I feel like Michael Corleone...

...I got pulled back in!



For just about 11 years, I wrote for a national EMS professional journal, titled interestingly enough, EMS Magazine. This was the place where I took my baby steps into the world of freelance writing, taking whatever skills I may have naturally possessed, and developing them with the guidance of an experienced editor. I wrote everything from educational pieces, to personal stories, to book reviews, all the while exploring a skill I never really knew I had.

In 2000, I wrote my last piece for the magazine. It was entitled, "What Are You Prepared To Do?" and dealt in part with the idea of who we were as EMS professionals, our identity, and how it had been co-opted by other emergency services, such as fire departments. While I left EMS behind the year before, I was still in healthcare, but that would be my final article. There was no real reason to write for the magazine anymore, and with my depression starting to bubble, I think somewhere inside I was thinking, "It's time to get away from this profession in every way."

Flash forwards 10 years: Now, having come to terms with so much of what I experienced, I feel I can go back and write for them, but from a detached position, which actually may be something of a blessing. I shot my former editor (who is still there) some recent clips of my work, she was bowled over, and was going to throw some story ideas my way, when I threw one at her. I'll be writing a two part piece that will cover how EMS personnel deal with impending retirement. It will be in their online edition. Part 1 will be out in June, and then part 2 in July. Even better? They're going to pay me. I didn't always get paid for what I wrote for them in the past.

So, here I go, diving back into the world I left behind. I'm thinking a little of Paul Simon's "Still Crazy After All These Years."

"I met my old lover
On the street last night
She seemed so glad to see me
I just smiled
And we talked about some old times
And we drank ourselves some beers
Still crazy after all these years
Oh, still crazy after all these years"

You get the idea, right?

The white patch.

"I'm going to wear my old pair of scrubs." said the artistic director of my improv troupe. He was referring to the presentation that we were going to make to the transplant team of the money (that was raised through a special performance) for the patient's Special Needs fund by the improv troupe a little over a month prior. Being an improv troupe, we were thinking of doing something a little different rather than a straightforward, formal presentation of the $1,400 that was raised. We hit on the idea of presenting this donation in an organ transport box, which I was able to obtain from my old place of employment, the organ donor network here in Rochester. We were going to run in to their weekly meeting as if delivering an organ.

What he asked next however, was wholly unexpected.

"Do you still have your old paramedic uniform?"

I had not been asked that question in a long while, and I felt the blood drain from my face at the question.

"Yeah, I do." I knew where he was headed, and while I silently smirked at the thought, as it was rather funny, but it still scared me. "Great." he said. "I think you should wear that."

Every instinct inside of me was screaming "NO!" Somehow, the word "Okay" came out of my mouth. I don't know why it did, but it did. It has been 12 years since I wore that uniform, 12 years since I was part of a profession and a world that I never envisioned leaving, as I did 10 years ago. Why the number discrepancy? Well, for the better part of the last three years as a paramedic, I was in management, and wore a suit more often than a uniform, and didn't touch a patient.

I tried to convince myself that it was really nothing, that I would put in on, wear it for a couple of hours, and then take it off. It wouldn't mean anything. It was simply a costume for this purpose. I was going to be acting, and why should my old uniform be nothing other than any other stage device that I have used in the past.

The answer, of course, was far more complicated.

So, the morning came for me to prepare for the presentation. Going through the morning ritual of showering, brushing my teeth, taking my transplant medications, and all the other mundane tasks carried an air of tension. I then went down into the basement of my house, and found the box where I keep all my memories of my EMS life, and found my shield and collar bars. Shield #6241. Collar bars with my unit, 35V. The black shield holder and securing pin. I remember this being part of my mrning ritual for so many years.

I went upstairs and found the long sleeve uniform, as this had the perforations above the left breast pocket sewn into the fabric where the securing pin would pass through, pinning the shield to the shirt. The shield holder also had the small metal plaque with my name, and then below it, "PARAMEDIC."

The shirt has two patches. The left sleeve at the shoulder had my hospital's blue and white patch. The right had the one that has been earned by only a comparatively few, the one that said 'EMS-PARAMEDIC - CITY OF NEW YORK." White, with an orange border, orange and blue lettering, and the blue star of life in the middle, it was simply known to us that rode the ambulance as 'the white patch." It was coveted by anyone that worked in EMS, in any capacity, in NYC. There were, and still are, far more EMT's than paramedics. We were an elite group, and we knew it.

I attached the collar bars, pinned the badge on, and slipped the shirt on. As I buttoned it, I was first pleasantly surprised to find that it still fit, and like a glove too. I then went and looked in the mirror, and a wave of emotion overcame me.

I cried. I cried, and cried, and cried. It went on for about 10 minutes.

I missed it. I missed it all. The good, the bad, the silly, the insane, the danger, all of it. I missed my friends, my colleagues, the two partners I had that I worked so closely with for so long, that they became second and third spouses in a way. I was in grief. I was in grief for a life that I left behind so long ago, that I was never able to grieve for, and that I was never able to fully accept that I left behind. I think it was just then that I honestly faced that emotion, as I faced myself in the mirror, in that uniform.

I was grieving for myself.

After I stopped, wiped my tears, and pulled myself together, I went to the presentation. I went into character, and along with my artistic director, made everyone laugh. We presented the money, had some nosh, pressed the flesh with the transplant staff, and then left. I got home, took off the uniform, hung it in my closet, but left the shield and collar bars on. I have yet to remove them and put them away.

I went to my therapist earlier this week, and related this story to him. He just let me talk, not offering any advice, but rather smiling and nodding with each major point that I brought across. We're going to discuss it further next time around.

As I unburdened myself of this grief, I began to realize that this was one of the biggest obstacles, if not the biggest, that has stood in my way all this time. While I was not living in the past, it was always close behind, and impeding my progress in life. I think now however, that I can move forward with more confidence.

The white patch will always be with me. It is part of who I am, a source of pride, and always the greatest title I will ever have, that of NYC Paramedic. From now on however, it won't stand in my way.

Because I was there.

I was in NYC 8 years ago on that Tuesday morning. I was in for the wedding of my former paramedic partner the Saturday beforehand, and it was the morning Mrs. N. and I were due to leave. I remember the confusion at first, as no one was quite sure what exactly happened when the first plane hit, but then watching the second plane hit, I knew right away this was no accident. We were staying with my mother in my old neighborhood in the Bronx. Immediately, and with a sense of dread, we tried to get hold of my brother, also a NYC paramedic. He works the overnight shift, and we were afraid that he might be on overtime, or was called back on duty and sent down there.

It turned out to be the latter, but fortunately, they kept him in the Bronx, and did not send him down to Ground Zero. Next, we tried to get hold of my cousin, who worked at Federal Plaza, which is a stone's throw away from the WTC. That took longer, as all the cell phone lines were jammed, but we did eventually find out that she did make it out of there and was headed back to her home in New Jersey.

I grew up in the northernmost end of the Bronx, so getting out of there was easier than in other parts of the city. We tried to go give blood at one of the local hospitals, but the line was so long for that, and we had a 6 1/2 hour trip ahead of us. We decided that we would give blood once we returned to Rochester. On the way to that hospital in the Bronx however, I encountered an eerie sight, as 2 F-15's screeched overhead of us, part of the aerial the patrol that wound up encircling the city for that day, and several more afterward.

We kept the radio tuned to whatever news stations we could find on the way, even trying to get whatever information we could going through the mountains and constantly picking up and losing stations. There was no music playing that day. Wherever you tuned to, there was only one story. We made it home, stunned, shocked, but relived.

We also realized how close it could have come to being victims, as we were not far from the WTC the day before, taking a day trip into Manhattan to revisit some old haunts.

So when you stop to think about today, think about the lives that were lost, both civilian and rescuers. Keep one rescuer in mind: EMS paramedic Ricardo Quinn, a former colleague. He died when Tower 1 collapsed. You can read about him here:

http://nosheepleshere.blogspot.com/2009/09/project-2996-remembering-ricardo-quinn.html


Because I was there, I cannot help but remember...

The past is calling.

Tomorrow morning at 9 am, we're leaving for NYC on a trip to see family, but for me, it is a long awaited event that I'm looking forward to.

Ten years ago this month, we made our move up here to Rochester, leaving friends, family, and a way of life behind. It was also the end of my career in emergency medical services. It was one of the hardest, if not the hardest decision I ever had to make, leaving a life and a career that I loved so very much. The problem was that the job was simply no longer any fun, and it was obvious to me that I needed to get away from it. I spent 22 years in that field, with a lot of amazing memories, many good ones, many bad ones, and a few that were flat out horrific. All-in-all, I would never have traded it for anything in the world. The greatest title I will ever have will have been that of New York City Paramedic. The subtitle of this blog, "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe," is not only a line from Blade Runner, but it perfectly sums up the job. There is also another quote from the movie "Bringing Out The Dead," that also summarizes that job. the original novel was written by NYC paramedic Joe Connelly, who I remember, though I suspect he may not remember me.

I have never seen the movie, or read the book, and I'm I'm not sure I ever will. I lived too close to it, and don't need certain memories revisited. I did however, find this quote from the movie that made me shiver, as it was so frighteningly accurate:

"I realized that my training was useful in less than ten percent of the calls, and saving lives was rarer than that. After a while, I grew to understand that my role was less about saving lives than about bearing witness. I was a grief mop. It was enough that I simply turned up."

Now, that said, what made the job so worthwhile were the people I worked with, and none more so than at the place I spent 11 years at, St. Mary's Hospital in Brooklyn. The people that I worked with there became my extended family, were there for me at all times, especially when I was sick and waiting for my transplant. While we have all gone our separate ways, especially since they closed the hospital 3 years ago, many of us still keep in contact through Facebook. We called ourselves "Mary's Mercenaries," as we were paid to work in what was ostensibly a combat zone. Such was Brooklyn, and indeed NYC as a whole back in the mid-80's t0 mid-90's. I wore a level III-A Kevlar vest under my uniform shirt, and was shot at on occasion. We were proud of being the busiest ambulance garage in all the 9-1-1 system in NYC at that time, so much so that we had these off-duty shirts made:

(Front - I don't know why Blogger is rotating this pic this way.)
Rear:
Now for the best part: In addition to seeing family, I am going to a St. Mary's Mercenary reunion out on Long Island at Robert Moses State Park and beach. There are many people I have not seen in almost 10 years, some a little longer, so this is going to be a lot of fun. I also have not seen the ocean in a long, long time as well. It will be great to be together again with people that mean the world to me, and a little sad remembering some of them that are no longer with us. We lost a few people over the years from my dept., either to accidents or disease.

Time for a lot of laughs, a lot of memories, and reconnecting with old friends.

This just in...

Okay, some updates, and a request. First, the shoulder is completely healed. Lots of ice and Ibuprofen did the trick, plus being careful when using it. What made this a little more annoying is that it was my left shoulder, and I am (very) left-handed. The biggest pain in the ass was sleeping, but I found a way to lay down to get to the point where I could get into a deep enough sleep.

Second: I got into the improv group! I won't be performing for at least a month, as they have a policy of seeing how newcomers mesh with the established troupe. Sounded reasonable to me. I am truly looking forward to this experience, and already feel good about the first two rehearsals I have under my belt.

Third, and most importantly: A very good friend, Brandie, has established a new blog. She did this as a way to help her deal with the illness of her father, who just underwent a stem-cell transplant as a treatment for an autoimmune condition that has been plaguing him for several years. I think she would love to have people visit, and also if anyone else out there has undergone, or knows of someone that has undergone stem cell therapy, it would be good for her to talk with people that have been through the experience. Her blog addy is:

http://wherethehellsmysunshine.blogspot.com/

I'll be in NYC in 2 weeks for a much anticipated reunion of my other family, namely the paramedics and EMT's I worked with for so long in Brooklyn. They closed St. Mary's, the hospital I worked at for 11 years over three years ago, and this will be a great time to catch up with a bunch of old friends. I actually have not seen some of them since I moved to Rochester 10 years ago this month. Others I have been fortunate enough to contact on Facebook. We'll be going to down for 5 days, a mini-vacation of sorts, and also will be getting together with some cousins I have not seen in a while.

Lots to do in the coming weeks.

I am Sam.

One of my oldest friends (I'll refer to him as "Sam," because of the job he does) was up here in Rochester these past few days as a lecturer to a conference of police hostage negotiators. Sam and I grew up in the Bronx together, met in high school, and have been friends for over 30 years. We have a lot of shared history between us, and though we do communicate somewhat frequently via e-mail, Facebook, etc, we haven't seen each other in a while due to the distance from here to back home in NYC.

Sam is a NYPD detective, which if I were to get into a time machine and look back 30 years on, would have been the most unlikely job that I would have expected him to be involved with. We (meaning friends of his) used to make jokes at his expense along the lines of "They're going to let you carry a gun?" As the years have passed, it seems obvious that Sam chose the right path for himself.

I still remember where we met; We were part of the running crew of "Fiddler On The Roof," which was being staged during our junior year of high school. He was brash, bombastic, outspoken, and knew what he was doing, from a technical standpoint. We became good friends pretty quickly, and he introduced me to the wonders of CB (citizen's band) radio, where I was acquainted with an entirely different circle of people that I would become friendly with. We both joined the local citizen's patrol team, and he joined the local volunteer ambulance corps. I was not to keen on that idea, riding on an ambulance, until the summer of 1976, when I saw an elderly woman get struck and killed by a city bus. I felt helpless, not knowing what to do, and it was Sam that prodded me to take a first-aid course with the corps. Little did I know at the time that it would be my gateway into my 22-year career in emergency medical services.

Sam and I were rambunctious, especially when it came to women. It was the 70's, the age of experimentation of all sorts. We shared many things, including jobs, drugs (nothing too heavy), and girlfriends. I remember his brown, 1974 Grand Torino. I especially remember the backseat on many a night in the parking lot at Orchard Beach. If that backseat could talk...though Sam kept himself occupied with his girlfriend in the front seat as well.

I remember the time we "borrowed" one of our volunteer squad's ambulances, drove it to Orchard Beach around midnight, and pulled up behind a van - very quietly - all lights off. We got close enough to the rear doors, turned on the emergency lights, and yelled over the PA system, "WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER?!!!"

It was fun watching the bodies fly up and down in the back of the van while we peeled away. Nope, we didn't get caught.

Sam became a cop in 1987, the same year I started working in Brooklyn. He had been in the medical field for a time, and was even in physician's assistant school. It was however, not to be. A series of events, including a woman that was psychologically abusing him, dashed those hopes.

Sam made his mark with NYPD, first as a patrol officer, then plainclothes, and then his fascination with communications came back to help him, as he got involved first with the Office Of Emergency Management, as a communications tech supporting multiple specialty police units. The big test of his skills came in on Feb. 26th, 1993, when a bomb was detonated underneath the North Tower of the World Trade Center. This was the scene:
Sam was in the middle of all of it, trying to coordinate all the various agencies that responded to this disaster. One of the problems was that there was not one single frequency that they all could communicate on. It was all a bit chaotic, but Sam was directly responsible for getting everyone involved in understanding each other. It was because of his work this day, he was promoted to detective investigator. He became in demand as a speaker worldwide, and then in 1998, he became part of TARU (Technical Assistance Response Unit), which backs up the Hostage Negotiation Team. (NYPD has the oldest such team in the world.)

Through all this, he has survived divorce, amongst other personal disasters, and then came 9/11. Sam survivied both towers coming down, but spent 12 days in that pit, photographing bodies for identification as they were pulled from the wreckage. It was that event, amongst some other ones that brings us up to today.

The Sam I saw here in Rochester is a shell of the man I knew even just a few years ago. The bombastic, supremely confident (sometimes overly so) over-the-top guy was gone. There were flashes of it when he was lecturing to his fellow officers, and when he would be talking amongst them at the after lecture party, but away from them, with me, he retreated into a shell that I never saw him have at any point in his life.

As it would turn out, he told me that he had been battling depression for some time, and only recently started taking medication to combat it. He is also looking for a therapist to help him. He did battle this once before, while undergoing his divorce, which drove him to the point of putting his gun in his mouth and almost pulling trigger. What saved him, which he related to me back then, was thinking of his kids. He seemed to pull himself together after the divorce, as it was in many ways a weight lifted off his shoulders. As with Sysiphus however, the stone soon rolled back.

Looking into his eyes, I saw parts of myself, of my own battle with depression a few years back, of issues in my life that drove me into therapy, and how I vowed never to go down that rabbit hole for anything - or anyone - ever again. I mentioned that term to him, "rabbit hole," and he liked it a lot. He said that it perfectly described how he was feeling. It was the first time in a long time that we found a common connection in this way.

As I showed him around the city I have called home for the past 10 years, bringing him to my theatre, my house, and having him take myself and Mrs. N. out for breakfast before driving him to the airport, it occurred to me that I needed to keep closer tabs on my old friend.

I called a mutual friend in Long Island, who is still friends with another person that was part of our circle of friends from back in the day. That person is a therapist, and I'm going to see if I can get Sam in touch with her.

All I can do now, is hope.

A Muddy Waters' kind of few weeks.

The last 3 weeks or so have been less than stellar. I feel as though my life suddenly decided to go into neutral, for reasons which at first, I could not comprehend.

It actually happened quite suddenly. I woke up one morning a few weeks ago and found myself completely unmotivated. I felt as though there was no point in pursuing the goals I have been for the last year or two, that it was pointless and that I was just spinning my wheels. What worried me was that I had no idea where this came from. As I have already battled depression once before in the past, it scared me a little to think that the "rabbit hole" was beginning to rear its head once again.

It took a few days, but I started to realize that this wasn't quite the same feeling that I had when I was in dire straits back in 2002, and popping Paxil like Pez. This was different. the reason was staring me in the face, and when I finally realized, it was a shock, as I thought it was something I had gotten past some time ago.

In short, I don't feel as though I am making a difference anymore.

When I worked as a paramedic, this was the type of job that, if not daily, at least once a week you always felt as though you were making a difference in the world in some way. I'm sorry if this sounds egotistical, but I was doing things and experiencing things most people couldn't fathom. They may read about it on the TV news, or see it depicted on a show, or even read about it in a newspaper or website, but the actual experience of being a paramedic is something else entirely.

The impact that you can have on people's lives doing that job is nothing short of tremendous. It has been 13 years since I last treated a patient. I was in administration for almost 4 years after that, and while no longer riding the ambulance, I was still "in the business," making a difference in other ways. When I left it all behind in 1999, a piece of me, a big piece, was left behind as well.

In short, I've never had the same kind of mojo that I did while in that world, with one possible exception, when I am acting. Unfortunately, those moments on stage don't come with the same frequency as when I was working in EMS everyday, so I cherish them when they do happen. Perhaps it is foolish of me to expect anything to equal those experiences, but even something like them, with greater frequency, would be very nice.

Another interview meme.

Julia, over at In Java, Literally, has answered an interview meme, and passed along her willingness to do the same. While I did this a few posts ago, I thought it might be nice to try a different one, but will make it my last for a bit.

1. You walk into a room, what do you see?

A mess. A bloody, awful mess. This is my home office, and I really need to make more headway in getting it into shape. The funny thing is, when I was the director of QA back in my medical center in NYC, having a messy office was so anathema to me. I kept it very organized, so I am trying to remember back to my days of yore and figure out what I need to do to get organized.

2. What year changed your entire life?

Easy. 1997, the year I had my liver transplant. Everything changed after that, mostly good, some bad.

3. What are you proud of?

The work I did as a NYC paramedic. I did things and helped people in ways that most others only read about. Of all the titles I may carry, that of NYC-EMS paramedic will always be my proudest. I also am proud of what I see as my growth as an actor. I have been asked to do plays and movies without needing to audition, which tells me I must be doing something right. I also am proud of the things I have written, even though there are many times I really don't believe I'm any good at it.

4. Why do you live where you live?

Quieter life, and because while I miss many things about NYC, I simply can't live there anymore.
I needed to slow down.

5. What is your favorite hobby and why?

Not to beat a dead horse, but acting. It is very, very freeing. It allows me to express things that I have hard time doing in my everyday life. It is also the thrill I get from feeding off the energy of an audience, or the sensation of what can only be akin to an orgasm when I do or say something that makes an audience laugh. I love taking the printed word, creating a character with it, and bringing it to life.

Want to be interviewed?

Follow these instructions:

1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Swelled with pride.

I got home from work tonight to find a message on my voice mail from my old paramedic buddy, Jeff. Seems the guy has gotten himself 15 minutes of fame in the NY Times. Jeff and I go back some years. I got him his job at St. Mary's Hospital in Brooklyn, was his medic partner on occasion, and then his boss. Glad to see him out there, still fighting the good fight.

Jeff, I'm proud of ya buddy! I'm 98 at my PAR!

(I removed the link, at the suggestion of a concerned fellow blogger, for personal reasons.)

The boy, the GameBoy, and the Shawshank Redemption.

The boy was about 11 or 12 as my memory recalls. Time has pushed back his exact age to the point where I can only make an educated guess. He lived in Bushwick, a section of Brooklyn known for some very good Spanish restaurants, a small Italian section with a particular coffee shop that made a mean espresso and cappuccino, as well as some incredible pastries. Bushwick was also known for the squalor in which too many of its residents lived. Such was this boy's situation.

It was around the holidays in 1995. A medic I worked with had become involved in the Santa's Workshop project with the Post Office. You've probably heard of this. Kids write letters to Santa at the North Pole, the P.O. collects the letters, and then volunteers take them and try to grant the wishes of the kids who wrote them. the letters range from the predictable to the heartbreaking. Kids who want toys, to kids who want their mom or dad to have a job. My co-worker brought in the letters, and let us choose which ones we wanted. For some reason, this one kid's letter hit me.

It seemed like a simple and predictable request. The kid wanted a Nintendo Game Boy, something that was all the rage at the time. What struck me though, was the neatness of the handwriting. it wasn't the usual kid scrawl. Something told me that this kid paid attention in school. I couldn't say what it was exactly, just intuition. I was the end of the letter though that raised my eyebrows a bit: "My mom can't afford presents this year." I decided that this was the kid I wanted to help out.

I bought the Game Boy after much scouring, as he had a specific type in mind. it was such a hot item that year, it was almost impossible to find, and as the Web was just in its infancy, Amazon.com was not an option. I finally found the one he was hoping for, and wrapped it up along with a card from "Santa." While I would deliver it personally, I would not be telling him it was from me, though I am sure his mom would know it was me that bought it. Dad it seemed, was not in the picture, not an uncommon occurrence in this area of Brooklyn, where the family unit was often supplanted, or replaced entirely by gangs. I don't know where this kid stood in relation to that, but for now it seemed as though he was still on the straight and narrow, or at least I hoped so.

I got out of work a little late on that night in December. Don't ask the exact date, as I can't remember it. Driving to Bushwick was pretty much out of the way for me on my usual route home. I knew the street where the kid lived, having responded into this neighborhood on a regular basis. I parked the car in front of the brownstone building that had stood there for probably a century. The building was a memory vault. One could imagine hoards of kids back in the Depression playing stickball in the street outside of its entrance, or stoopball on its steps. Milkmen delivered their product to the apartments, when milk came in glass bottles, and you needed to skim the cream off the top of it. The building had seen better days. Now, it looked far more worn, and there was evidence that its upkeep was not something the current owner was overly concerned with.

The current owner installed an intercom system, and I rang the apartment buzzer that had the last name of the boy on it. A woman's voice answered, a heavy Hispanic accent with traces of suspicion. I just said "EMS," as anything else might have resulted in my not being let in. I was in uniform, as I didn't always change in the locker room, but wore my uniform home so I could wash it along with the others, especially if it was the last day of the work week.

I walked up to the second floor where the boy's apartment was, knocked on the door. I could see the inside cover of the peephole in the door sliding back, then the clacking sound of a police-style "Fox lock" being unbolted. The door opened a crack, and a thin Hispanic woman peered out. I introduced myself, and asked if she remembered her son writing to Santa at the North Pole. A bright smile then came over this face that appeared to have known nothing but hardship and sorrow and in mildly broken English, she told me she did. I told her, whispering as I didn't want her son to hear, that I had the Game Boy, and asked if I could give it to him? she called his name, and out of a back room came this slightly pudgy, animated boy.

"I understand, " I said without telling him my name, "that you made a request of Santa for a specific present."

Slightly bewildered, not quite sure of what I was getting at, he shook his head and said, "Yeah."

"Well, Santa has instructed me to give this to you, but not to open it until Christmastime."

The look on his face was only surpassed by the quiet "Oh wow" that came out in his astonishment. He thanked me, along with his mom, and I left, Lone Ranger-like, with my work there done.

Now, you may be wondering why I am relating a holiday story with almost three months to go until then.

A friend lent me the book, "Different Seasons," by Stephen King. In it is the novella "Rita Hayworth And The Shawshank Redemption," which the movie "The Shawshank Redemption" was based on. I had only seen the movie in bits and pieces, and wanted to read the novella first. I always enjoyed most of King's work, but enjoyed his non-scary pieces even better. This was no exception. "Shawshank" is a masterful story of the human spirit, and how kindness in the most terrible of circumstances is often repaid in ways we don't always anticipate. Such was what happened with the boy and the Nintendo.

In the novella, Andy Dufrense was in a physical prison as well as a mental one, and learned to break free of both. Such was the same in many ways for me while working in Brooklyn. While I could go home at night to the comfortable surroundings of my Westchester apartment, mentally I carried around Brooklyn at all times. Giving that kid the Nintendo was one way of dealing with that, and hopefully rendering a kindness at the same time. Dufrense escaped his insanity when he knew the time was now or never, and I escaped from the insanity that I found myself in as well.

I only hope the screws don't find out about me.

Elixir of life.

Anne-droid, as I am, is a coffee fiend. We both have a love for the most beautiful brown liquid in the world. PG Tips and Typhoo tea are a close second, for me anyway. I can't speak for Anne on that one.

I always like to joke that I was weaned from the bottle to the coffee cup, but there is a large amount of truth to that. I was born in Brooklyn, and lived there until I was about 2 or 3, in the same building as my grandparents. (We lived one floor below them.) Coffee was a staple food in our household from as long as I can remember. As this was the late 50's, early 60's, there were very different ideas on what was safe for kids to eat and drink. Most parents today would perish at the thought of their 3 year-old guzzling down a Starbucks triple shot latte, but so many parents give no thought to allowing their kids to guzzle down huge amounts of caffeinated soda, so where's the difference?

On 98th street, which was the block I lived on in Brooklyn, there was a lunchonette called "Benny's." It was the local hangout, soda shop, basically a miniature diner. Going to Benny's for breakfast or lunch was something of a ritual, and I would accompany my parents and grandparents on many an occasion. Here is where I would get my first taste of java, and where the path of my caffeine addiction started. To this day my mother swears that my first complete sentence was "Let's go to Benny's for coffee!" Whether this is true or apocryphal is unknown. I would like to think it is true.

Going to relatives was always a coffee fest. Often it was brewed Chock Full 'O Nuts, or Maxwell House; brewed in the percolator that would go "plop, plop" that I would watch from the counter in my Aunt R's kitchen. If I was lucky, I would get to fill the basket that would go inside the percolator, and put my nose into the coffee can to inhale it like a coke junkie. Whether it is a coffee spoon or a coke spoon, the craving for that fine powder for irresistible. At least with coffee though, you wouldn't end up in jail for possession.

I can remember when we got our first automatic drip brew, a Mr. Coffee, of course. They were all the rage, and they were much easier to use than the percolators, and took much less time as well. They didn't always make the greatest cup of coffee, of course, but over time they have gotten much better. I think the popularity of espresso machines might have helped that along.

Working as a paramedic all those years, coffee was my daily drug of choice. It was an absolute necessity for survival, as important as any medication I carried in my drug bag. God forbid I got a call before my first morning cup. There would be serious doubt as to whether or not the patient would live, as I would be irritable, and possibly annoyed that they had the poor grace to call me because they were in heart failure. You want to have a heart attack, fine. Do it after my first cup of the day. (Yes, I am only kidding - maybe.) 5- 6 cups during an 8-hour tour was the norm. We won't discuss how many I had if I was pulling a double shift.

My most horrific moment came while on a hostage incident. We were called to the scene of a shooting, the cops had this guy cornered in a home, he started firing at the cops, (uh, while we were there, and had to dive under the ambulance for cover) then after some tense moments, he came out, and put a gun to his head threatening to kill himself. The emergency services unit arrived, were trying to talk the guy down, and in the meantime, my partner and I were stationed about a block away, waiting it out. I went into the bodega (Spanish grocery) on the block, got two cups of strong Spanish coffee (Cafe' Bustello) for me and my partner. I had maybe 3 or 4 sips, when we heard 'BANG!!!," and the screams of the officers for medics. The guy unloaded one into his head. We had to rush to him, stretcher and equipment and all.

I had to ditch the fresh cup of coffee. That was the real horror..........(The guy made it, much to our surprise, with a .22 slug rattling around his brain.)

Now, I am sure my Euro and Brit friends who have been here to the States have differing opinions on American coffee. "Weak," is usually the operative word I have heard them use. There is a large amount of truth to that. (Don't EVER have coffee at Shoney's, a restaurant chain in the south. It is vile. I would rather drink tepid dishwater than ever have another cup of their coffee again.) I think though that, for better or worse, Starbucks has forced American coffee to become far better in say the past 10-15 years. You can find far better places to consume your favorite cups of joe, and varieties such as Sumatra, Ethiopian, and Jamaica Blue Mountain are now commonplace.

Rochester has some nice coffee houses here. Two of my favs are:

Spin Coffee on Park Ave. (no, not THAT Park Ave.) Lovely little place, great coffee, good lunches and desserts as well.











Boulder Coffee, on the corner of Alexander St. and Clinton Ave. A recent discovery of mine, though they have been here for some time. Lovely, funky interior. Reminds me of certain places in Greenwich Village in NYC. Have not really tried their food, but will soon.

Both these places are also great as they have free wi-fi, and I get a lot of writing done there.......
Now, all I need to do is to replace the carafe to my coffee maker that I smashed this past Saturday morning.......Oh, the horror, the horror........

Madness......

Not again.....Please not again..........

In my last post, I mentioned how Brooklyn had been eating itself alive in the time I spent there. This was from the mid 1980's to the mid 1990's. Crack had taken the entire city by the throat. During the summer months, you had a hard time distinguishing the gunshots from the firecrackers. In the summer of 1991 however, Crown Heights exploded with a wave of racial violence that pitted Jew vs. black, religion vs. race. This was a full year before the LA/Rodney King riots in, and while not on the same scale in terms of size, it was just as ugly. (The Wikipedia article is pretty good, and explains things well.)

Everyone was afraid that these riots would spread. If you worked EMS in that area during that time, you put large swaths of tape over the driver's side and passenger side windows of your ambulance if you had to respond to a call in there. If someone were to throw a projectile into them, the hope was that the tape would minimize the spray of glass particles. You just had to hope no one put something through the windshield.

When riding through Crown Heights back then, it was as if you stepped into a Czechoslovakian revolution. Riot police were everywhere, being taunted by Orthodox Jews and blacks alike. Madness had gripped Crown Heights; madness that was just as potent as the small white rocks that were smoked in glass pipes in alleyways and homes. The old prejudices of fear, religion and race were stoked, and the fires that blazed from the overturned cars and trashcans made you wonder if perhaps a mini-Armageddon was being witnessed.

Everyone was fair game. EMS, police, FDNY, what-have-you. An EMT unit from my station had a brick thrown through the driver's side window of their ambulance. ("Bus," in NYC-EMS vernacular.) The tape did its job, and the both of them escaped without injury. I got lucky, and nothing happened to me during that time, save for being screamed at by protesters when being escorted by police into a building on a call.

If there was any good that came out of the insanity of those days, it is that the Hasidic and black communities started talking to one another after the violence ended. It took a long time, but good relations were established, and it appears as if the report today of the Hasidic boy that was assaulted and robbed was the victim of a gang initiation as opposed to the start of a wider display of hatred. (At least, this is what the video report from NYC Ch. 2 would seem to suggest.)

I hope so. The very idea that the Heights would return to the old bigotries is not something I would like to hear about.

New: Then again, I might be wrong.... http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/05/26/crown.heights.ap/index.html

Wringing out the mop....

I still shake when I think about it. I still wonder if I will ever screw up the courage to confront it. Do I read it, or see it? Which choice is the lesser of two evils? I know what I am facing, or what I will be faced with. It will force me to relive certain things that I have only recently come to terms with.

In 1996, Joe Connelly wrote "Bringing Out The Dead," a novel based on his experiences as a paramedic in Hell's Kitchen, the area around Times Square. Frank Pierce, a burnt out paramedic is haunted by the life of an asthmatic he could not save. Frank is a symbol for many of us who worked EMS in NYC, myself included. He is a fictional character that by all accounts, based on what friends of mine that have read the book said, is as true-to-life as it gets. The book was made into a movie with Nicholas Cage, directed by Martin Scorcese.

When it first came out, my first thoughts were, 'Oh, great. Someone else thinks they know how to show what it is like to work the streets.' I must admit I was a bit jaded. There was a book that I reviewed ("Paramedic.") for the professional journal I wrote for back in the 90's, and while it was non-fiction as opposed to fiction, it was a piece of garbage, and I said so in the review. I was not expecting much when I heard about this book, but then, snippets of opinion from colleagues started filtering in. They were all positive, and I was encouraged to read it.

I chose not to.

My reasons were simple. I lived the life. I did not need to relive it in a book. I did not need to know about a paramedic who was on the verge of suicide because of events that haunted him. I already knew a paramedic that went over the edge, in no small part due to the job.

In 1992, six NYC paramedics/EMT's committed suicide. One of them was a guy I worked with. We were not steady partners, but I knew him well enough. He had a monkey on his back from the age of 15. He already took time off once to get clean. We thought he had really beaten it back this time.

Then I got to work one morning, and the first thing I was greeted with was that Bill was found on the side of the FDR Drive with a needle in his arm. Devastation is too mild a word to describe how we all felt. There were those who said it was an accidental overdose. Those of us who knew Bill knew better.

I worked Bedford-Stuyvesant and Crown Heights in Brooklyn. As bad as Hell's Kitchen might have been, Brooklyn made this section of Manhattan seem like a suburban house party. Brooklyn was a war zone back then. Brooklyn was Beirut. Brooklyn was Belfast. Brooklyn was LA 2019.

What we all had in common was the sheer volume of calls that would descend upon us during a given tour. It also had the effect of wiping any naiveté from you very quickly. The young EMT's that would come in, full of that "I am here to save the world" attitude had it chipped away. There are those that could adapt, and there are those that never could. I watched some come through my hospital and stay 6 months or less; they simply could not cope.

"I realized that my training was useful in less than ten percent of the calls, and saving lives was rarer than that. After a while, I grew to understand that my role was less about saving lives than about bearing witness. I was a grief mop. It was enough that I simply turned up."

The above was what Frank comes to realize about what his job was all about. (I found the line on IMDB, from the movie, but I believe it is in the book as well.) It sums up what I did, what Joe did, what we all did in a way I have never seen expressed before. It is exacting, and painful at the same time.

This book/movie has become my Balrog. It is the thing I have yet to face. It is the demon from the depths of my brain that while I have contained, I have not yet conquered. Even if I do face it, what will it do for me? Will it help me come to terms with my own set of memories that still haunt me as they did Frank? Will the fiery whip come and pull me down again into the pit that I fell into once before? I made a promise that I would never venture down into that hole again.

I'm forced to wonder though, if one day I will have no choice but to face that Balrog once and for all.

"You got the wrong guy pal........"

So who exactly is Mr. Nightime?

Those who are deeply into Blade Runner as I am, know that there were several versions of the script that were written. One of the last, before shooting started contained something of a different scene where we are introduced to Deckard. Edward James Olmos, who plays another Blade Runner by the name of Gaff, has been sent to fetch Deckard back to police HQ to talk with Inspector Bryant, Deckard's former boss. (Deckard had quit as a Blade Runner some time beforehand.) Gaff encounters Deckard at a noodle bar in downtown LA, as this excerpt from the script shows:

    GAFF
                     (in Japanese)
              *** You will be required to
              accompany me, sir. ***

    Deckard doesn't understand Japanese, thinks the man
    wants a seat.

                            DECKARD
              Wait your turn, pal.

    Deckard turns back to his food.

                            GAFF
                     (in Japanese)
              *** If you do not comply with an
              official request, I will be
              obliged to exert my authority. ***

    Deckard is ignoring Gaff but the Counterman leans in
    Deckard's face and translates.

                            THE COUNTERMAN
              He say, you go with him.

    Deckard turns and finds Gaff waving a badge in his face.

                            GAFF
                     (in Japanese)
              *** To defy duly constituted
              authority is to flaunt the public
              good. ***

    Deckard doesn't understand a word.

                            THE COUNTERMAN
              He say, you're under arrest, Deckard.

    Deckard turns back to his food.

                            DECKARD
              Tell him he's got the wrong guy.
                     (turning to Gaff
                      loudly)
              You got the wrong guy, pal.

                            GAFF
                     (in Japanese)
              *** Wrong guy, my ass.  You're
              known as The Boogeyman in every
              mean joint in town. ***

                            THE COUNTERMAN
              He say, Boogeyman.

    Deckard flinches at the word "Boogeyman," but goes on
    eating.  But now we know, and he knows it's not a
    mistake.

                            GAFF
                     (in Japanese)
              *** You are a Blade Runner in the
              Four Sector and after the slaughter
              at the steel shop they called you
              Mister Nighttime. ***

                            THE COUNTERMAN
              He say, Brade Runner.  He say,
              Mister Nightime.

                            DECKARD
              Tell him I'm eating.

Now, what was actually shot in the movie is slightly different. Edward James Olmos, the great actor that he is, developed a language he called "Cityspeak," which is a mixture of Japanese, and Hungarian, with some other things thrown in.

Here is how the scene appeared in the movie:



"Slaughter at the steel shop...," Brings up a far too uncomfortable memory of an auto body shop slaughter I responded to back in the early 90's. It was a front for a drug running operation......They had one thing in common with replicants.....they were both illegal.......