Annie Moore stood in front of the High Street Liquor Store with her forty ounce bottle of beer. Troy tooted the air horn. She smiled and still holding her bottle in her hand, raised her shirt up and flashed her droopy breasts at us.
“The joys of being in EMS,” Troy said.
“I guess.”
“You gotta love this life.”
And Troy did. Hartford was like a giant playground for him, each call a new adventure.
“482. Lawrence Street. 2nd Floor, unknown on a one. PD on the way. Advise when you get there.”
We were around the corner having just cleared Hartford Hospital. “Shouldn’t we wait for the cops?” I said, as Troy grabbed his house bag and monitor from the side door.
“No, it’s shift change. We’ll be out of here before they even get here. Besides it’s just going to be an OD. This place is the junkie’s version of Studio 54. They buy their heroin down the street, and then head for their club. They ought to install an emergency syringe of narcan behind glass on the wall up in the shooting gallery. Then when one of them stops breathing, his homeys can break the glass, pull out the syringe and zap them with the narcan without having to bother us.”
Narcan was to heroin what kryptonite was to Superman. It worked by reversing the effects of the opiate on the brain. Once injected in the body, it raced up to the brain, kicked down the party door, slapped the brain hard and said “Wake the fuck up! The shindig’s over!” Within moments of getting injected with narcan a junky was on his knees puking, his high gone, his mind a stoned out Daffy Duck “Who? What? When? Where? Why?” routine until he finally recognized a paramedic standing over him, and realized he’d gotten “that narcan shit.”
A skinny woman who looked like she hadn’t bathed for days met us out in front of the abandoned partially burned out building and led us up the staircase to the second floor, then down a hallway to a room without a door. I carried a flashlight with the plastic IV bag wrapper over the light creating a makeshift torch. We saw a man laying against a wall, a belt around his left bicep. The syringe lay on the floor just beyond his fingers. Troy leaned down and felt the man’s neck and watched his chest rise slowly.
“How well do you like this guy?” Troy asked the woman who’d led us to him.
“I like him better now he paid me the money he owe me.”
The unconscious man’s wallet protruded from his pants. A roll of bills stuck out of his friend’s shirt.
“Pretend he’s dead. Okay?
“He’s dead?”
“No, no, he’s not. We’re going to save him. I just want you to pretend that he’s dead when he comes around. Can you do that?”
“I think I got you,” the woman said. “You giving him that narcan shit?”
Troy took the prefilled syringe out of his pocket.
“This going be good,” the woman said.
Troy wiped a spot on the man’s bicep with an alcohol prep, then stuck in the syringe and pushed the drug.
“What’s his name?” Troy asked, as he discarded the syringe in the sharps container in the bag.
“Samuel.”
“Lee, grab the tarp over there.”
I could see the man was beginning to breathe better, rousing.
I handed the tarp to Troy. Troy leaned down and whispered in the man’s ear. “Next stop. Pearly Gates. Pearly Gates. Next.”
Troy spread the tarp out next to the man whose eyes were now open though he looked groggy and diaphoretic. He fought back a retch. I thought he might throw up.
“It’s a shame we didn’t get here in time,” Troy said. “I hate to see a life end like this. You have anything you want to say about your friend?”
“That motherfucker owed me money, but I still tried to save his life.”
“You almost did, but we were late I’m afraid. Here lies…What did you say his name was again?”
“Samuel. Samuel Pugh.”
“Here lies Samuel Pugh. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Another one’s gone, another one’s gone…” He looked to me.
“Another one bites the dust,” I said.
“That’s what he gets for not listening to his Mama. Let’s go eat. I could go for tacos.”
“Hey,” the man on the ground said.
“You hear anything?” Troy asked.
“No,” I said. “But I don’t hear so well.”
“I don’t hear nothing,” the friend said.
“I thought I heard something.”
“Hey!” The man grabbed Troy’s leg. “I know you. You the one always giving me that narcan shit.”
Troy started shaking. “Do you guys see anything?”
“No, I don’t see anything,” I said.
“Me neither.”
“Something’s touching my leg. I can’t move it.”
“Quit fucking around. Let’s get out of here.”
“I swear something’s got my leg.”
“I got your leg motherfucker. I ain’t dead.”
“Your imagination again,” I said. I lifted the tarp up, and pointed at the floor. “See. Dead is dead. Cut it with your seeing ghosts again.”
The man let go of Troy’s leg. “I ain’t dead.” He touched his chest and face. He looked alarmed. “What’s that shit?”
“Oh, dear!” Troy stared in mock horror at the apparition. “I’m not well.” He grabbed the medic bag and ran toward the stairway.
“He’s been seeing ghosts all weekend,” I said to the woman.
“He must work too hard.”
“Wait! I ain’t dead!” The man tried to get to his feet, but stumbled. “I ain’t dead.”
