Ignorant Thicket, Part Two

Disclaimer: The woman pictured is not the woman in the following story. The woman in the story wasn’t nearly as attractive and classy as this chick.

We get another call in Ignorant Thicket the next morning. Well, it’s technically morning – it’s three o’clock – but in my opinion, any call that gets me out of bed up before I am ready to roll out of bed, take a shower and eat breakfast, is in the middle of the fucking night. It’s not the next day until I roll out of bed, take a shower and eat breakfast, regardless of the date I put on the run tickets. The old man we took to Big City Memorial earlier was admitted to the ICU, and the staff doubts he’ll make it.

We’re heading to a shooting. Corporate Greed EMS was also dispatched, but we should arrive at the scene first. We’re both about equal distance from Ignorant Thicket, but I have Lasson (aka Farting Partner, for you folks playing the Home Game) and a gas-burner ambulance, and straight roads all the way. Lasson takes full advantage of this fact, and puts the hammer down.

At this hour, I tend to sleep until we get to the scenes when I don’t have to drive, rationalizing that if we do get into a fiery crash, the last thing I want to do is see it coming. I’d rather wake up in the ICU, or in some ethereal place, preparing to justify my actions to the Great Medical Director In The Sky.

Since both services run EMS calls in Ignorant Thicket, the police call them both when they need an ambulance. The first one to get there gets the patient. If Ignorant Thicket Volunteer EMS gets called directly, they automatically call Podunk Ambulance for transport. Eddie Thibodeaux has threatened his troops with death if they ever call Corporate Greed, primarily because he knows that with Podunk, his crews only have to put up with condescension and rudeness 50% percent of the time.

We arrive on scene to find Eddie Thibodeaux applying bandages to a woman sitting on the stoop of an old house that looks vaguely familiar. She is wearing an old tank top liberally spattered with blood. She is not wearing a bra, and her pendulous breasts are clearly visible through the armholes of the shirt. She is totally oblivious to the fact that her tits are hanging out however, instead focusing on giving Eddie an alcohol-fogged narrative of recent events. She has abrasions all over her arms, and her neck, chest and abdomen are peppered with hundreds of bloody little holes.

Shotgun, obviously. Looks like birdshot. She looks like she’d go about two hundred pounds. Don’t these people know that you’re supposed to use buckshot on big game?

“Shumbish shot me, thash what he done,” the woman slurs. “I ain’t done nothin‘, neither,” she adds indignantly.

Sure, lady. You were just sitting here on your porch, drinking a wholesome glass of milk and reading the Bible, when some nearsighted bird hunter mistook you for a quail. Happens all the time. You should have been wearing your fluorescent orange tank top.

“Hey guys,” Eddie greets us absently, and then looks suspiciously at FP. “Who’s this?”

“Sorry,” I say, and make the introductions. “”Lasson Cocodrie, meet Eddie Thibodeaux. You met his daughter and son-in-law yesterday afternoon.” Lasson and Eddie nod to each other warily.

“Recognize the place, AD?” Eddie asks, inclining his head toward the house.

“Wait a minute,” I say, remembering. “This isn’t-…”

“Yeah, it is,” he confirms. “This is Ricky Gaston’s mother.” He turns to the woman and explains, “This is the paramedic who took care of Ricky.”

“Oh, thash wunnerful,” she says. “I’m sho happy to meechu. You shaved my shon’s life. My name ish Donna,” she offers her hand and bats her eyes at me. I smile back at her.

“Pleased to meet you, Donna. I’m AD. This is my partner, Lasson. He’ll help Eddie get you bandaged up, and then we’ll get you to the hospital. We’ll get these bloody clothes cut off you, and get you covered up with a warm blanket, okay?”

“Shounsh good,” she agrees, her head lolling drunkenly. She appears to be having no difficulty breathing, and her color is good. None of the pellet holes are bleeding significantly, but with this many unnatural openings in a body, you sometimes can’t tell just how bad the injuries are. I get a quick set of vital signs as Lasson and Eddie apply more bandages and tape. We’re not going to get them all, but if we can cover the worst of them quickly, I’ll be happy.

Donna’s heart rate and blood pressure are fine, and her breathing is unlabored. As I listen to her breath sounds, she reaches up and runs her fingers through my hair. I recoil a bit, and look carefully at her.

“Yer cute,” she says adoringly. “I like you. Yer sho gentle, an’ sho kind to me…are you married?” she asks drunkenly. Lasson and Eddie are biting their lips to keep from laughing.

“Well, since you ask,” I answer, feeling my cheeks blush, “I actually am -… “

“-…single,” Lasson finishes, grinning at me evilly. “He’s a single man.”

The bastards are enjoying this.

“Oh, thash jush wunnerful,” she enthuses, “I need a good man, thash gentle, an’ kind…do you think I’m purty?” Lasson and Eddie are making strangled, croaking noises now.

“Well sure, I guess so. I mean, if I was-…”

“I think I’m purty,” she continues as if she hadn’t heard me. “I’m a purty, healthy, shekshy woman, an’ I need a man who needs a purty, healthy shekshy woman…” she trails off, and then puts her hands down the neck of her tank top, pulling out her bloody breasts and holding them up for inspection.

“I got purty titties, don’t I? Purty, healthy, sheckshy titties…” Lasson and Eddie immediately flee the area, leaving me alone with Donna and her purty, healthy, shekshy titties. I can hear them around the corner, howling with laughter. I look around nervously, wondering if anyone else is looking.

Somewhere, Alan Funt has got to have a hidden camera on me…

“Uh yeah, they look healthy to me,” I tell her, blushing even more as I hear Eddie and Lasson break into hysterical laughter again. “Why don’t you tuck them back in, and let’s get you in the truck, okay?”

“Thash fine,” she agrees readily, smiling at me. I offer her my hand and help her stand up. She sways unsteadily and links her arm in mine. She leans against me as I walk her to the truck, rubbing her breasts against my arm and smiling naughtily. I sit her on the stretcher, tell her to stay put, and slam the doors. She crosses her arms across her chest and pouts.

I find Lasson and Eddie leaning against the side of the house, breathing heavily. When they see me, they break into renewed peals of laughter. “Very funny,” I tell Lasson sarcastically. “Do you think you could find the time to drive us to the hospital now?”

“I don’t know,” he says doubtfully. “Are you sure you two don’t need some time alone together?”

Eddie is now on his knees, arms wrapped around his sides, laughing hysterically. I shake my head and leave him there, and climb back into the rig. Presently, Lasson gets up front and starts driving for Big City. Donna is lying back on the stretcher with her eyes closed, but opens them when I start putting a nasal cannula on her. She snorts and grabs my hand, shaking her head wildly, then relaxes, clutching my hand to her bosom. I gently extricate my hand and finish looping the cannula under her ears. I get IV supplies from the cabinet, and wrap a tourniquet around her arm.

“Donna, I need to start an IV on you, okay?” I ask her. She nods in assent, holding out her left arm. She has some good antecubital veins, so I grab a 16-gauge catheter. I look around for the alcohol prep but can’t find it, so I rest her arm on my knee as I twist around on the bench seat to look behind me. Immediately, she snakes her hand up my leg, grabbing my crotch. She is smiling and running her tongue across her lips.

I beat a hasty retreat, backpedaling along the bench seat until I am huddled in a ball at the extreme rear of the truck.

Find your Happy Place. Find your Happy Place… The truck swerves slightly, and I look up to see Lasson’s eyes in the rear view mirror. His shoulders are shaking violently. Donna just keeps licking her lips seductively, patting the bench seat next to the stretcher.

I slowly, gingerly climb off the seat without taking my eyes off her, and firmly grasp her left hand. I quickly swab her arm, bang in the catheter, hook up the line, secure it, and firmly place Donna’s hand on her own lap. It is quite possibly the fastest IV I have ever started. Donna just adopts a hurt expression, poking out her lower lip and batting her eyes. I carefully make my way past her and take up a position on the jump seat directly behind her.

“So Donna, tell me what happened,” I say. “Who shot you?”

“It wush my hushband,” she slurs. “Or maybe hish brother.”

Some family you got there, Donna.

“You don’t know which?” I ask, less surprised than I should be. “Why did they shoot you?”

“It wush one of them,” she confirms. “One wush holdin‘ the flashlight, and one wush shootin‘ the gun. I wush outshide in the bushes.”

Well, they do say blood is thicker than water.

“You were hiding in the bushes? Were they chasing you?”

“Naw,” she replies. “I wush slashin‘ their tiresh.”

Of course! Why didn’t I know that?

“Why were you slashing their tires?”

“Caush they pushed me out on the road, after we left the bar,” she explains as if I’m dense. She holds up one arm, and pulls down the hem of her jeans with the other. “Thash how I got theesh shcrapes. Shumbishes beat me with a pool cue, too.”

“Why didn’t you just call the police?” I ask.

“Didn’t have no phone,” she explains. “Nearesht phone wush at home. I found ’em at the housh when I got there, sho I deshided to slash their tiresh.”

Well, that clears things up. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to throw you out of the car. You seem like such a classy lady…

We
spend the rest of the trip in silence. , and Donna manages to keep her hands to herself and I am supremely grateful. At Big City Regional, one of the nurses wants to know why I didn’t start bilateral IVs. I play dumb, telling her I couldn’t find a suitable vein. I am not about to tell her why I was reluctant to lean over Donna so I could start an IV in her right arm.

I ask Donna the requisite questions to fill in the blanks on the billing form, and when I ask for her phone number, she grins wickedly.

“Are you gonna’ call me shumtime?” she asks coyly.

“Maybe,” I allow, extending the clipboard. “Sign here, please.”

She signs an illegible scrawl, and hands the pen back to me. “You better call me, shweetie,” she reminds me. “What did you shay yer name wush again?”

“Lasson,” I tell her. “Lasson Cocodrie. I’m in the book.”