doesnât matter. Fucking snowing. I always keep it open. Itâs because of this.â He tugs at the collar of his uniform shirt. âGirls love this shit.â
The girls, the ones who get excited by uniformsâwho aredrawn to them, who canât resistâproposition him. In Walmart, at McDonaldâs, at the gas station. While heâs transporting a patient. âLast girl pulled up while Iâm at a red light and shouts, âIâve never been fucked in the back of an amba-lance before.âââ Jose shakes his head. âThatâs freaky, right? People die back there. Love me a freak, though.â
Jose admits EMS isnât really his thing. Itâs a job, and as far as jobs go itâs okay, but heâs not going to retire a medic. âShit, I wouldâve quit like a year ago, but these girls, man? Damn. These girls.â For now heâs good where he is.
There are others. A couple of recent grads cycle through, people who had too much fun in college and need to bolster their résumés so they can get into med school. There are small-business ownersâa contractor, a landscaper, a tax attorneyâwho need benefits and a steady paycheck during the lean months. There is a former cook and sommelier who has absolutely no idea how he ended up on an ambulance and wants out.
Among the Tourists, I finally begin to feel at homeâthat I can fit in, that I can last. They arenât freaks, they arenât scary, they donât know everything, theyâre doing a job. Why they chose this work over something else is because itâs interesting. Each person has other things going on, and this job gives them just enough without getting in the way. From them, I learn that I can be here without being of here. I can be a dilettante. A Tourist.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
âWhat the hell is that?â
My partner, a part-timer whoâs in and out so quickly that I never learn his name, says, âA balloon pump.â
âAnd thatâs what, exactly?â
Iâm standing in a strangerâs living room. Thereâs yellow shag carpet trampled to brown pulp by years of foot traffic; flowery wallpaper; and a TV but no couch. In fact, no furniture at all except a hospital bed, which has been wheeled in and made permanentâa double-wide trailer in miniature. Our patient is flopped on the bed. He has the soft, flabby look of a man who hasnât stood in a year, maybe more. Heâs in a diaper and smells like he gets nothing but sponge baths. Heâs attached to an IV pump and a feeding tube. Heâs been intubated, and machines breathe for him. Among other things, heâs kept alive by something called a balloon pump.
My partner asks for the history, and the patientâs around-the-clock nurse reads from a packet of papers. She mentions the balloon pump and the IV pump, rattles off medications and drip rates, diagnoses, complications, procedures. I donât understand any of it. I realize that for the last few months, Iâve gotten only a tiny peek at, taken the smallest bite of, this field. Until now, Iâve dealt with people having an acute and specific problem, people whoâaside from having lost a few toesâare more or less healthy.
This is different.
Whatever confidence Iâve built up is gone. I back up and get out of the way, unsure what Iâm supposed to do. Iâm given very simple, direct instructions and still I screw it up.
The hospital, when we get there, is a relief. Get him out, walk away. Forget patients like this exist. It was tricky getting him onto our bed, and itâll be tricky getting him off. Nurses crowd the room; my partner confers with a doctor. An ER tech walks in. He sees that Iâm overwhelmed and comes to take over the job Iâm failing to do. âMind if I get in here?â
I jump back, hands up. âNot at all, youâre the pro.â
âSo