My friend Mel gave me a writing challenge. 999 words max. The story has "feature a jacket in the plot", as well as an "unattainable deadline.".
998 words (not counting the picture caption). I call it The Gift.
Comments welcome.
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Got the coat in 1984. It’s electric blue satin, button up, with a
white stenciled Star of Life on the front left breast. The people from my rescue squad bought it for
me when I passed the Emergency Medical Technician exam in January. I was seventeen
years old, and a high school senior.
I wore it to school for the rest of the winter. It was flashy and stood out (remember this
was the 80s) and, best of all, I’d earned it.
In my rural school, it REALLY stood out, but it meant (I thought) that I
was a hero. I was a volunteer on the
ambulance and rescue squad, and I saved lives.
I found out later that the other kids thought it was
extremely dorky, but that’s not the point.
I stopped wearing it when I went to college. I volunteered at the ambulance company in the
college town as well. While I was there,
earning my teaching degree, I also took the Paramedic course and passed
that. Soon after graduation, I took and
passed the Paramedic II course.
I moved to another rural community, and started
teaching history at the local high school.
While there, I also volunteered with the ambulance and rescue
squad. When I started, the school was small
and underfunded, as was the emergency services.
Eventually though, new highways opened up the area
to the city, and the population exploded.
In the mid-90s, I was on a call for a bad car
accident involving an elderly couple. I
ended up saving the old lady’s life, while her husband was out cold. Both survived.
Couple months later, that old guy showed up at the
rescue squad building, carrying a large paper shopping bag. Turns
out he was an army medic in World War II.
Fought in Europe. France,
Belgium, Germany. Made it out without a
scratch. In the bag, was his old medical
gear- a couple bags, pouches, all on a harness to carry it all. The equipment was mostly still in it-
forceps, hemostats, some bandages and stuff.
He gave it to me, telling me how much he was grateful for me saving his
wife. “One medic to another.”
We talked maybe an hour or so, and I asked him how he
managed to get through all that shit without getting hurt. He reached into the bag to something wrapped
in a black cloth.
It was a knife.
Sanssouchi Fighting Knife, he said.
While in France, he saved some guy from the French Resistance who was
bleeding out after losing an arm at the elbow.
Tourniquet. The guy’s buddy gave
him this knife to thank him. French
resistance fighting knife. Big. Still sharp.
The medic said that it was good luck charm. He carried it through the war, and it kept
him from being hurt. Through Korea too,
he said. And now, he was giving it to
me. His most prized possession.
“One medic to another.”
“Take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.”
Sanssouchi Fighting Knife, WWII
Saw a couple months later that he died. Heart attack in his sleep. Widow maker.
He never felt a thing. I went to
his funeral. Full military honors.
I kept the knife with me whenever I went on a
call. Late 90s, there was a house
fire. I was one of three guys who put on
air packs and went in looking for a mother and little daughter who we could
hear inside. We found them just as the
floor above them collapsed, burying them in flaming debris. I could hear them screaming, even over all
the noise and gear. Tried. Couldn’t get to them. Other two guys, they pulled me out because
our tanks all started ringing, meaning our air tanks were almost empty. I didn’t want to go.
Hours later, after the fire was out, we were digging
through the debris with the fire inspectors, looking for the bodies. Found them after a bit. Floor was unstable, but we still managed to
get them out after taking pictures and measurements. They were both burned to charcoal, and fell
apart when we tried to move them.
Mom was twenty two.
Girl was five. The mom’s
boyfriend set the fire hoping to collect on insurance. He didn’t know they were in there, waiting to
surprise him. You see, she was pregnant
again. Just found out. Their first kid together. Were gonna surprise
him.
Dead.
Charcoal.
Me? Not a
scratch.
Year or so lately, wife left me. I was drinking too much and not talking to
her. All I could hear were the screams
of those two whenever it was quiet.
Now I’m in my fifties. The rescue squad and ambulance are all “paid
professionals.” I retired from teaching
after twenty five years. Wife
remarried. I now work on the ambulance,
usually driving.
So today, I decided to wear my Blue satin EMT
jacket. Got it out of storage. It’s a little small. Little frayed. Still shiny.
Brandon and Ashley, the crew I’m with today, they laughed and teased
me. I just smiled. They’re just kids. Early twenties. Probably same age that little girl would be
now.
Right now, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of the
ambulance. Those two are in the
Applebees getting lunch. I said I’d wait
out here. Not hungry.
I pulled out the knife. Still sharp after over eighty years. It’s quiet, and I hear the screams. Still.
Twenty years later to the day.
The screams of those I couldn’t save.
Took the knife and jammed it into my spleen. Twisted it.
It really fucking hurt. Screams
died out. I’ll bleed out within a minute
if that.
That’s when over the radio, the tones dropped-
cardiac arrest. Maybe a few miles
away. Rule of thumb said the victim only
had a few minutes before he would be beyond help. The kids would be here in seconds.
They’ll be too late.
Poor victim. I
don’t think they’ll make it to him in time.
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