2:16 AM — trauma bay
The cardiac monitor flatlines. Silence it.
Blood pools in the chest cavity faster than I can suction it.
O-neg slams in through a pressure infuser.
Her body no longer discriminates. Accepts anything now.
“Push another round of epi. Check rhythm.”
“She’s been down for—”
“I can read the clock. Get the crash cart recharged.”
Fourteen hours in. Machine voice now.
The resident’s hands shake. Three weeks in trauma and still flinching when the rib cage cracks during compressions. Funny. I stopped hearing that sound years ago.
“Continue CPR. Second line’s blown.”
“Next rhythm check?”
“Give her another minute. Then we’ll call it if no change.”
Numbers mean more than names.
Pressure: 40/palp.
Pulse: asystole.
Glasgow: 3.
O2 sat: unmeasurable.
The monitor reduces her to data while we pound on meat and bone.
Her hair smells like coconut shampoo and burning metal. Goes right through my mask.
“Calling it. Time of death: 02:19 AM.”
Snap off gloves.
Paperwork spits out in triplicate.
Red tags for personal effects. Yellow for the body. Green for organ donation. Check the box for “nothing usable”.
Husband and son arrive four minutes later. Tell them the news in my most somber voice. Watch them crumble. Break. Not my job anymore.
Social worker takes over. They’re good at this stuff. Retreat behind sliding doors.
In the locker room. Blood under fingernails. Won’t come clean. Never does.
Hospital coffee. Aluminum and failure.
Two more hours. Burger. Fries. Sleep.
41 minutes earlier — ambulance
Her carotid pulses weakly against my fingers. Thready. Irregular.
Blood pressure falling despite two large-bore IVs pumping saline.
Ambulance hits a pothole and her numbers crash.
“Hold that line steady. She’s dropping below 60.”
Partner’s voice yells over the siren, “these goddamn county roads.”
Blood soaks through the compression bandages. Victim’s abdomen rigid with internal bleeding. Dashboard gauge says we’re four minutes out. My gut tells me she has two.
“Her phone won’t stop lighting up.”
“Focus on the monitor, not her phone.”
Chest compressions leave bruises on my knees from the diamond-plate floor.
One hand on the IV line. One on her pulse.
My partner keeps checking the monitor like it might suddenly generate hope.
“BP’s 60/40 and dropping.”
“Push more fluids.”
“Already maxed.”
“Hey! Stay with me! Stay—”
Her pupils fix and dilate.
Hospital lights visible now. Two minutes out.
One minute left in her.
The radio squawks coordinates for the next pickup.
Jesus. Never stops.
Meat in, meat out.
Pulling up to the drop now.
Go. Go. Go.
50 minutes earlier — intersection
Glass everywhere. Gotta be careful. Already learned that lesson.
Fire crew’s working the Accord. Never could stand the sound that goddamn spreader makes. Like opening a giant tin can. Hurts my teeth.
Head pounding now too. Damn Ibuprofen already worn off.
“You got anything on ya that could stick me?” I ask the sus.
“No, nothing. I was just going home. I live five minutes from here. I was just...”
Pat him down.
I smelled the whiskey on his breath when I arrived on scene. Juicy Fruit ain’t covering that up. Urine squirts on his khakis too. Looks a little like my brother. Same self-entitled smirk.
“Car came out of nowhere. There’s cameras, right? Up there. On the lights. In the...check the cameras. You’ll see. I’m telling you it came out of nowhere.”
These pricks always want the camera. Until they realize the camera isn’t their friend. Then they don’t want the camera.
“Yeah, yeah, buddy. We’ll check the cameras. I need you to breathe into this for me.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I’m not fucking drunk.”
“It’s a formality.”
“You know it’s illegal for you...without my consent...I should be able to speak with my lawyer.”
“You can breathe into it or I can arrest you right now. Your choice.”
That usually shuts them up. He breathes into it. Beeps. As expected.
“Did I pass?”
“What do you think?”
Now he’ll start pleading.
“No, man, no. I had a few okay. But nothing that would...I’m not even buzzed, man! And regardless I had right of way. That asshole came outta nowhere. I’m telling you!”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.”
“No, man, don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”
Cuffs click on. Soft wrists. Moisturizer probably. Gonna have to toughen up fast.
“I want my lawyer.”
“You’ll get him.”
Signal the tow truck driver waiting at the intersection with a whistle. Haul this metal off the road.
Walk the perp to the squad car. He sees a shoe. Her shoe. Black flat in the intersection.
“Came out of nowhere, man. Check the goddamn cameras.”
Push his head down getting him in back. Gentle now. Don’t need another complaint.
Slam shut the door. Hear the fire captain behind me.
“She’s coding!”
Medics slide her out. Backboard. Gurney. Blood and hair.
Into the ambulance.
Gone.
Look back at the squad car.
He’s watching through the window. Not talking anymore.
Yeah, buddy. Your life just changed forever.
8 minutes earlier — tow truck
Parked on the side street. Waiting for the copper’s signal.
Bad Bunny blasting “Dakiti” through blown speakers. Bass rattling the tow truck’s frame. Chillin’, chillin’.
Ey yo. Buzz-buzz-buzz. Marisol.
We still on for Saturday, papi?
Hell yes we are, mami. This girl. Dios mío.
Saw her dancing at La Cueva last weekend. Body like a comic book. Face like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Ouch.
And somehow she gave ME her number.
You were looking fresh that night, ese. Fade was crisp. Lineup perfect.
It was well deserved. Been hitting that gym too.
Definitely baby. Got you on the VIP already.
Club promoter. Dog, can’t believe she bought that shit. Came up with it on the spot too. Can’t say “I scrape up car crashes for a living”.
Copper waving me in now. Whistling bastard. Finally. Let’s get this mierda done.
Accord crushed on the driver’s side. Damn. Ugly. T-bone special with a BMW. That one’s mine. Blood everywhere.
Hate blood. Don’t mind it. Don’t mind it. Feeling good tonight. Think positive now.
Twenty-four. Making actual dollars. Primo’s still at the carwash. Miguel stocking shelves. You got your own truck. Side hustle selling them parts. Marisol texting me at 1 AM. Ignore the blood.
Can’t wait to see your club. Better be as good as you say.
Yeah, Club Apex. Made that shit up too. Gotta remember what I tell her. I’ve got fake celebrity stories, fake drink specials, fake VIP section. Got the whole fantasy club in my head. Should’ve been an actor. Got the looks for it.
Position the chains just right. Under the axle, not over. Rookie mistake to go over.
Bendito. That’s skull on the windshield isn’t it? Blood pooling black on the road. Don’t look.
You seen worse. Way worse. First dismemberment was scary. Now you’re eating a taco from Gorditos while working the winch.
Buzz-buzz-buzz.
Show me something to think about till then.
You wild, mami. Glance around. Cop busy with the drunk driver. That boy’s going to jail. Fire crew packing up. Gracias a Dios nobody watching.
Unzip. Whip out the dragon. Snap. Send.
Hook the cable. Secure the chains.
Some college brochure flapping on the ground. Happy-looking white kids.
Cop hands me paperwork. Rubbing his eyes like they gonna pop out his skull.
“Impound lot until investigation closes.”
“Ya tú sabes. I know the drill.”
Pull away from the scene. Blood on my boots. Don’t look. Clean ‘em later.
Buzz-buzz-buzz.
Marisol.
Red. Silk.
Nipples.
Saturday can’t come soon enough.
5 minutes earlier — red light
Red light.
Need eggs. Bread. That cereal he likes with the marshmallows. Captain Crunch. No, not that one. Should’ve written it down. Lucky something.
Late shift always leaves me foggy. Doubles are the worst. My feet.
But that’s an extra two hundred in the account. College fund won’t fill itself. It’s for him. It’s worth it. You’ll put your feet in the tub.
Still red. This one’s always such a stickler.
I swear they must program these damn things.
I’ll have to ask him about it. He’ll probably know. So smart. Knows everything about technology. Where does he get it from? Not his father, poor thing.
Sixteen years old and he’s already talking engineering programs. Incredible. MIT dreams and community college budget. That’s why you take the shifts. That’s why you do it.
Two hundred to the fund. That’ll leave five hundred for car payment. Electric bill. Property tax coming due. I really need to learn how to use that spreadsheet. Or get that app he was talking about. I’m not good with apps. I’m not good with phones.
Milk. Add it. Need to stop forgetting things. Need more sleep. Don’t be hard on yourself.
Green.
Foot on gas.
Maybe there’s still lasagna in the fridge.
Maybe I can sleep five hours if I skip a shower.
Kid’s smarter than I ever was. Wouldn’t quit that calculus problem last week. Sat there until midnight solving it.
“It’s like a puzzle, Mom. If you just move the pieces around—”
Headlights approach.
Bright.
Blinding.
Not stopping.
NOT?!
Bang.
No air.
Metal.
Glass.
Grocery list.
MIT brochure.
Math homework.
Lasagna in the—
1 minute earlier — driver’s seat
Brain feels heavy in my head. Sloshing. Is that the right word? Definitely sloshing now with that fifth Jack.
Why’d I do that? Three. You always stop at three.
That bartender’s face when I ordered it. One for the ditch. Asked if I was good to drive. Can you believe that?
What do I look like to you, lady? Some kind of amateur?
Hell no. Just do your job. Serve the drink. You don’t know my hand-eye coordination. It’s fucking high level. Played tennis competitively in my youth. I could have ten whiskeys and it wouldn’t...
Text.
Wife. Again. Twice already.
First text was “Where are you?”
She already knows where I am. Drinking. Obviously.
Second text was “Nvm.”
Realizes she doesn’t have to ask. Obviously.
Shit. That sounds about right, doesn’t it?
Not going to put up with me much longer. Nope, definitely not much longer.
Last time. Yep. Just needed to blow off some steam. Should’ve been three. Not five. Three.
Going to get back to my body though. Start eating right. Limber up. Get in tennis shape again. Could even play with Junior. How old is he anyway? She’d be so happy. Finally, she’d say. Finally you’re spending time with him.
Even though I spend time with him all the time. And she knows it too.
Getting close now.
Sweet. Riverside is empty.
Four green lights in a row if I keep it around fifty.
Home in a few. Wake her. Tell her the plan. Tennis with Junior.
Text.
Ignore it.
Driving requires concentration.
Gotta be responsible now.
Light ahead turns yellow.
Hit the gas.
I’m going to make it.
Plenty of time.
16 minutes earlier — bar
Fourth whiskey hits the glass.
My pour is precisely two fingers deep. Could do it blindfolded. Two fingers deep.
Mr. Whiskey probably doesn’t need this one. But seems to handle it okay. Eyes steady. No slur.
“Last call,” I announce to the crowd.
Six regulars. Two walk-ins. Mr. Whiskey. Robbie and his softball crew long gone now. One barely-legal kid trying to impress his date with cocktail knowledge. Keeps testing me.
“What do I know, kid? I just mix the simple stuff and pop bottles.”
Mr. Whiskey downs the shot. Signals for another.
Same blank corporate face I’ve seen a hundred times. Doughy. Mid-level management. Insurance. Maybe banking. They’re all losing their jobs these days. Wedding ring.
Fumbles with his lighter, trying to light a Marlboro.
“You good to drive?” I ask.
“One more for the ditch.” Throws some bills down on the bar. “If you don’t mind.”
I pour. He raises it to me. I nod. He drinks.
The kid calls me over.
“Two cosmopolitans.”
Sonofabitch.
While I’m fumbling around, trying to look up the recipe on my phone, I see Mr. Whiskey head for the exit. Legs steady enough. He’ll be fine.
Tips a twenty on a forty-seven dollar tab.
Nice. Mani-pedi money.
I sanitize the spot where he sat.
Wipe it clean.
7 hours 30 minutes earlier — kitchen
“Working Riverside and Henderson tonight. Just an FYI.”
His voice carries from the bathroom. Buttoning his uniform. Blues still crisp from yesterday’s pressing. Badge catching the kitchen light when he enters.
“Want me to text Robbie?” I ask. “He usually drops in on Tuesdays after softball.”
“Not your job to warn my brother about DUI checkpoints.”
“What about my regulars?”
“Or your regulars neither.”
“Your job to clean up after they crash.”
“You’re so funny you know that.”
“I know that.”
Wink.
He straps on his gear. I watch. Never gets old. Utility belt. Cuffs. Baton. Gun. Snaps into place.
Strap on my gear. Betty Boop bottle opener and zippo with an American flag.
“Where’s the Ibuprofen?”
“In the drawer? Headache?”
“Yeah. Don’t wait up,” he says. “Double. Covering for Martinez.”
“Be safe,” I say.
“Always am. Keep others safe.”
Kiss.
Time to go to work.
I'm severely aggravated at this one. Everyone has issues and no one's life is perfect, but how do some drink and drive is beyond me. And of course there's terrible lines of work where the aftermath of an event like this stops being traumatizing and ends up just being another traumatic thing happening to someone else. A very, VERY good story from MP's twisted mind to your catalogue of free life lessons.
If this does not provoke profound thought about our choices, and the consequences…I don't know what will.
Death versus just another day… one in the same, the hard truth of life… Thanks for what I am sure was dedication in writing with this format. 🧡