That I owe a lot to LawDog and Ambulance Driver in terms of my readers. In honor of that, I decided to tell an EMT story and a cop story, which both have the same star.
Back in my shady past there was a guy I once knew. We'll call him John. (Farmmom, Farmdad, shush.) John's father is a doctor, and in a compromise between what John wanted, and his father's desire that John follow in his footsteps, John became an EMT. He was pretty danged good at it, too. I told him once if I ever had to be strapped to a backboard with my clothes being cut off, I wanted him to be the one doing it, because I knew he'd be focused on the medical stuff and not my hooters. Of course, John being John, he'd never let me live it down afterwards.
So, John being the highly efficient and serious EMT that he was, and our area's Emergency Response capabilities being what they are, he always kept a kit in his personal car, just in case. See, we don't have the ambulance standing by at all times. They have to contact the EMTs, who then haul ass to the ambulance barn and get the rig, and then proceed to whatever emergency there is.
John stayed prepared just in case.
One night, we were all hanging out at a mutual friend's house, with a bit of drinking. Mutual Friend's girlfriend had a sister in town, and John was in heat. The sister was enjoying the attention, giving a little mild flirting without crossing the line.
Well, John got started talking about his job as an EMT, and the sister, in the mild flirting spirit, began asking questions.
"How exactly do you do an IV? I've never had one."
Cue ominous music.
True to the behavior of the male homo sapiens in rut, John began his posturing ritual, ran to his car and got his emergency kit, and showed her. He placed a needle, explained the process as he did, and removed the needle. He did everything right, even making sure that he put the used (and covered) needle in the pocket on his bag that he used for his used sharps. She was entranced.
Cue ominous music again.
"Can I try?"
Well, she followed instructions and placed the needle, everything was fine... then she pulled the tourniquet.
John yelped, applied pressure, pulled the needle, and washed everything down. Then he put away his bag in a corner, to be returned to the car later. He gave the sister a couple of dirty looks, but she batted her eyelashes, and all was forgiven, and he returned to the barnyard dance in short order.
He also returned to the drinking in short order.
A small explanation here. At this point Mutual Friend had a small dog that had a habit of running out the front door every time it was opened, so he had installed a baby gate on the outside of the door to prevent the pup from getting run over. On the other side of the gate was a concrete porch.
We'd been stepping over the gate going in and out all night, and John, after his fourth or fifth shot of Goldschlager, had been startled at it's magical appearance on the other side of the door.
John being John, he was on a mission that night to get a ticket for indecent exposure. Why? I don't know, he said he'd never gotten one before. So he was stepping out to the front porch to take a leak, rather than using the restroom.
Two beers and a couple of shots later, cue John's beeline for the front door. I, being a good friend, reminded him of the baby gate.
"John, don't forget the baby gate." No response.
"John! Don't forget to step over the gate!" Nada.
By this time he was at the door.
He swept open the door and kept on walking.
Or he tried to. The baby gate hit him at about knee height, but he had enough momentum that it carried him over the gate, to a perfect three point landing. Both elbows and his chin.
Out cold. Less than a minute, but long enough for all of us to get over to him and notice, and attempt to wake him up.
Of course, we had to tend to his road rash. So we used his own kit.
Later in his life, John decided to become a cop. One of the local small towns was entirely without a police force, and had been for a few years, so they agreed to hire him straight out of the academy. I figured it was pretty good for him, straight from the academy to Chief of Police. Since the little town was on the major highway that passes through the county, he liked to work traffic late at night. It kept him busier than working during the day.
I was bored, and decided to go do a ride-along with him one night. Met up at the Police Station (read: the garage with an office that was used as a police station) and signed the waivers, etc, and crawled in the squad car.
We talked and watched the radar, and he even let me push the buttons once.
Then he got one that he had to take to the jail, driving under revocation, no big deal. Since the jail was in the county seat, along with the single dispatcher for, well, everything, he called it in and we headed out.
Did I mention that the sheriff at the time was a family friend, and had known me since I was knee high to a grasshopper? And ditto with the rest of the jail staff?
When the dispatcher, who knew that John was coming in with an arrest, looked up and saw me following him through the door, she apparently blocked out the fact that there was another guy with us and he was the one in handcuffs.
"What did you do?!?!?"
"Then why are you under arrest?? I'm calling your mother!"
"I'm not under arrest! I'm his ride-along! That dude is under arrest!"
By this time the dispatcher had picked up the phone and begun dialing. Meanwhile, John is doubled over with laughter, and he can't even straighten up enough to put his gun in the gunlocker.
He called me "Criminal" for the rest of the night.
I called him "Porky" for a week.