Chapter 2
“So you’ve worked the road before?” Troy said as we left the hospital after the call.
“Yeah. I’ve worked a few places.”
“Well, you did a fine job. Don’t mind Ben, he’s a prick.”
I just headed down the road. I had worked a few places, starting in Maine and most recently in Las Vegas. Being an EMT was a handy job – there was work most places you went. The pay wasn’t great, but you could work as much as you wanted. I’d met people in this line of work like Troy -- cocky, talented, and set up to have life knock the stuffing right out of them.
“Where am I headed?” I asked.
“Right on Farmington, left on Sisson, then hop on the highway West. We’re going back to the office to resupply. I already called and told them we were coming in. I need to see Linda, my regular partner, so I told them we need to decon and change the main. She’s out on light duty. Don’t get used to working with me because as soon as the doctor clears her, she’s going to be sitting in your seat. You’ll be working with someone else. You’re all right, but she and I are a team.”
“I’ll work with anyone,” I said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Seurat has her helping him with QA while Karen Priest, his assistant chief medic, is on vacation. Linda should be back in a couple days. She was supposed to talk to the doctor this morning. Hopefully he gives her the okay.”
Linda Sullivan was in the hallway posting the monthly QA stats on the bulletin board when we walked in. She hugged Troy and kissed him on the neck. His hand went right to the small of her back. A tall slender woman of no more than twenty-six years old, she had lively brown eyes, freckles on her face, and brown hair back in a ponytail. She wore the same navy blue uniform as the road personnel. I could only imagine what she looked like in a dress. I wouldn’t have been a man if I hadn’t felt a jealousy in the way she smiled at Troy.
“Great news,” she said.
“You got cleared?”
“No, Ben just offered me the assistant chief medic job.”
“That’s Karen Priest’s job.”
“No, Ben just got word, she’s moving back to Illinois to take care of her sick father. She’s not coming back. I guess she’s got a job lined up back there. Ben needed someone so he asked me.”
“You didn’t take it did you?”
“Of course I took it. It’s a raise and regular hours. I can take my kids to school and be home to cook them dinner.”
“But you’d be giving up the road.”
“You think that’s bad? With my back?”
“But they didn’t even post the job.”
“They don’t have to. Don said Ben could hire whoever he wanted.”
“So we’re not going to work together anymore?”
She gave him a light stiff arm away. “Don’t be so happy for me.”
“I’m sorry, I am happy for you. Its just I was expecting you back with me.”
“Oh, you’re so cute when you’re sad.” She pulled him back towards her. “I’ll miss you too, but this is a raise -- and the hours – it’s perfect for me. You should come over tonight when you get off. We can celebrate.”
“I going to New Hampshire to go hunting with Pat. I told you about that.”
“Don’t say I never invite you over.”
A female voice on the intercom said, “Linda, if you’re in the building, there’s a call for you on your line.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said. “It’s probably the doctor.”
“A lot of good that does now,” Troy muttered as he watched her go. He looked troubled, almost like it was the last time he was going to be seeing her. Then Ben stepped out of the men’s room. “Nice,” Troy said to Ben’s back.
Ben turned, still rubbing his hands with a paper towel. “You heard about my new assistant?” he said. He didn’t try to hide his delight at Troy’s reaction.
“I’m sure your motives were pure.”
“She was the best person for the job.”
“You never even posted the job. You don’t know who would have applied.”
“Oh, you mean you wanted to be my office girl?”
Troy wasn’t ready for that. He stammered a moment.
“I know you liked working with her,” Ben said, “But even if she didn’t take the job, you wouldn’t be working with her anymore anyway.”
“How’s that?”
“Get used to Lee as your partner. We have another new policy. No more double medic cars. No more dedicated emergency cars.”
“What are you crazy?”
A voice from behind us said, “It comes from me.”
I turned to see a man of medium build walking toward us. He was in his early thirties with a sweeping black mustache, curly black hair and a deeply tanned face and arms. In his red slacks and black polo shirt, he looked like he’d just gotten off the golf course.
Troy’s eyes narrowed. “I should have known you were in on it too, Don.”
Don Seurat, Ben’s younger brother, was the operations manager. He was the one I spoke to when I called from Las Vegas to inquire about work. He told me he could schedule me seven days a week if I wanted. When I said that was my intention, he’d given me the job right there on the phone.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Don told Troy now. “It’s a business decision. We’re losing transfers to Champion. We don’t shape up we’re going to keep losing business. From now on the closest car will get the call whether it’s a transfer or an emergency. We’re going to spread our medics around. Every medic gets a basic partner.”
“That’s not right.”
“Maybe not, but that’s the way it is. We need the flexibility. You want to keep your job, don’t you?”
“You’re a menace. I never thought I’d miss Sidney.”
“Sidney doesn’t run the show anymore. How about I fire you for insubordination?”
“If you didn’t need me so much, maybe you would. But in the meantime, insubordinate this.” Troy raised his middle finger. “The both of you.” Then he turned and walked out.
“Keep an eye on him,” Ben said to me.
I nodded. They were the same words he’d said to me that morning when he’d assigned me to Troy for the day.
When we cleared from our resupply, dispatch sent us downtown to area ten. I glanced at Troy as I drove on the highway. His eyes were dark, brooding.
“Where are we supposed to post down here?” I asked as I got off the Asylum Street exit.
“Take a right, go under the railroad bridge, then take your second left on Union Place.”
He had me park across from the train station in front of a restaurant called Papa’s that served pizza and sandwiches. He stepped out of the ambulance, unbuttoned his paramedic shirt and tossed it onto the passenger seat. “I’m going into Dooley’s.”
“In there?” Dooley’s was next door to Papa’s. A neon Budweiser sign glowed in the window.
“That’s what I said. You have a problem with that?”
“You might want to take this with you.” I handed him his portable radio.
He suddenly smiled. “Hey, you’re all right.” He clipped the portable on his belt, and then walked into the bar that promised “Happy Hour -- Two for One Drinks.”
I sat in the ambulance and ate the roast beef sandwich and apple I’d brought in my small cooler. I read through Troy’s Hartford Courant. The Red Sox had lost a heartbreaker on the west coast the night before. City and state officials were holding an emergency meeting about the escalating gang-violence in Hartford. Gang members jailed several years ago in a major crackdown were now getting out of prison and flexing their muscles. The resulting turf wars had the city on a record homicide pace. The day before there had been a double slaying at the Charter Oak - Rice Heights housing project. On the front of the Connecticut section there was a photo of Troy ventilation one of the victims with an ambu-bag as the patient was wheeled across the grass, another EMT riding the stretcher doing compressions.
Ten minutes went by. No sign of Troy.
“482,” dispatch called.
“482,” I answered slowly.
“170 Sisson Avenue Building 3, apartment 247, for the swollen legs. Priority 2.”
“170 Sisson Avenue,” I repeated.
I watched the door of the bar, but it stayed closed. I waited. Troy did not come out. After three minutes, I picked up the radio. “482. We’re having trouble getting the engine started. I think it’s flooded. Just letting you know we’re going to be a little late, if we can get it going at all.”
“Okay 82. 463, can you take that call? 170 Sisson for the swollen legs?”
Still no partner.
“482? Where are you so we can get a mechanic down there?”
“Union Street. Down by the train station,” I said.
“We’ll send him right down.”
“Okay,” I said. I waited another five minutes, and then called dispatch back. “482, I’ve got it going now. Sorry. You can cancel the mechanic.”
“Okay, just keep it running. Stay in Area 10.”
I took off my company shirt, turned on my portable radio, and headed into Dooley’s.
It was dark, the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. The Rolling Stones “Get Off My Cloud” blared on the jukebox. Troy sat on a stool with his back to the bar watching the action on the pool table. The bartender set a drink down beside his radio and empty glass. “Vodka and OJ,” he announced, more to me than to Troy.
“We just passed a call,” I said.
“Look at those two.”
A slender Farrah Fawcett blonde in a white tank top and a pierced bellybutton intently lined up a shot, showing cleavage, while her friend, a giggly brunette, tried to coach her. The blonde hit the cue ball. It flew a foot in the air, bounced twice, and went right off the table.
The blonde cursed while her friend couldn’t contain her laughter.
The cue ball rolled toward us.
“We really ought to get back in the truck,” I said.
But Troy was already off his stool, scooping up the ball.
“Who taught you who how to shoot pool?” He placed the ball back on the table. “That was terrible.”
Two thick-necked young men with beer bottles in their hands stepped away from the wall.
“Haven’t these guys taught you anything?” Troy said.
“That’s all right, pal,” the one with the shaved head - said. “We’re doing fine here. Let the girls play.”
Troy turned and faced him. In his black tee shirt you could see his lean muscled strength.
“Yeah,” the other young man said. “You want conversation, talk to the bartender.”
“This is great. I love it,” Troy said. “Two on two.”
The young men looked momentarily confused. “Your friend doesn’t look like he’s ready to join in,” the smaller one said.
I had my hand on Troy’s shoulder, trying to ease him away.
Troy held up his arm. “Oh, no, he’s just my cut man, but you can see I’m too pretty to ever need his services.” He grinned. “I’m talking about…” He slapped his biceps. “These bad boys.” He leaned into a boxer’s crouch, his fists up, his head bobbing.
“Who do you think you are?”
“Troy, please,” I said.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” Fists still clenched, he raised both arms above his head. “I am the King of the World!” He stepped toward them and roared, “The King of the Woooorld!”
Years later in a bar, I would tell co-workers how Troy Johnson gave them a serious beat down, breaking pool cues, smashing chairs, even throwing one muscle man through the front plate glass window. I would tell how his foes vanquished, Troy calmly finished his drink. Then as I held the back door open, he strolled out with a woman on each arm.
It was a story worthy of Troy’s legend, but not what happened. The truth was the guys looked into Troy’s eyes and saw just what I did -- a mad man -- and they stood down. It was as simple as that. The would-be bruisers left, while Troy ate the girls’ pizza and gave them lessons in the art of nine-ball. I handed his drink to the bartender and had him replace it with OJ and seltzer water. When I pulled Troy away to respond to a motor vehicle at Main and Church, he left the girls behind, though he did get both their phone numbers. The next week he spent parts of several afternoons at Mandy the blonde’s apartment on West Boulevard, his portable radio no doubt on the nightstand. I was parked outside in the ambulance, engine idling.
I didn’t care back then. It was just a job for me.
