"The Twelve Runs of X-mas"
Run Two
With the exception of informing LA that they were available, the ride back to the Station was accomplished in complete silence.
DeSoto backed the Squad into the parking bay.
The two men sat there for quite a long quiet while, gazing glumly out the open garage door. Finally, reluctantly, they exited their rescue vehicle.
Hank heard the truck's doors slam—at long last—and stepped out into the garage. "In here, gentlemen," he directed and motioned for them to follow him back into his office.
They did.
Stanley closed the door. "Sit down," he invited, as he re-assumed his own seat, behind his piled high with paperwork desk.
The pair obligingly plopped themselves down onto the only two chairs left in the little room.
The Captain studied the two men carefully.
Their solemn faces were filled with an unbearable sadness. Their gazes seemed to be fixated upon the office's tiled floor. Their shoulders were sagging...right along with their spirits.
Hank didn't have to ask if they were okay. Hell! How could anyone ever be 'okay', after a run like their last one? "Dixie just called and told me what happened. She worries about you."
The two men glanced up.
Their Captain locked gazes with them. "So do I," he quietly confessed. "Look. You guys gonna be okay? Because, if you need some time to decompress, I can take the Squad out of service for awhile…"
The two paramedics stared at one another, looking somewhat stunned. They carried on an unspoken conversation and then turned back to their concerned Captain.
"Thanks for asking," Roy told him, "and for the offer. But sometimes it's better to be busy…Yah know?"
Hank gave them each an understanding smile. "Just remember, if either of you ever feels the need to talk things out—or if you just want to let off some steam—my door is always open…"
"Thanks, Cap!" the paramedics replied in unison. They'd definitely been dealt a 'blow below the belt'. But it was a great comfort to know that the Captain would always be in their corner, to both back them up—and pick them up. The firemen's spirits actually rallied enough for them to flash their chief supporter a pair of grateful smiles.
Stanley's slight smile broadened a bit. "Dismissed. Oh. Speaking of staying busy…I gave you two the dorm."
The two men acknowledged their work assignment with a couple of nods. Then they got stiffly to their feet and filed wordlessly from the office.
Stanley sat there at his desk, staring out the open door the pair had just disappeared through…and worrying.
Forget all that 'Rule Number One' bullshit! Hank knew better. Those two bled with their victims! They laughed and cried with their victims! And, sometimes...little bits of them even died with their victims.
Damn straight he worried! Those fine young firefighters were victims themselves—of the County's Paramedic Program!
"Talk about your occupational hazards," the Captain mumbled bitterly beneath his breath, before reluctantly going back to his own occupational hazard—paperwork.
John Gage stared down at the stack of freshly laundered linens in his arms. Less than an hour ago, he had been cradling that precious little baby girl's body in them…and willing her to live…like her mother had.
'Gawd! That poor woman.'
Her plaintive pleas kept replaying in his head—like a broken record.
Please don't die! Please, please, please, don't die! Please don't die! Please, please, please, don't die! Please don't die! Please, please, please, don't die! Please don't die! Please, please, please, don't die!
He just wanted to scream! Gage got the sudden feeling that he was no longer alone, and glanced up.
Chet Kelly was standing there, staring at him.
"You lose somethin'?" John nonchalantly inquired.
Chet saw the sadness—bordering on madness—in the paramedic's eyes. 'No. But it appears you did,' he silently realized. 'That last run must a' been a bad one.' The bad ones always stole a little piece of Johnny's soul. "Hey, I'm just making sure you don't short-sheet my bed," he casually replied—er, lied.
Gage smiled, grateful for the distraction. "Here," he pulled a set of sheets from the top of his pile and passed them to the self-appointed inspector. "Why don't you make your own bed. That way, you'll know—for sure—that it's safe for you to sleep in it."
Amazingly, Chet didn't argue. He just took the sheets and started making his bed.
"I searched the entire Station," Roy announced, upon re-entering the room. "There isn't a clean pillowcase in the entire place!"
His partner stared glumly down at the pillows for a few moments and then brightened. "Let's just flip 'em over…"
DeSoto considered his friend's suggestion for an instant or two. "Works for me," he quickly determined, and the two of them went to work.
Kelly couldn't help but notice that the paramedic team made beds the same way they treated victims—smoothly and efficiently.
The two men were just about to start on their third bunk, when the Station's claxons sounded.
"Squad 51…"
The paramedics stopped what they were doing and started trotting toward the exit…and their truck.
'Please! Don't let it be a kid,' Chet silently pleaded. 'Please! Don't let it even be anything that has anything to do with a kid…'
"Man down…"
Kelly exhaled an audible sigh of relief. He put the finishing touches on his bed and then headed off to make another.
Support can—and very often does—come in many forms.
Gage looked up from the map in his lap. "Okay. That last cross street was Jensen. We should be coming up on Colton. Turn left at this next intersection."
DeSoto did.
John set the map aside and began looking for house numbers. "2712…It should be two drives up on the right."
It was.
Roy braked to a halt in front of 2716 East Colton.
The home's long concrete drive was plugged with parked cars. So DeSoto parked their truck right there in the street and left its lights flashing.
The paramedics bailed out and began pulling compartments open. They grabbed their gear and started heading toward the house.
A young man—in his mid-twenties, with a four or five-year-old boy in tow, met them at the end of the driveway.
"What happened?" DeSoto demanded, anxious to hear what awaited them.
"I told Robbie here, not to touch anything in the garage, but he couldn't wait to see the lights. So he plugged the cord in. Kids! Why can't they ever listen?"
Midway up the drive, they were met by another man—in his mid forties.
"What happened?" Roy re-inquired.
"I told Bobby here, to keep an eye on his boy! My grandson is a real handful. You can't turn your back on him for an instant! You guys got kids? You try to tell 'em something, but they don't listen!"
A little further up, they were joined by yet another gentleman—in his mid-sixties.
"What happened?" DeSoto asked again, desperate for a straight answer.
"I told Danny here, to keep everybody out of the garage, but did he listen? He—eck no! The kid never listens to me!"
The rescuers—and their entourage—finally reached the house.
There was a twenty-foot ladder leaning up against the roof of the home's front porch. A grey-haired old man was seated on the lawn beside it.
"What happened?" the flustered fireman wondered for a fourth—and hopefully final—time.
The paramedics dropped their cases, and themselves, down around the old guy on the ground.
"Otto Seaglund," their apparent victim announced and promptly proffered a wrinkled and weathered hand.
The blond fireman placed his palm in their patient's. "Roy DeSoto. That's my partner, John Gage. What happened here, Mr. Seaglund?"
"Mister Seaglund is my father. I'm just plain old 'Otto'."
His rescuers glanced at one another and smiled.
John took an immediate liking to the old guy. "What happened here, 'Otto'?" he asked, so his partner wouldn't have to.
"Junior here, hammers like lightning—never strikes the same place twice! To top it off, he refused to wear his glasses—like I told him to! The kid never listens to his old man! So, of course, he couldn't see a da—arn thing he was doing! Drove a nail clean through the light cord! I climbed up there to pull the nail out and try to repair the wire. Apparently, the youngest Seaglund there, became a bit impatient and plugged the lights back in. Metal nail…metal hammer…metal ladder…and a wet lawn. I was grounded—literally. The next thing I knew, I'm sitting on my—butt on this da—arn wet grass!"
"Do you hurt anywhere?" DeSoto anxiously inquired, as he began his initial patient survey.
"Just bruised my—dignity," Otto assured them, and reached back to give his bruised wet butt a rub.
His rescuers glanced at each other and grinned.
Gage got their base kit all set up. He inserted the call stick and depressed the call button. "Rampart Base," he spoke into the handset, "this is Squad 51…"
Several silent seconds passed.
"Rampart Base," Dixie McCall finally came back. "Unit calling in, please repeat…"
"Rampart Base, this is Squad 51. We have a male victim, Otto Seaglund, approximately eighty years of age—"
"—Huh!" their victim scoffed. "I haven't been that young for over fifteen years!"
John suppressed a smile. "Correction, Rampart. Otto is ninety-five-years-young. Victim received a strong electrical shock—"
"—Huh!" Otto interrupted him again. "That little jolt? Why-y, that wasn't even enough to put a spark in the old pencil!"
Gage's grin escaped. "Correction, Rampart. Victim received a 'mild' electrical shock, and fell from a twenty-foot ladder, landing on a…soggy…lawn." The ground beneath them was super soggy. The knees of his slacks were completely saturated, but he wasn't about to complain. The spongy surface had probably prevented their victim from braking every bone in his ninety-five-year-old body. "Standby for vitals, Rampart…"
"Pops does love his sprinkler!" Otto had to admit.
John snatched the little notepad from his partner's extended hand and began relaying the information it contained on to the hospital.
Roy started setting up for an EKG. "The doctor's gonna wanna check out your heart," he informed their patient.
"I ain't goin' ta no hospital," their patient informed him right back.
"You may not have to. The doctor can check your heart out from right here."
"No kiddin'?"
"No kiddin'. But, in order for the doctor to do that, I hafta attach some electrodes to your chest. So I'm gonna need to open your shirt here…" He started reaching for Otto's shirt.
The patient didn't protest.
So the paramedic began to unbutton it.
Otto stared thoughtfully down at the little machine he was about to be hooked up to for a few moments and then smiled. "When I was a boy, doctors made 'house calls'. Now, I'm an old man—hell, I'm older than dirt—and, thanks to the wonders of technology, doctors are back making 'house calls', again."
The paramedic team swapped smiles for a third time.
John saw that Roy had all the electrodes in place. "Rampart, Squad 51. We're sending you a strip. This'll be lead…two," he announced, when his partner flashed him a 'peace' sign.
"This is Rampart," Dr. Mike Morton acknowledged. "Go ahead, 51…"
While they were waiting for Morton to interpret their patient's EKG, an even older version of Otto came teetering and tottering up.
"I tried to warn him," the feeble old fellow confessed. "I told him, if he ever wanted to make it to a hundred, he'd better stay the hell off that damn ladder! Kids! They never learn!" Mister Seaglund glared down at his stubborn son.
'Oh, boy!' Gage thought to himself. 'Here it comes…'
"And they never listen!" the crotchety old geezer contemptuously exclaimed and tapped the guy on the ground with the tip of his cane, for added emphasis.
The paramedics pursed their lips—rather tightly—and didn't dare to look at one another.
"LA, Squad 51 available. Returning to quarters."
"10-4, Squad 51."
Gage replaced their truck's dash-mounted radio's mic' and turned to his partner. "Man! Poor old Otto. I kin still hear Morton: 'A ninety-five-year-old man has no business being up on a ladder in the first place!'"
Roy was forced to smile. "Speaking of ladders…That was a great idea you had—showing them how to lock their legs in."
"Thanks. Don't know why I bothered, though. Morton's lecture…my little demonstration…prob'ly just a complete waste of time."
"Why-y?"
"Kids! They never learn—" John began quoting Mister Seaglund.
"—And they never listen," his partner finished for him.
The pair exchanged a couple of highly amused glances.
"Can you believe it?" Gage continued. "Six generations of Seaglunds…all home for the holidays."
"Yeah. I hope old Otto did learn his lesson, because Morton made a pretty good point. A ninety-five-year-old man doesn't belong up on a ladder. He's really lucky to get out of that with just his bruised—dignity."
The Seaglund's 'family reunion' could've very easily turned into a 'family funeral'.
"We should write this one up," John suddenly suggested.
"Who'd believe it?"
"Ro-oy, that's why we call it 'The Believe It Or Not Rescue Book'. We're just s'posed to record 'em. Then it's up to the reader to decide whether to believe 'em…or not."
"Yeah…I guess. Speaking of unbelievable…Can you believe Cap was actually willing to take the Squad out of service for us?"
"Pretty cool, huh?"
DeSoto nodded.
But then, their Captain was a pretty cool guy.
The two men stiffened, as the HT on the seat between them began bleeping and muted tones started coming over their truck's dash-mounted radio.
On the second run of X-mas, the paramedics got to see… a hundred and fifteen-year-old father and his ninety-five-year-old son, Otto, who got shocked and fell, and bruised his—dignity.
TBC
Author's note…
Safety tips to avoid Run Two: Keep children away from electrical outlets. Never pound nails near electrical wiring. Drive the nails, or shove the tacks, in first—and then string your lights up. If you're a senior citizen, hire a younger person to do any ladder climbing, or any crawling around up on roofs. Young people bounce a whole lot better and their bones mend a whole lot faster. If you must work from a ladder, lock your legs into the rungs to keep from falling. Oh, and, kids—of all ages—pay attention to your parents. Listen to them. They've been around a lot longer than you have. So trust their judgment. They 'usually' know what they're talking about. :D