That summer our call volume soared. Not just the routine bullshit, but heavy-duty calls. Shootings, major car wrecks, cardiac arrests. Chaos had free reign. The city’s gangs chewed up each other and plenty of innocent bystanders with their street gun battles.
Gang warfare wasn’t the only problem. A nasty heroin hit the streets. It started in the north end, and within a few days was clear across the city. People were dying with the needle still in their arms. The city hired a van to patrol the streets with a megaphone warning of the dangers of the drug. The deaths just seemed to increase. Every medic in the company carried two prefilled narcan syringes in their pocket. Andrew Melnick could twirl them in his fingers like six guns.
An arsonist in the south end took out ten buildings in two weeks, killing eight people in one fire. A freak tornado whipped through the city toppling trees, crashing several cars, tearing the roof off three homes, killing four. I remember a woman who was carried across the parking lot, and smashed into the ground, breaking nearly every bone in her face. Her eyes were swollen purple shut. Blood poured from her nose. Sixty years old, she screamed, “I can’t see, I can’t see, Lord help me, I can’t see.”
Making matters worse the newspaper was all over us again. There was a plethora of stories about late response times. “Shooting Victim Waits Twenty Minutes for Ambulance.” “Ambulance Gets Lost, Man Dies.” “Lucrative Transfers Take Priority over Emergencies.” “Man Refused Ambulance Dies at Hospital.” An editorial cartoon showed two ambulance drivers laughing at a mangled man in the road. One EMT said to the man, “Take a cab, buddy.” The editorial board said a private company had no business handling 911 calls and the fire department should take over. They failed to mention the city was broke and didn’t have enough money to staff the schools, fix the city’s pothole ridden streets or hire enough cops to put a quarter of the bad guys away much less hire fifty paramedics.
The simple truth was we were overwhelmed and understaffed. We lost three medics to back injuries; another had his arm broken by a violent psychiatric patient. Two of our ambulances were totaled in crashes. Morale was at an all time low. Rumors were high. Besides the newspaper pushing the idea that the fire department should take over, there was talk that a sale of the company was imminent – that a national corporation was going to buy us out. They would fire all the senior personnel so they could pay everyone the same lower wage. They would outlaw the twelve and sixteen hour shifts many of us worked. Everyone would work five eight-hour shifts. There would be no overtime. We’d all have to wear ties. If we didn’t like it, tough. We were meat in the seat. Plenty of people waiting to take our jobs.
We didn’t like the program; they’d bring in people from other divisions. None of it made sense – we had a union contract that they would have to honor at least until it expired -- but it was what people were talking about. People said the bad press was coming from somewhere in the fire department. They had a plan to put a paramedic fly car in each of the station’s firehouses. They would go to the calls and decide whether to ride in with the ambulance or not. They would be in charge. People hated that thought. I said “Look on the bright side, to staff all those Broncos; they’ll have to hire paramedics. Maybe you can get a job with a city pension.” But no one was buying that. The medics would be converted firemen. There was talk the fire department was going to start running their own paramedic program in conjunction with one of the hospitals. It didn’t matter that we believed it took a special person to do that job -- that you had to have a gift for the work. We felt powerless.
Don Seurat was called to testify before a special city commission on EMS charged with making recommendations for change. The commission included members of the police and fire departments, as well as representatives from the hospitals, city health department and regional EMS council. There were no representatives from the ambulance, no street medics. Ben told me Perry Santiago made a fiery speech attacking Capitol Ambulance to open the meeting, but before Don could respond, Santiago excused himself, and walked out hurriedly talking into his cell phone.
Santiago’s actions gave more fruit to the rumor that politicians were working on behalf of Champion Ambulance. The state law assigning PSA-public service areas to ambulance companies said the PSA could only be taken away if the town’s chief elected officer could prove negligence on the part of the current provider and could offer a better plan. We heard talk they were drafting a change to the law, a pilot program that would allow one city—Hartford-- to put the contract out to bid. One way or another we all felt the fix was in. Things were changing, and soon would never be the same. If Champion took over, the only way we could keep working in the city was to wear their green pants with the yellow strips. Their gas station jackets had two patches on the front, the patch on the right breast told you your name, the one on the left told who you worked for.
I had never had much patience for the routine grumbling on the job. These kids had no idea of how well they had it. A little “yes, sir, no sir” in the morning, and they were on their own all day, responding to the calls, getting paid for adventure, for hanging out, for stories they could tell over beers. But I could see how the bad publicity and uncertainty took its toll. They were all little heroes, and the public scorn hurt their pride. They needed something to take home, some respect for their years of effort. They needed honor and it hurt to turn on the news and see the six o’clock I-team with their fancy graphics “Citizens at Risk,” “Ambulance Investigation Exclusive”, “Only on this channel,” “You heard it here first” bull shit. Bystanders heckled us on calls. Ambulances got hit with eggs, some times even rocks. We normally stationed cars in the north end at Albany and Main, Albany and Blue Hills, Main and Tower but the company pulled them back to Saint Francis and Mount Sinai after sunset. It would cost a couple minutes in response time, but at least the company was concerned for our safety.
We just weren’t very popular. Everyday we parked our cars up on the curb across from the downtown Dunkin’ Doughnuts and ran in to get our coffee -- they’d done it for years. One morning, a meter maid ticketed a couple cars. One of our EMTs Terry Milner actually got hauled to jail for arguing with the meter maid, who called for police backup. When Terry accidently bumped the cop, he got thrown on the sidewalk and cuffed. They put him in a cell and took his belt away like he might actually kill himself over a parking ticket.
The worst though was when the city gave away free tickets to the circus to the kids of all public safety personnel. Kim Dylan thought that included us, and brought her three kids only to be told at the door, you needed a police or fire ID. She ended up having to hit up the cash machine to pay $20 a pop for her three kids, who didn’t understand why their mommy couldn’t get them in free. We responded to the same 911 calls, stood shoulder to shoulder, worked as a team, but somehow EMS didn’t rate. They were city employees with pensions, we were private employees -- a difference no one thought about when the red lights were whirling.
I was working with a young man just out of medic school, a nice enough kid, but he was out of his league. His first week he had three codes including a teenage girl who’d hung herself and he delivered a premature baby who died. I gave him credit just for coming out in the morning. Turnover was high. Every night crews were held late. Some days to fill shifts even Don Seurat had to man an ambulance.
One afternoon when Pat and I were restocking our ambulance after a trauma, when Don Atreus handed us a memo. “We’ve got a $1000 bounty on anyone who can bring in a new employee. If they make it a year, you get a $1000, they get $1000. Know anyone?”
“How about old employees?” Pat asked. “How about Troy?”
“If Troy wants to come back, we’ll welcome him. He’ll get his full salary and benefits. He just needs a note from his doctor that he’s got his diabetes under control. If you can talk to him, I’d appreciate it.”
“He won’t accept that,” I said to Pat as we left.
“It’s worth a try. I know he misses it.”
