the surface coughing up chlorinated water.

To make matters worse, the drunk guy was—once more—in the process of drowning.

Once again, John grappled with one of the infuriating fellow’s flailing arms, and, once again, he got the guy out of the pool and up onto the deck.

“This time—” Gage gasped, “You’d better stay put! Now, I mean it! I don’t have the time—or the energy—to keep fishin’ you outta here! You hear me?”

The soggy drunk just sat there on the deck, staring dazedly back at him.

The plastered homeowner made no attempt to reenter the pool.

So the paramedic turned his back on him.

The guy on the deck’s dazed look vanished, as he caught sight of his rescuer’s partner. That blond-haired fireman was now at the edge of the pool—and still messin’ with his wife! The drunken man tried to scramble to his unsteady feet. But he lost his balance…and toppled back into the pool, instead.

“Ou-ouch!” came the drunken guy’s cry, as his kneecap came into contact with something other than water.

John was about to swim over and help his partner lift their first drowning victim out of the pool, when something suddenly struck him—hard—on the top of his head. There was a brilliant explosion...of a lot of little *stars*…and then everything went ______.

Roy was in the middle of administering another life-giving breath of air into the lady on the backboard’s lungs.  He happened to glance up in time to see her inebriated husband’s knee make contact with his unsuspecting partner’s noggin.

It was the third time her sloshed spouse had fallen in, and it was the second time that Gage had gone under.

Seconds passed and Roy’s alarm grew, as his friend’s face failed to break the surface.

Great! Instead of just one drowning victim to deal with, DeSoto now had three.

With the assistance of an adrenaline surge, the fireman managed to shove the back-boarded body up onto the pool’s tiled deck.

A few frantic arm strokes and leg kicks brought Roy to within grabbing distance of one of the drunk guy’s wildly flailing limbs.  He latched onto the drowning man’s shirtsleeve and was immediately rewarded with an elbow—right in the teeth!  The paramedic grimaced and tasted blood.  He twisted his assailant’s arm behind his back and locked his own arm around the man’s neck.  “Knock…it off!” he warned, all-be-it a bit breathlessly.

Unfortunately, the inebriated fellow continued to fight him.

“Your wife dies…because of you,” DeSoto continued, through tightly clenched, and slightly loosened, teeth, “that’s gonna be…on your conscience!…My partner dies…because of you…I’m gonna drown you myself!”

Upon hearing the paramedic’s threat—er, promise, the drunk guy settled down…some.  Well, at least long enough to allow his rescuer to tow him back over to the pool’s edge.

“Just hang on!” Roy advised.  “I gotta get my…partner!”  He sucked in a huge lungful of air—and dove.

DeSoto saw his friend’s lifeless form slowly settling to the bottom of the pool. He swam down, grabbed onto Gage’s left wrist and began towing his limp body back toward the surface.

The moment both their heads were above water, Roy began to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

After about a half-dozen breaths of air, John’s body wretched violently.  His brown eyes flew open and promptly filled with panic.  He made a frantic grab for his friend’s shoulders.

“Relax, Johnny!  Relax!” Roy urged, and expertly knocked his panic-stricken partner’s grasping appendages away.

Gage fought back the initial terror of being unable to draw an adequate breath of air into his lungs.  He acknowledged DeSoto with a slight nod and then began coughing—uncontrollably.  All that coughing proved to be both productive and painful, judging by the amount of pool water that was being expelled from his burning lungs, and the tears that were steadily streaming from his chlorine-irritated eyes.

Roy steadied his coughing friend.  “Think you can manage?”

John blinked and coughed and nodded.

DeSoto turned and swam back over to their first drowning victim.  He pulled himself up onto the deck and resumed AR.

The victim’s jealous spouse resumed his ranting…and thrashing…and splashing.

Gage continued to cough and tread water.  Once his lungs were sufficiently cleared, he started swimming slowly over to the edge of the pool, keeping a safe between him and the irate husband.

John pulled himself up out of the pool. He crawled across the deck to retrieve their respirator, and then dragged it, and the base kit, over to his partner. “Go ahead,” he said, between coughs, “call it in.”

DeSoto contacted Rampart.

Gage got the woman going on oxygen.  He glanced up and saw that his partner was having a hard time communicating with the hospital, on account of the husband’s incessant screaming.  He turned and gave the annoying guy an angry glare.  “Will you be quiet!” he ordered more than asked.

Stunned by the harsh order, the drunk stopped yelling—for the moment.

Speaking of yelling…

John winced and rested a hand on the top of his hurting head.  He wouldn’t be shouting again anytime soon.  “Pulse is 120 and thready. Pupils are equal and reactive,” he coughed.  “Still no spontaneous respirat—” He stopped speaking and doubled over in a bout of painful coughing.

“You okay?” Roy inquired and anxiously waited to interpret his partner’s response.

When ill or injured, John Gage spoke a language all his own and, after being partnered with him for the past six years, DeSoto had become pretty dang proficient in it.

A ‘Yeah,’ was Johnny-speak for ‘No.  But, if I answer that question truthfully, you’re gonna strap me to a gurney and haul my sorry ass to the hospital.’ 

An  ‘I’m okay,’ was Johnny-speak for ‘It’s really too soon to tell.  Ask me that question again in about fifteen minutes.’

And an ‘I’m good,’ was Johnny-speak for ‘I just might make it…if I don’t pass out first.’

However, DeSoto was completely unprepared for the reply—er, replies he received.

“Yeah.  I’m okay.  I’m good,” Gage assured him.

Roy’s right eyebrow arched.  ‘Sheesh!  Your head must a’ got hit pretty damn hard!’ he thought.

Two ambulance attendants entered the backyard, towing a stretcher.

Vince Howard followed closely on their heels.  The officer took in the paramedics’ dripping wet bodies.  He also noted that DeSoto’s bottom lip was bleeding, and Gage was squinting and coughing and holding onto the top of his head.  “Leg cramps?”

The firemen frowned and nodded.

Howard pointed to the guy in the pool.  “What about him?”

Gage gave the guy a disgusted glare. “Leave ‘im there,” he suggested. “Believe me, it’s the best place for him.” He turned back and locked gazes with his partner. “I swear! I’ll never make another crack about ‘excitement’—as long as I live!”

DeSoto pursed his bleeding lips.  The paramedic picked the phone back up and pressed its call button.  “Rampart, Squad 51.  Ambulance has just arrived.  Transporting patient.  Will pass along vitals on our second drowning victim on the way in…”

“10-4, 51…”

John stared disbelievingly across at his buddy.  

Roy’s blue eyes narrowed into icy, no nonsense slits.  “You may not remember…but you lost consciousness.   There’s no way I’m gonna let you drive, and you certainly can’t accompany the patient without supervision. You could have a concussion!”

Though he was obviously not happy to hear all that, his partner didn’t protest.

Gage and DeSoto sat side by side on an exam table in Treatment Two.

Dr. Morton was listening to John’s lungs, and Dr. Early was examining Roy’s teeth.

Dixie McCall walked in, spotted the two paramedics’ dripping wet bodies, and sarcastically quipped, “Ah-ahhh!  There’s nothing like a refreshing dip before lunch!”

The two ‘dippers’ exchanged a sideways roll of their eyes.

“Yea-eah,” Gage grumbled.  “Nothing like it.  The informant neglected to mention that the legs were cramping on the bottom of the deep end of a pool.”

Morton gave his patient an impatient glare.

John appeared appropriately apologetic and stopped speaking.

Dixie folded her arms across her chest and stood there, staring at the forlorn looking firemen.  “More victims of the battle over the equality of the sexes.  Won’t THEY ever learn?  Women are not equal to men!”

The men stared at the woman, looking somewhat astounded.

The nurse flashed each of the four astonished fellows a smug smile.  “We’re far superior!”

The guys managed a group groan.

“—ow –is –e?” Roy pondered, through a pried open mouth.

“She came to about three minutes ago,” Dixie replied.  “Still plastered to the max!”

Gage grinned.  “If you think she’s bad, you should’ve seen her husband!  Too drunk to even stand, and he insists on going swimming!  The guy was like a regular lemming!  Kept leaping into that pool!  Nearly drowned me!” He gave his partner a look of undying gratitude.  “Thanks, Roy!”

“—ou’re –elcome!”

John’s grin returned and broadened.  “Then, Vince fishes him out of the pool, and he keeps trying to take a swing at Roy—for messin’ with his wife!”

Mike gave up.  He shot Gage an annoyed glare and jerked the tips of his stethoscope from his ears.

Joe finally released his grip on DeSoto’s mouth.

Roy flexed his sore jaw and winced.  “Yeah.  Well…I know one area those two are both equal in.” He saw all eyes in the room suddenly rivet upon him. “They’re both equally stupid!”

His audience was forced to agree…and grin.

Dr. Early flashed his patient a sympathetic smile and reported his findings.  “You’ve got three very loose teeth.  I recommend that you see your dentist—just as soon as possible.  In the meantime, try to stick to soft foods.”

“Thanks, Doc’!  I will,” the paramedic promised and jumped down from the table.  His shoes ‘squooshed’.  The fireman stood there, frowning down at them.

Dr. Morton completed his preliminary medical examination.  “How’s your head feel?”

“Oka-ay…I guess.”

The doctor looked extremely dubious.  Mike had treated the paramedic enough times to have picked up on some of John Gage’s ‘jive jargon’ himself. “It didn’t break the scalp.  I suspect all that hair—you never let anybody cut—cushioned the blow.  I also suspect that you have a dandy headache…”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.  I always get a bad sinus headache when I get water up my nose.  So-o…am I cleared for duty?”

“I won’t be able to answer that, until I’ve seen your x-rays.”

The paramedic’s mouth opened and he was about to protest—vehemently.  But then John saw his physician’s frigid glare, and his jaws froze.

Morton flashed the unhappy fireman a victorious smile. “I may make a decent patient out of you yet!”

His indecent patient looked deeply skeptical.

“Complete skull and chest series,” the doctor told the two x-ray Tec’s who entered the room, towing a gurney.

John jumped down from the table.  His shoes ‘squooshed’, his head ‘throbbed’ and his face filled with a grimace.  He frowned down at his exceedingly damp feet for a few moments and then locked gazes with his partner again.  “This is not a good way to start off a shift!”

“Yea-eah…” Roy ran his tongue over his loosened teeth.  “This shift has gotten off to a stormy start, all right!  I think I liked the lull a lot better…”

Gage gave his witty chum a grumpy smile and reluctantly climbed onto the gurney.

Twenty minutes later…back in Exam Two…

Mike flicked the x-ray exam screen off and turned to face his patient.  “No skull fracture.  And your lungs appear surprisingly clear.  I don’t suppose I could talk you into staying here overnight—for observation?”

The paramedic was in the process of buttoning his shirt. “Roy’ll observe me.” He gave his partner a desperately pleading look. “Won’t you, Roy…”

DeSoto eyed his pitiful looking companion up and down a few times and then replied, rather unenthusiastically, “Yeah.  Sure.  I guess.”

Gage gave him a ‘Gee.  Thanks a lot, pal!’ glare, and then turned his attention back to Morton.

Mike pulled a prescription pad from his pocket.  He wrote something down, ripped the top slip from the pad and stuck it in his stubborn patient’s hand.  “In that case…take two aspirin and call me in the morning.”  He started heading for the exit, but then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.  “I’ve always wanted to say that,” he confessed.  “I’ll have the respiratory therapist schedule your first appointment,” the doctor added. Then he disappeared out the door, looking very pleased with himself.

John looked down at the note.  Not surprisingly, it was a prescription for a series of breathing treatments. 

Yessir!  That lull was lookin’ better an’ better, all the time.

DeSoto backed Squad 51 into its parking bay.  He flicked the truck’s ignition off and turned to his silent partner.  “You changing?”

Gage glanced down at his damp uniform and then up at his inquisitive friend.  “Are you?”

“I was going to.  But a dry uniform would only feel better over dry underwear, and I don’t think I have any here.”

“Me neither.  We might as well finish ‘drip drying’.”

They slid out of the Squad and squished over to the Station’s open garage door.

Chet was cutting the front lawn with a little push mower. 

Mike and Marco were busy pruning shrubs.

Gage caught Kelly’s attention and pointed to a few tall blades of grass.  “You missed a spot!”

Chet just rolled his eyes and kept right on mowing.

The paramedics stood there, watching their pals hard at work.

Finally, John turned to his companion and exclaimed, in a most aristocratic fashion.  “How terribly good of the agency to send these men over.  It’s so difficult to find reliable gardeners, these days.”

Roy smiled.

The gardeners’ eyes narrowed into annoyed slits.

Kelly aimed his mower in the smug duo’s direction.

Stoker and Lopez snapped their pruning shears at their aloof shiftmates.

The paramedics grinned and retreated into Station.

The two famished firemen strolled into the Dayroom.

Their Captain was seated at the kitchen table, hunched over a stack of paperwork.  He glanced up and saw their drenched bodies.  “Leg cramps?”

“Trust me,” John told him. “You don’t wanna know.”

Hank had been the young man’s Captain long enough to have learned a little of the paramedic’s lingo himself.  In fact, he’d become rather fluent in it. 

‘Trust me.  You don’t wanna know,’ was just Gage-speak for ‘If I answer that, you’re either going to send me home, or have Roy drive me back to Rampart.’

Roy started reaching for the handle on their refrigerator.

“Lunch can wait.  Why don’t you two get out of those wet clothes—before you get another run,” Stanley suggested—er, ordered.  Then he rose stiffly to his feet and headed for the phone in his office, to see which destination it was gonna be.

DeSoto was standing in front of his open locker, stuffing the tails of his dry shirt into the waistband of his dry slacks.

Gage was seated on the floor of his locker, also in a dry uniform. He propped his feet up on the bench in front of them and bent down to retie his soggy shoelaces.

Captain Stanley came strolling into the room.  He crossed his arms and leaned into the side of John’s locker.

“I just had a rather lengthy, enlightening conversation with a couple of doctors.” His stern gaze settled upon Gage.  “There is a room reserved for you at Rampart, pal!  Roy can drive you over there in the Squad.”  His un-amused gaze shifted to John’s unnerved partner.  “Don’t worry.  You should get back here in plenty time to make that emergency dentist appointment Joanne is setting up for you!”  He gave both of his paramedics glares of extreme displeasure.  “And, in the future, anytime the two of you get your teeth knocked in…or you’re rendered unconscious…or nearly drowned…Trust me!  Your Captain does wanna know!”

The pair swapped a couple of sheepish glances and promptly replied—in perfect unison, “Right, Cap!”

“Goo-ood!  Now, get going!”

The duo dashed out the door, without even bothering to close their lockers.

Their Captain released the smile he’d been suppressing.  “Never a dull moment…” Hank mumbled beneath his breath.  ‘Well, almost never,’ he further mused and reluctantly returned to his boring paperwork.

THE END