Rescuing Providence

I took this picture from the officer’s seat one hot summer day, I had to swat the mic from my then partner’s hand before she could call dispatch to report an open hydrant.

Call me irresponsible, foolish, a danger to water pressure or whatever, but these kids deserve every drop of joy they can squeeze out of a rusty old hydrant.

City life is hard, and they have no idea how hard it is. It’s all they know. And they like it. My wife grew up in the projects, she tells me they had to drag her off the sidewalk when her parents made her move.

I’m glad she moved to suburbia when she did. It would have taken me a few more years to find her.

But mark my words . . . I would have found her.

They told me retirement would be easy, trouble-free and one giggle after another.

What they neglected to tell me is that one day I would have a difficult decision to make - one that will dictate the next chapter of my life . . .

Do I watch one episode a week of Season 3 of House of the Dragon, or, do I resist the urge for ten weeks so I can watch it all in a week and continue binging my favorite feel good show, Heartland?

Decisions, decisions.

But it beats doing CPR on babies.

"Dr. Watson!" I addressed my companion," we have an elderly male lying on the floor in his rent subsidized apartment, dressed only in his blue, sailboat patterned pajama bottoms."

I took a puff from my pipe and scanned the room.

"Numerous large prescription bottles on the kitchen table lead me to believe this man has multiple medical problems."

I tapped the pipe on the kitchen table, lit a match and reignited the pungent to***co, disguising the stale aroma of urine.

"The television is tuned to the Spanish Channel, I must surmise that this man speaks no English, thus the dull look when I asked him his name."

"Inspector!" Dr. Watson looked up from the patient, alarmed. "See here. A scar runs down the middle of his chest!"

"Elementary, My Dear Watson," I said, stepping toward the prone patient. "Look closely. The scar is neatly formed, perfectly placed and exactly six inches in length. This is no diabolical organ thievery, this man has had open heart surgery!"

"Of course! That explains…nothing really, why is he lying on the floor?"

I crouched lower, touching the patient, looking for more clues. His skin was cool and clammy. I gently shook him, he only moaned in response. Using my penlight I looked deep into his eyes. the pupils responded.

"Dr. Watson. Prepare a field glucose test. We need more information!"

As Watson drew a small droplet of blood from the mysterious man's finger I looked for more clues, first assessing his vital signs, then giving him some supplemental oxygen.

"Inspector! His glucose level is dangerously low!"

"Of course it is my good man. Prepare to solve the case!"

Now that the mystery was nearly solved, other clues became apparent. Diabetic medication was mixed with cardiac pills. A glass of orange juice, spilled next to the patient, an open and empty sugar package nearby.

Dr. Watson prepared an IV while I drew up some medication. We pushed the D-50 into the mystery man's veins and waited. A minute passed. Slowly, his eyelids began to flutter.

"I believe we are well on our way, Doctor,!"
I said, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cramped apartment. "Well done!"

The patient regained consciousness, sat up and looked around. He spoke no English but was oriented.

"We have to take him in for questioning," I said as we cleaned up the scene. We helped him onto our stretcher and locked the door behind us as we left.

Another mystery solved, in a city full of them. Not long after we sat in my den on Baker Street ruminating. I swirled my brandy and watched the amber liquid briefly cling to the snifter's glass before reforming at the bottom.

"Cheers, Dr. Watson," I said as the glasses in our hands met with the sound that has warmed many a celebration throughout the centuries.

I drained the snifter as Watson sipped, and we sat amicably whist waiting for the next one.

It never takes long…

Ten reasons I wish more people acted like firefighters

Firefighters, when among other firefighters are free to speak their mind, say ridiculous things, be biased, be politically incorrect, get angry, fight, argue, break for lunch; save a life, polish some brass and argue some more.

Then get on the truck, work like mad, do nearly impossibe things, trust the person they were fighting with their life, risk their own life to protect each other, put it all back together and finish the shift, only to do it again tomorrow.

10. When one of them acts like a fool, the rest put a stop to it right quick.

9.They don't care what color, race, gender, shape or whatever; if you can do the job; you are one of them.

8. If you are unable, and are in need of assistance they are willing and able to do it for you, every time, without question.

7. They can cook, or they can eat. Some of them can actually do both.

6. Firefighters do housework. Every day. All of them. Together.

5. They know exactly where they are going and how to get there when the bell tips. Every time.

4. They don't fall apart when they are needed the most.

3. They run toward trouble, not away from it.

2. They fight like family, love like family and treat each other like family.

1. There is no job too difficult, no obstacle too hard to overcome, no living creature unworthy of their best and no excuse for not doing their damndest, every time.

Image of a Providence, RI firefighter presenting the urn containing the remains of her daughter to a woman displaced by a multiple alarm fire.

Image by Matthew Donavan.