Carried a dead man today. So fucked up. The experience was not profound – rather, it was altogether unpleasant. First, he was quite fat. His gut hung through his shirt. His shorts, too small for his sausage legs. Fat billowed out. He was a man unaware of his unsightly appearance. His face was still covered by leftover food stains. I’m still in pain from the burden of his weight.
When a man is fat, most of the time, they smell. And he stunk. His t-shirt had yellow pit stains, his crotch soaked in sweat. At death, people emit foul odors. His was especially bad. All his oils, fats and excrement bubbled to the surface. I carried a fat, dead, stinky toad.
I work as a paramedic. I have to deal with all sorts of nasty things. I usually prefer the dead to the living. The dead don’t speak. I hate mothers and children in accidents. They never shut up. Moms wail, always screaming, “Save my child!” Kids cry incessantly. Quite annoying. People in pain moan. That’s comedic. I always chuckle a bit; it’s a funny sound. I hate my job, but it’s good pay.
I usually prefer a stiff than a living, breathing pile of blood and guts – which is always accompanied by lots of noise. But this lardo ruined my day. I’m outside, dicking around on my shift, when I should be “saving lives” Whatever. Earlier in the day, I’m in my ambulance, drinking my coffee and eating a sandwich. My coworker sits next to me, not a care in the world. He’s a layabout. Doesn’t give a crap about his job, waiting to get his degree so he can get out and become a doctor. A real job. Perfect person to share a cab with.
Get the call, “Dispatch, multiple car pile up at 79th and Madison. All units report.” Finish my coffee. They can wait. Once I was done, I turn on the sirens. Only fun part of the day. I race down the streets, skipping every stoplight, cutting people off. Cars frantically change lanes, trying to get out of my way. Hell, this is half the reason I took this job. Never have to pay attention to any traffic laws.
I reach the scene. Late as usual. All the paramedics frantically scurry about, “saving lives.” Hero complex I say. I go to the to the most wrecked cars, with people that aren’t gonna make it. That means all I have to do is bag and tag. Never have to talk to anyone. I go to this smashed up car, front end caved in, a real mess. Look inside, see a bloody man. He’s dead meat. I wrench the door open, hoping that he’s not breathing. But I’m shocked when I see his face. This is the asshole that was sitting behind me during the ballgame yesterday.
I was at the Yankees game. Fun year, we’re demolishing everyone. My favorite pitcher, Andy Petitte is playing. Having a great game. Yankees are up 8-1. I love baseball, it’s simple. There’s a bunch of roided up people whacking at a ball all day. Paid millions of dollars to play such a ridiculous sport. However its always fun to see them flummoxed by a good pitcher, swinging at air. Emasculated in front of a huge crowd. I love seeing them, muscles bulging, sheepishly walk back to their dugouts. Today is a good day, except for this jerk behind me. He’s a boisterous fellow, screaming chants, as if it will somehow help the team, not like they’re paying any attention. His wife is fat, just like him. Two oversized peas in a pod. She’s not interested in the game, just stuffs her face with food. I’m trying to watch the game, but this guy won’t shut up. Worst of all, he smells. Stupid fat people have no personal hygiene. He’s sweating profusely, stinking up the whole section. Inning after inning he’s shouting, blaring the same old chant over and over, like a goddamned P.E system. At first I was just annoyed, perturbed at this man, intruding on my only escape. But after the sixth inning of this nonsense, I was fuming. I tried to drink some beer, get hammered enough that this would all be a distant memory. But he had this loud reverberating voice that kept on and on. I don’t mind an iron lung, they usually fade out when the game is this lopsided. But despite the inevitable outcome of this game, he continued to scream, oblivious at the anger he evoked in me. I couldn’t help but think – if only he had a heart attack, that would shut him up. I wished he would die. I’ve never been so angry. In the end, the Yankees lost, a disgraceful collapse. Pettite gave up two grand slams before being pulled out of the game. I leave the stadium. We lost. What a shitty day.
And here I am, in front of a man I wished death upon. Wish granted. I frown. I had to lug his ass out of the car. His wife had been taken out of the wreckage and was already strapped to a gurney. I hear her cry, grieving for her husband. Usually I just ignore it. But today, that’s all I can hear. I lay the man down on the ground. Can’t take my eyes off his face. He lies there. Yesterday he was just another man. Today, he’s someone I know, dead.
I sit in my apartment, alone. Light up a joint. Today bothered me. I thought it would be just another day at the office. It’s different when you know the guy. Everyone else were just nameless faces, John and Jane Does. But this guy was fat man from the game. He ruined my day twice. But I remember his wife, unable to comprehend the loss of her husband. All I can think; if only I had gotten there sooner. His wife would have her husband. I’ve never really considered the consequences of my actions. Take a drag on the joint. Blow out plumes of smoke. I look around the apartment. I realize – I am alone. Lost. What the fuck am I doing with my life?
Get to work. Get in the ambulance. My coworker is taking a nap. We get a dispatch. He ignores it. I nudge him awake. I tell him, “Let’s go.” Slam on the accelerator. He’s stunned. This will be the first time I show up on time. But I won’t waste this chance. Never again.
