Going Commando

I was digging through some old clothes last night and found an unexpected treasure – $40 in an old EMS jumpsuit I have not worn in ten years. God indeed does truly love me.

Flush with my new found fortune, I proceeded forthwith to the nearest convenience store and bought more beer, corn chips and Vienna sausages – you know, the Essentials.

Now this is not the first time I’ve found unexpected treasures in this jumpsuit. It was issued to me on my very first shift at Podunk Parish Ambulance Service, and it seemed every time I wore it, I found a new pocket. For those of you with a law enforcement bent, it was a Topps T-24 tactical jumpsuit, a model that, to Topps‘ everlasting shame, they have since discontinued.

No doubt because nobody ever wore it as well as I.

I wore that jumpsuit for six months before I figured out that the model number referred to the number of pockets. From that day forth however, I was never without my trusted equipment.

Need a pair of trauma shears? No problem, I had ’em on me.

Window punch? I carried ’em in black and polished aluminum.

Tape? Pshaw. How many rolls do you need, and what size?

Pens? On my breast pocket AND the sleeve. I was the object of Pen Envy.

IV catheters? No problem. I could reach down into a hidden crevice and voila! A smorgasbord of steel and Teflon in every color of the rainbow.

Now this jumpsuit wasn’t simply a utilitarian garment, Nosirree. It had style. My partner Mike and I had matching jumpsuits with spiffy mock turtlenecks with our service logo tastefully embroidered on the collar. Depending on our mood, we might blouse our pants inside our boots, or simply go for the slacker flight medic Baggy Look. Complete the ensemble with a pair of Oakley or Gargoyle shades, and we were every bit as steely-eyed and square-jawed handsome as the models in the Gall’s Catalog.

Thus attired, we were among the most sartorially splendid EMTs you will ever encounter. Patients and family members alike were impressed. Nurses swooned. Women wanted us, and men wanted to be us.

Now one fine day, I was taking the opportunity to grab a quick shower while Mike was asleep.

Why wait until Mike sleeps, you ask? Simple. Mike, while being a superlative EMT and a partner whom I’d trust with my life, was also an Evil Bastard when it comes to practical jokes. Our station had a plumbing quirk whereby one could turn on the hot water in the kitchen sink and instantly cut off the hot water supply to the shower. Knowing this, Mike took the opportunity to make Little Ambo Driver retreat to warmer recesses whenever possible.

One could not always hear the stealthy footsteps approaching the kitchen over the sound of running water. Thus, the following scenario played itself out at least twice a week:

Me: Heartily singing my favorite selections from K-Tel’s Rock Hits Of The 70s, soothing hot water rinsing the shampoo and soap from my eyes…

Mike: Approaching the kitchen like a silent assassin. He’s a SWAT sniper now – always has been a stealthy bastard.

Me: “Baby, when I think about you, I think about loooooooooove…”

Mike: Quickly turning the hot water on and waiting in anticipation…

Me: (playing shower air guitar) “Feel like makin‘ love! FEEL LIKE MAKIN‘ LOOOOVE! FEEL LIKE MAKIN… Wha… whoooeee… aaaarrgghhhh… HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!! WHO TURNED ON THE HOT WATER IN THE SINK???”

Mike: Sinister giggle.

Ahhh, the things EMTs will do to entertain themselves.

But this day, I managed to complete most of my shower when I was rudely interrupted not by Mike, but by the pager tones. Apparently, some idiot had the incomparable rudeness to fall ill while I was attending to my personal toilette.

I managed to rinse the soap from my eyes and run my fingers through my hair, and discovered that my socks, skivvies and the aforementioned tastefully embroidered mock turtleneck had fallen to the floor and gotten soaked by the shower spray.

Sighing, I quickly donned my jumpsuit commando-style and stomped my bare feet down into my boots. Mike met me at the curb, blooped the siren a couple of times and off we went to drag some hapless idiot back to the Kiddie End of the Gene Pool.

After the call, Mike and I hung around at the ER nurse’s station visiting, flirting and what-have-you. After regaling the nurses with the story of how our patient Came to Need Emergency Medical Care (it’s been so long I’ve forgotten the actual call), I noticed that I had attracted quite an audience.

Too big an audience, in fact. Somehow most of the nurses from the floor had managed to infiltrate themselves into my audience as well. Not knowing What Was Up, but unwilling to disappoint such a bevy of attractive females, I plunged on with my story until one of them interrupted me.

“Hey AD?” she inquired sweetly. “By any chance were you in the shower when the call came in?”

“Uh, yes I was,” said I, rubbing my still wet hair sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only when you lean forward against the counter,” she informed me with a devilish grin. “You’re not wearing anything under your jumpsuit, are you?”

“Well actually, I’m…hey, wait a minute! How do you know that?”

“Well, whenever you lean forward, we can look from the sides and see ALL THE WAY THROUGH those front slash pockets. We’ve been wondering for ten minutes when you were going to notice a draft.”

Gulp. I manfully suppressed the urge to bolt from the ER, and even more manfully suppressed the urge to adopt my usual casual posture of hands thrust into my front pockets.

Cool and casual, AD. Never let ’em see you sweat. Just stand up from the counter REAL casual-like, and find a graceful way to make your exit.

“Hey AD,” chortled Mike. “You feeling all right? You look a little flushed.”

“Well from the looks of things,” opined the ER nurse as she looks significantly at my crotch, “he’s cold. Really cold.”

Pride abandoned me at this point and I fled the ER in shame. For weeks afterward, I got furtive glances at my crotch whenever I wore that jumpsuit, to the point where I abandoned wearing the damned thing altogether.

Pity, though. I looked gooooood in it.

Until next time…