"An Equitable Trade"
Chapter Six
Hank thanked headquarters for calling and hung up.
The Captain's shared phone conversation had stunned John Gage's shiftmates into silence.
"It's true," Stanley assured his disbelieving crew. "The guy working the LDP picked up a Morse Code message: Two alive. Entombed in V-shaped void. Please hurry."
Lopez and Kelly grinned from ear-to-ear and promptly flew into a back-slapping frenzy.
Hank noted that the dour expression on DeSoto's face failed to depart. "What's wrong, Roy?"
Before their Captain had come into the rec' room, Roy, Marco and Chet had been riveted to their color TV's 24-inch screen.
KXLA was showing live coverage of the collapse site, and the LACFD's rescue operation.
Roy's gaze slowly shifted back to their TV's screen and the 'talking head'.
Chief Dalbert's voice droned on and on, "All the utilities have been secured. The Sanitation Department is continuing to pump out the basement. Progress is painstakingly slow. The crews are only averaging about 2-feet per hour, as they have to cut through concrete walls, floors, steel pipes, wires and an assortment of reinforcing rods. The crews are working with several thousand tons of debris over their heads. Right now, we're waiting for more jacks to be delivered. The jacks are needed to shore up the access route…"
The message hadn't come from his partner. Hell, the only Morse Code Johnny knew was S-O-S.
Which meant it had to have come from the woman who was 'entombed' with him…and she had requested that they 'Please hurry.'
Roy's solemn gaze returned to his now concerned Captain. "I could imagine that Johnny had somehow managed to survive the structural collapse. But I'm not naïve enough to think he could make it through something that catastrophic and remain unscathed. Chief Dalbert just said it could take up to fifteen to twenty hours, for us to reach them. Even a minor injury can become life-threatening, if it's left untreated that long…" the paramedic allowed his worry-filled voice to trail off.
Stanley exchanged a solemn glance with the rest of his guys. "As long as there is hope, there is life," he repeated. The Captain crossed over to his senior paramedic and gave his sagging left shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "The other part reads: As long as there is life, there is hope."
Roy gave his boss a grateful nod, but his expression remained grim.
There were times when the fireman wished he didn't know so damned much about medicine.
Roy was right. His partner had, most definitely, not survived the collapse, or the second aftershock, unscathed.
In fact, the scope of the 'scathed' paramedic's pain was breathtaking—literally.
'Inhale through your nose…' the hurting fireman mentally coached himself, between bouts of teeth-gritting and gasping. 'Ahhh-ahhhh-ahhhh…Shit, shit shit…Just shoot me now…Where was I?...Oh…yeah…Ahhhhhhhhh…Damn, damn, damn…' Gage grimaced and gave up. Regulating one's breathing required total concentration and his brain's pain receptors were being bombarded with so many messages, his thoughts refused to stay focused. He felt weak, faint, dizzy, confused, and agitated. He was experiencing tingling in both arms and numbness around his mouth. No doubt about it, he was hyperventilating. "E.J…could you please…pass me…my helmet?"
E.J. handed the paramedic his helmet and he promptly began breathing into it. "Hurts bad, huh…"
"It…doesn't hurt…good…Sorry…I was being…a smartass…Sorry…I was being…disrespectful…I'm afraid…I'm not managing…my pain…very well." He pulled the helmet away from his face for a moment. "I don't wanna alarm you…but 'murder' is lookin'…like it may end up…on the Demerol 'trading table'…after all,' the hurting bad fireman breathlessly confessed, his grimace combining with a crooked grin.
"J.R., I'd like to try something with you. If you're willing…"
The young fireman's handsome face remained frozen in a grimace. "At this point…I am willing to try…anything…E.J."
"Years ago, I traveled to Bolivia. I was on a bus filled with people, heading up into the Andes, just north of La Paz. It had been raining heavily for several days. The mountain road we were on suddenly gave way and the bus plunged down an embankment. Dozens were killed, many more were seriously injured. I suffered a compound fracture of my right wrist. As luck would have it, a medico kallawaya came along."
"A medico…kallawhat?" the paramedic queried, his voice muffled by his helmet.
"Kallawaya—a traditional, naturopathic Bolivian healer. He did what he could to treat our injuries. Fortunately, Arturo spoke Spanish. His prescription for coping with the pain until outside help arrived, was to bombard our brains with things we felt very passionately about: sights, sounds, memories. According to Arturo, and his ancient Incan ancestors, our brains are incapable of focusing on two equally strong feelings at the same time. So, it's possible for the passion we feel to override the pain we feel…or something along those lines. Well, my wrist was really killing me, so I gave it a go. And, damned if it didn't work! Perhaps, if we can keep you distracted with good, stimulating conversation about the things you feel strongly about, your passion will override your pain, as well…"
Re-breathing his own air seemed to have corrected his blood's low carbon dioxide level, so J.R. slowly lowered his helmet. He did say he was willing to try anything. "Okay. Why not. I am passionate about the Great Outdoors.
In fact, I was s'posed to be heading up into the San Gabriels right after my shift.
About six months back, some buddies of mine pooled their resources and bought 2,000 acres of primo, pristine, virgin timberland from a logging conglomerate.
The property is completely surrounded by State and National Forests.
They sort a' nominated me to be their property's caretaker. In return, I get to stay there whenever they're off on location. It's my new favorite place in the world.
They put up a brand new log cabin, right on the edge of the timberline. It is incredible! Built-in bunks, a beautiful stone fireplace and a cozy loft. Wall to wall windows and a wrap-around deck. Everywhere you look, there's a breathtaking view.
There are three—three trout streams on the place.
Tons of wildlife. Fresh air…zero smog. I can do a little upkeep and de-stress at the same time. What's not to love?
I've been hiking up there, on and off, for the past few months, now, and I still haven't seen it all." The paramedic paused to beam a broad grin in his helpful companion's direction. "It seems to be working, E.J.."
"Great! Then, don't stop. You've described some of the sights. What about the sounds?"
The young fireman's grin remained planted on his pain-free face and he got a far-away look in his eyes. "The wind. The sound of the wind rustling through the pines around the cabin is soul-soothing."
"Soul-soothing?"
"Yeah. Soul-soothing...like the sound my horse makes when he's munching on his hay…or the sound my saddle makes when the leather creaks…or the sound water makes as it's trickling over stones in a trout stream. Soul-soothing." The wistful thinker suddenly snapped out of his soothing reveries. "How did you ever end up in Bolivia?"
"You're supposed to be doing the talking, here. Not me. I'm not the one with a steel rod rammed through my right thi—" E.J. cut her comment short and cursed beneath her breath. 'Wonderful! You just reminded him of what you're trying to get him to forget!"
J.R. was forced to grin again. "I can be a 'passionate' listener."
E.J. surrendered. "I taught High School Art for 47 years. Although, art isn't exactly something that can be 'taught'. I spent my summers traveling the world. One can't get very far on a teacher's salary, so I also illustrate romance novels."
"Sorry about all of your paintings," J.R. interjected. "I saw them, and your artist supplies in the closet, when I went to get the sheet."
"Those were just prints. Prints can be replaced. The originals currently 'deck the halls' of Passion Press, Inc., in downtown L.A." The ex-teacher/artist eyed the passionate listener carefully.
Her rescuer was ruggedly handsome, like the young men on the covers of the romance novels she was commissioned to illustrate. "You strike me as having been a good student."
"Getting good grades was not an option when I was growing up. It was mandatory. My father read—somewhere—that 'Knowledge Is Power'. And he intended to see to it that his kids were as empowered as they could possibly be."
"You have siblings?"
"One. A sister. Two years older than me. She loves to travel the world, too. Only, it doesn't cost her a dime. In fact, she gets paid to do it."
"What airline is she with?"
"Julie's been with Trans World for over 15 years. She's based in Rome. But, once or twice a year, she'll swap flights with somebody heading for the States and fly into LAX. She usually crashes at my place. Poor choice of words."
"Are your parents still living?"
"My Mom died of breast cancer, when I was twelve. I lost my Father five years later, in a construction accident. He was working on a high-rise in Riverside when a crane collapsed, killing him—and four other guys."
"I'm sorry to hear that," E.J.'s voice cracked with emotion and she had to regain her composure before continuing with her questioning. They'd covered sights and sounds. It was time to tackle memories. "What about memorable experiences?"
"Where do I begin," John muttered beneath his breath. He decided to start with the most recent and work his way back. "Okay. It's three in the morning. A call comes in: 'Woman down. Unknown cause. We get to the scene and there's this lady sitting on the curb, outside a' this bar, sobbing hysterically. We check her out and quickly discover that she is also completely 'blotto'. We finally get her calmed down enough to speak and ask, 'What seems to be the problem?' She looks up at us and says, 'I'm peeing pennies!'
E.J. burst out laughing.
J.R. grinned. "I know. Right? We're supposed to maintain a professional demeanor at all times. But, how can anybody be expected to hear a comment like that and NOT 'crack up'?"
"So," E.J. inquired, between a few lingering giggles, "did you?"
"We took one look at each other and went into a couple of coughing jags. While we're trying to wrap our heads around that, she proceeds to pull her pants down and show us that her panties are, indeed, full of pennies."
E.J. laughed harder than ever.
"And, Roy—my paramedic partner—Roy was no help at all. Kept making all these snide comments under his breath, about the goose that laid the golden egg, and about whether she was expecting us to deposit her at Rampart? Or take her to the bank, to make a deposit. Is she crying because she's not peeing quarters? I elbowed him til his ribs were black and blue, but I could NOT get him to stop. Roy's sense of humor can get pretty demented on a nothing call at three in the morning."
"Whatever became of your patient?"
"Well, we transported her to the 'hospital' and they finally got her sobered up. That's when she remembered she had broken into some parking meters, earlier in the evening. She said she was afraid the police would catch her with her purse full of pennies. So she stashed them where the sun don't shine. To this day, neither of us can look at a penny without being reminded of the lady who turned her panties into an impromptu piggy ba—Ow! OW! OW!" the storyteller screamed in agony and started reaching for his injured right thigh.
"What's wrong?"
"Muscle spasm!" J.R. gasped, and re-locked his jaws.
"Quick! Pinch the area between the base of your nose and your upper lip! Harder!" E.J. ordered. The woman exhaled a frustrated gasp and brushed the incapacitated paramedic's hand away. She then latched onto the designated area and squeezed, really hard. "There is a nerve bundle—between your nose and upper lip. The acupressure point for leg pain is located there."
J.R. yelped in agony. "Acupressure point?" he inquired, his eyes watering from the pain of her pinch.
"Southern Mongolia. Gobi Desert. The Dzungarian Basin. I had foolishly allowed myself to become dehydrated. The calf muscles of my left leg were locked in a charley-horse. Altanjin offered to put me out of my misery. He was really into 'acupuncture', at the time."
"At the time?...Wha—? You speak Chinese?"
"The language of 'love' is universal, my dear boy."
"Something tells me you could write and illustrate your own series of 'romance novels', E.J.," J.R. determined, his voice sounding somewhat nasally.
E.J. completely ignored his comment. "For the record, Mongolians speak Cyrillic. Altanjin was a Tibetan Buddhist who spoke both Turkish and English."
At long last, J.R. could feel his locked up quadriceps relaxing.
E.J. released her hold on the paramedic's upper lip area. "Now, where were we?"
J.R.'s still-tearing eyes gazed disbelievingly back at his tormentor. "Uhhh…memories. If mine serves me correctly..."
TBC
AN:
Been busy haying. Just 44 degrees here this morning, though, and overcast.
Definitely NOT haying weather.
But perfect 'typing' weather. : )
Thanks for reading! :) Special thanks for taking a moment to leave a review! : D
*wave wave*
:) Ross7