Sign of the Times: a bedtime story for Minutemen
Quietly setting the phone down in its cradle, Carlos Quintanilla looked around the eerie quiet of Firehouse 19. On the dusty television, a reporter interviewed a stocky red-faced Marine at a Bagdad traffic checkpoint in front of the remains of a bullet-riddled Toyota Corolla, just like the one he drove back home in Mexico City. "They ignored our instructions," stated the Marine flatly through the stub of a cigar, as if the shooting were nothing unusual at all. Carlos stared intently as the door of the car slowly swung open and the body of an Iraqi Army officer slid down onto the pavement. His blue dress uniform bore a striking resemblance to that of the Saint Louis Fire Department.
Carlos wasn’t sure why the news caught his eye, except that he had just gotten off the phone with the command center. His partner Jim Truegood, a twenty-year veteran EMT and fireman, wasn’t late after all. He had been shot in the leg by a crazed landowner while deer hunting earlier in the day. Evidently, he had wandered a few yards outside of the state forest and on to private property. Command would try to find someone to ride with him, but it would be hard with most of the fire department joining Ladder 19 and Engine 19 at a fire on the north side. Until someone could be located and make the drive to the Central West End, he was on his own. He sure hoped there would be no calls until help arrived.
He went into the dispatch room and listened to the chatter over the radio. He couldn’t make out much of the rapid barrage of words that tumbled out, but he gathered that some clown had been storing hoarded gasoline at a former school, and when the thing had gone up, a whole city block was on fire. Just then, several engines and a ladder from someplace called Kirkwood raced by on Delmar. He wandered how many units would have to respond. He could smell the acrid smoke from time to time, even though the fire scene was over five miles away. He caught a familiar name in the chatter, that of Roger Stump, the ultra-conservative candidate for Congress from the first district. Doesn’t surprise me, he fumed. He didn’t need to understand much English to know Stump from the vitriolic campaign ads that ran almost constantly that October. One showed illegal immigrants swimming across el Rio Grande and then unrelated footage of murder victims stacked in a morgue. He often wondered why people would support such a hateful man. Continuing to pick out a word here and there from the mass of unfamiliar words, a quick smile spread over his lips when he realized that Stump was the owner of the building that had started the fire. "That’ll wipe the sneer off his face for a while," he thought to himself.
As he got the bag of burritos out of his lunch box, Carlos thought about all that had happened since he had left El Presidente Hospital Generale six weeks before. He had come to join his brother Pedro, a starting pitcher for the St Louis Cardinals, in el Norte, and it had taken him three weeks to talk his way onto an EMT job. Even though he had been an emergency room doctor back home, his English remained sketchy. He had always planned to learn, but never found the time.
He flipped the channel to CBS for the World Series pregame show and made sure that the TIVO was recording. In two hours, Pedro would be starting the first game in Seattle. He watched the sun set out of the corner of his eye as the announcers rattled on about who knows what. Why do Americans always speak so fast? Suddenly, there was Pedro and him on screen, playing ball with a broomstick in the mud outside the shack in Saltillo where they grew up. "I’m famous and nobody knows it," he mused.
He got up to try and call Jim at the hospital, when the alarm tones began to sound! Carlos tried to push down the waves of panic that were sweeping over him and raced to the dispatch room. Entering, he heard the soothing voice of Maria Gonzalez over the speaker. "Heart attack," then some words he couldn’t understand tumbled out. "Si, momente, yes," Carlos finally choked out. Just to be helpful, Maria added, "ataque del corazón," as flirtatiously as possible for a 911 dispatcher. Maria had the long flowing tresses of an angel combined with the voice of a goddess, deep brown eyes, and a body that carried her to fourth place in the St Louis Marathon. In short, she was the dream of every Latino in the department, and most of the gringos, including the married ones. Word was, she greatly enjoyed the distress her presence caused males.
Carlos tried to put that vision out of his mind and grabbed the printout of the dispatch message and map. He should be able to follow this clearly enough, he thought as he double-checked the address on the wall map. 7 Upper Crust Terrace, just north of Washington University off Hampton. Easy to find, if I can only drive in this crazy traffic, he thought. His heart skipped another beat when he saw what was in the "owner" field of the message, none other than Roger Stump.
Climbing up into the ambulance, or "bus," he tried to stay clam. He knew that he had faced far worse in the ER, like the time thirty gang bangers had been shot in a brawl in the barrio. If I can just get there, I’ve got it made. He so wished Jim were here. The rock-solid EMT had done all the driving and handled the radio, making the first few weeks go by much easier than Carlos could have hoped. He had been free to concentrate on medicine and had even shown the veteran a few tricks for patching together smashed bodies.
He finally got the lights and siren going on the third try, and pulled out slowly onto Delmar, narrowly missing a pizza delivery car by inches. I hope none of the off-duty EMTs sees this, he thought to himself as he rolled along with lights flashing and siren blaring, at a sedate 35 MPH. A carload of smirking teenagers passed by as he slowed to turn up the tree-lined avenue. If I can just get there, it’ll be a piece of cake, he thought for the hundredth time. He had worked thousands of heart attacks, including hundreds all alone. Trying to keep both eyes on the road, he punched furiously at the radio buttons, but all he could find was a training exercise in Iowa. I’ve got this, he thought to himself. Alone or not, there is no one better for this job than me. I’ll save Stump or whoever it is.
He had almost calmed himself down when he reached the entrance for Upper Crust Terrace. A large sign stated in bold red letters, "Private Street, No Trespassing." Carlos brought the bus to a halt and shut off the siren. The sign was bathed in the eerie glow of the flashing lights. He didn’t know what "trespassing" was, but he knew the word "private," like a private hospital. He pulled Pedro’s battered dictionary out of his back pocket and checked the strange word. Now he understood what a private street was. They had these in the rich areas of Mexico City, too. Private streets with private police forces. These rogue policia were not shy about shooting trespassers, especially after dark. He had treated several patients who had died after venturing onto private streets at night. He wondered why there were no guards at the gate. They might be watching me right now on camera, he thought. He glanced up at the towering mansions that loomed in the gathering gloom. These rich Americans probably have their own doctor in there, too, he decided. I may be in uniform, but I’m also a Mexicano. I’m not getting shot like that Iraqi on the news. Just today, Jim had been shot by some rich jerk and he was liked by everyone in the department.
Maybe Pedro will know what to do, he thought as he pulled out the tired old cell phone Pedro had given him. Then he remembered the World Series. Pedro would never forgive him for breaking his concentration only minutes before the first pitch. It must have been a mistake to call 911 when they surely have their own doctor in there, he reasoned. They probably have more than one, judging from the size of the houses. Probably the call had come from some overexcited servant.
Desperate, Carlos had an idea. He dialed 911. A gruff male voice, like the ones on gun store commercials, came on as Carlos tried to explain the problem. "Speak ENGLISH," the man shouted, as Carlos, startled, jerked the phone away from his ear and watched it sail out the window and shatter on the pavement outside. "I’m not going in there," he said to himself as he finally put the bus in reverse and backed very slowly out onto the still avenue.
Carlos wasn’t sure why the news caught his eye, except that he had just gotten off the phone with the command center. His partner Jim Truegood, a twenty-year veteran EMT and fireman, wasn’t late after all. He had been shot in the leg by a crazed landowner while deer hunting earlier in the day. Evidently, he had wandered a few yards outside of the state forest and on to private property. Command would try to find someone to ride with him, but it would be hard with most of the fire department joining Ladder 19 and Engine 19 at a fire on the north side. Until someone could be located and make the drive to the Central West End, he was on his own. He sure hoped there would be no calls until help arrived.
He went into the dispatch room and listened to the chatter over the radio. He couldn’t make out much of the rapid barrage of words that tumbled out, but he gathered that some clown had been storing hoarded gasoline at a former school, and when the thing had gone up, a whole city block was on fire. Just then, several engines and a ladder from someplace called Kirkwood raced by on Delmar. He wandered how many units would have to respond. He could smell the acrid smoke from time to time, even though the fire scene was over five miles away. He caught a familiar name in the chatter, that of Roger Stump, the ultra-conservative candidate for Congress from the first district. Doesn’t surprise me, he fumed. He didn’t need to understand much English to know Stump from the vitriolic campaign ads that ran almost constantly that October. One showed illegal immigrants swimming across el Rio Grande and then unrelated footage of murder victims stacked in a morgue. He often wondered why people would support such a hateful man. Continuing to pick out a word here and there from the mass of unfamiliar words, a quick smile spread over his lips when he realized that Stump was the owner of the building that had started the fire. "That’ll wipe the sneer off his face for a while," he thought to himself.
As he got the bag of burritos out of his lunch box, Carlos thought about all that had happened since he had left El Presidente Hospital Generale six weeks before. He had come to join his brother Pedro, a starting pitcher for the St Louis Cardinals, in el Norte, and it had taken him three weeks to talk his way onto an EMT job. Even though he had been an emergency room doctor back home, his English remained sketchy. He had always planned to learn, but never found the time.
He flipped the channel to CBS for the World Series pregame show and made sure that the TIVO was recording. In two hours, Pedro would be starting the first game in Seattle. He watched the sun set out of the corner of his eye as the announcers rattled on about who knows what. Why do Americans always speak so fast? Suddenly, there was Pedro and him on screen, playing ball with a broomstick in the mud outside the shack in Saltillo where they grew up. "I’m famous and nobody knows it," he mused.
He got up to try and call Jim at the hospital, when the alarm tones began to sound! Carlos tried to push down the waves of panic that were sweeping over him and raced to the dispatch room. Entering, he heard the soothing voice of Maria Gonzalez over the speaker. "Heart attack," then some words he couldn’t understand tumbled out. "Si, momente, yes," Carlos finally choked out. Just to be helpful, Maria added, "ataque del corazón," as flirtatiously as possible for a 911 dispatcher. Maria had the long flowing tresses of an angel combined with the voice of a goddess, deep brown eyes, and a body that carried her to fourth place in the St Louis Marathon. In short, she was the dream of every Latino in the department, and most of the gringos, including the married ones. Word was, she greatly enjoyed the distress her presence caused males.
Carlos tried to put that vision out of his mind and grabbed the printout of the dispatch message and map. He should be able to follow this clearly enough, he thought as he double-checked the address on the wall map. 7 Upper Crust Terrace, just north of Washington University off Hampton. Easy to find, if I can only drive in this crazy traffic, he thought. His heart skipped another beat when he saw what was in the "owner" field of the message, none other than Roger Stump.
Climbing up into the ambulance, or "bus," he tried to stay clam. He knew that he had faced far worse in the ER, like the time thirty gang bangers had been shot in a brawl in the barrio. If I can just get there, I’ve got it made. He so wished Jim were here. The rock-solid EMT had done all the driving and handled the radio, making the first few weeks go by much easier than Carlos could have hoped. He had been free to concentrate on medicine and had even shown the veteran a few tricks for patching together smashed bodies.
He finally got the lights and siren going on the third try, and pulled out slowly onto Delmar, narrowly missing a pizza delivery car by inches. I hope none of the off-duty EMTs sees this, he thought to himself as he rolled along with lights flashing and siren blaring, at a sedate 35 MPH. A carload of smirking teenagers passed by as he slowed to turn up the tree-lined avenue. If I can just get there, it’ll be a piece of cake, he thought for the hundredth time. He had worked thousands of heart attacks, including hundreds all alone. Trying to keep both eyes on the road, he punched furiously at the radio buttons, but all he could find was a training exercise in Iowa. I’ve got this, he thought to himself. Alone or not, there is no one better for this job than me. I’ll save Stump or whoever it is.
He had almost calmed himself down when he reached the entrance for Upper Crust Terrace. A large sign stated in bold red letters, "Private Street, No Trespassing." Carlos brought the bus to a halt and shut off the siren. The sign was bathed in the eerie glow of the flashing lights. He didn’t know what "trespassing" was, but he knew the word "private," like a private hospital. He pulled Pedro’s battered dictionary out of his back pocket and checked the strange word. Now he understood what a private street was. They had these in the rich areas of Mexico City, too. Private streets with private police forces. These rogue policia were not shy about shooting trespassers, especially after dark. He had treated several patients who had died after venturing onto private streets at night. He wondered why there were no guards at the gate. They might be watching me right now on camera, he thought. He glanced up at the towering mansions that loomed in the gathering gloom. These rich Americans probably have their own doctor in there, too, he decided. I may be in uniform, but I’m also a Mexicano. I’m not getting shot like that Iraqi on the news. Just today, Jim had been shot by some rich jerk and he was liked by everyone in the department.
Maybe Pedro will know what to do, he thought as he pulled out the tired old cell phone Pedro had given him. Then he remembered the World Series. Pedro would never forgive him for breaking his concentration only minutes before the first pitch. It must have been a mistake to call 911 when they surely have their own doctor in there, he reasoned. They probably have more than one, judging from the size of the houses. Probably the call had come from some overexcited servant.
Desperate, Carlos had an idea. He dialed 911. A gruff male voice, like the ones on gun store commercials, came on as Carlos tried to explain the problem. "Speak ENGLISH," the man shouted, as Carlos, startled, jerked the phone away from his ear and watched it sail out the window and shatter on the pavement outside. "I’m not going in there," he said to himself as he finally put the bus in reverse and backed very slowly out onto the still avenue.
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