A fall from Grace...'s balcony

Mike’s fall from Grace…’s balcony

“Jesus...Jesus...Fuck! I’m going to be sick.” And sure enough, following a frantic and frenetic twenty seconds the door on the late 90’s canary yellow Sun-Bird pops and a rag-doll floppy Mike pukes voluminously while, blessedly, he is restrained from furthering today’s glory and chasing his alcohol laden vomitus down to the ground by the seat belt. At least he’s wearing his seat belt. Isn’t sure how he got where he is or who in their fucking right mind thought a sun should ever be allowed to be this bright, but seat-belted he is; now if only GM had put their engineering might towards something to keep drunk fool’s heads from falling off and rolling in red dirt, skirting small pools of beer flavored stomach contents and coming to rest next to tourist pleasing, pressure-treated lumber fences that separate the flotilla of cars, soon to arrive, from white sand and crystal clear blue water. The irony is not lost...well that is overstating things. Mike, engaged as he currently is and experiencing that sharp pain, the one brought on by blackout quality drinking, that is so sharp he, and others before him, wonders if he might not just die; Mike still is not lost to the irony of the fact that as a life long Islander, he is now puking on the very earth he expected to be gone from. Tragically, gone from. But drunks are bad with directions. And local boys on small Islands often forget that not only haven’t they seen the world they probably don’t know shit about their small sandbar either. So, farcically we are witness, along with an early bird couple from Idaho in a monstrous Winnabago, to Mike’s dawning awareness that he’s not in Northern New Brunswick, minutes away from Quebec and a new life as the guy who introduces small town strippers at Trans Canada truck-stops / Danseux clubs, but naked but for a pair of red bikini briefs, retching violently and publicly, while clutching an obviously useless map to his chest like a true believer a tattered and eared King James.

“You all right, Darlin’?” asks Mrs. Wanda Mae Neidermeirer as she strides forth purposefully from the side door of her rolling home.

“Um, ah, yes mam...must be coming down with something.” A rather shaken Mike responds haltingly awhile thinking how can a head hurt like this and not be turning inside out from the pressure of the expanding aneurysm that is surely taking him this very day from his troubles?

“Well you are certainly coming up with something. Lordy chile you smell all the way over here. Smelling like just-about every Joe in Jack’s platoon round about the time I’d be chasing Mr’s hands away from where they aught not to be heading and the fights would be a starting. Men and drink, well it seems to me that not a one of you will ever grow up or learn your lesson. Jack, now get that water jug I asked you for and get your can down here.”

And down ambles Jack, still feeling a little under the weather his damn self, after a night of hard drinking with Tom Prescott, retired Thunderbird Pilot who actually flew off the Bonaventure. Back when Canada still had a military and the respect of men like Jack. And that is why Jack loves this life, rolling into beautiful necks of the woods all over North America. So many opportunities to get drunk while sitting on a lawn chair and shooting the shit about the good old days, when men were men and you shot the rest of the fuckers. As he descends the two steps to tera firma he can’t help staring at the ass of the wife that stills, ‘floats his boat.’

“What in the fuck do we have here?” sputters a hung-over and cranky, if a slightly bemused, Jack – water jug in hand and menacingly swinging.

Wanda and Jack, standing next to each other now and no more then 5 meters from an exhausted and dangling Mike - who now seems mesmerized by his newly formed Oceanus Vomitus - though hardened by age and experience with the ravages of drink and the associated high drama, look for all the world like they are watching an execution. Same mix of disgust, and fascination.

“Jack he doesn’t look good. Not good at all. Better call an Ambulance. Wait do these folk even have ambulances?” Seeing the shrug of Jack’s shoulders, she continues, “Well we’ll just try 911 and see, that’s all there is to it.”

And in the seconds left to Mike’s first return to consciousness he smiles. This is going to be good.

Not more ten 15 minutes later, Mike is fully conscious and dressing gingerly in soiled and extremely foul clothes.

“Yes, Darlin’, I heard you but we are not canceling that ambulance. You look like shit warmed over. Doesn’t he Jack? And don’t you folks have communism here anyway?” Wanda loves the sound of her own voice. And jack only talks to retired service men and only after exactly two tall Johnny Walker Red’s and Coke. See Wanda had become conditioned to asking the air questions and then motoring past any chance of an answer – it ain’t coming. Jack doesn’t hear it anymore. Loves her ass – never thought of her as much more then that.

“Well…I’m just going to head home…er…thanks for the help…and sorry for the show.” And he knows this is bad. Mike knows he has a tenuous grasp on his stability and consciousness; feels he very well could benefit from medical attention. Knows in his heart of hearts two very real truths: one, he cannot drive – still drunk and barely conscious; and secondly, there is probably no home to go home to – he remembers that much. And in fact, there are three very real truths, number three being that when that ambulance arrives Mike’s complicated in the last 24 hours life will get a whole hell of a lot more complicated.

“Hi folks, what can we do for you fol…Mike? Mike what the hell is going on?” asks an incredulous JP Cameron, paramedic. You see Mike is a paramedic and this really complicates a very complicated day. At least he isn’t still sporting the red bikinis. So he has the seatbelt and the no longer prettiness going for him. Not a damn other thing. Nada.

In the late evening of the day before, Mike had left home – said he’d see Johanna later; said he’d be out most of the night at Allan’s house. He started at Alan’s house and this would be a very different story if he had stayed. Mike is a good looking guy and Johanna and he got married when they were both 18 because she got pregnant with Shane – their first. Mike never got used to the idea that somehow he missed a whole lot of meaningless sex with college co-eds along the way. It ate at him. Mix in a penchant for drinking faster then his faulty genetics allowed him to sanely process and you have brewed up a nice recipe for disaster.

“Man, get the hell back in here. What are doing at that thing anyway?” asks a now truly drunk – slurred speech, the works – Mike. He then takes another long pull from the Keith’s clasped too tightly in his hand. Long pull followed by long stare straight down at the filthy carpet. Bottle now dangling loosely a strained smile washes over his face.

“I’m chatting with that tramp Grace. Wants to know what we’re up to tonight. In fact, wants to know what kind of underwear you wear.” Alan is speaking over his shoulder, sitting at a computer. Alan’s a weird sort. Never married, and mostly a hanger on he seems to ‘collect’ relationships with people that are smarter, better looking, or richer, something.

“Grace? You talking to Grace on the computer?” asks Mike on his feet and heading back from the fridge with beer number six in the last couple of hours, tops.

“Yup, wants to know where your wife is tonight?”

“Does she now? How about you go make yourself a drink and let me at that thing.” And with that he gives Alan a none-to-gentle push out of the thrift store chair and slides in behind the monitor. The only thing worth anything in this particular structural ode to, I am just about everything possible rolled up in a nice little package that guarantees I’ll never have a women I don’t pay for by the hour bachelor pad, is the computer. More specifically the monitor, you see Alan is a big gamer; even bigger yanker of his dick while watching Internet porn. You’re probably wondering if ‘thing’ meant Grace or the computer.

“Jesus H. Christ, alright already. So’s you know, she said Jake took that extra shift up in Souris, and she’s kind of lonesome. Wanted to know if we’d take a drive up. I told her to go pound sand.” Alan waddles off to the kitchen sporting a rather noticeable pud in the front of his ubiquitous sweat pants. He’s mixing his second weak vodka and seven of the night, acting drunk when he’s not. His back to the living room where the computer is, he hears typing. He drops his hand down the front of his sweats and yanks his dick up. After giving his hand a sniff he drops it in the bag a Doritos and throws a couple into his mouth. “You want some chips man?”

“Actually no, I’m going to head over to Grace’s house. You’re running low on beer and she says she’s got a fridge full. Might of mentioned something about not wearing a whole lot cause of the heat, but I wasn’t paying attention. You and the palm sisters have yourself a fine evening.” Mikes moves unsteadily from out behind the computer desk and, after getting his legs under him, heads for the kitchen. He gives Alan a quick smash on the shoulder, spilling Alan’s weak-ass drink all over the sweat pants to stained to matter. “See if you can’t keep it in your pants until I back out of the driveway. See you Sunday morning.”

“Jesus, thanks man. What a mess. All right I’ll see you Monday. Remember it’s your turn to bring lunch. Have Johanna make a lasagna, if you’re still married.” Emboldened by Mike’s obvious drunkenness Alan’s humor veers from plain dimwitted to sarcastic. It is lost on Mike – he’s drunk. And he’s apparently driving.

Backing out of Alan’s dump, Mike is concentrating on his driving. Part of being a Paramedic is driving a whole hell of a lot. Cool driving too, nice and fast with lots of weaving and under stress. Do this everyday and it inflates, often inappropriately, your self-concept of your driving abilities. In Mike’s case he’s got it about right. He’s a damn good wheelman. Mother’s Against Drunk Driving may have been around for well over a decade with their melodramatic yet powerful adds effectively raising public awareness against the dangers of drunk driving, but in many rural maritime communities – PEI included – it remains common. Mike, a paramedic for the last six years, and having seen many a mangled human indecipherable from bits of car, still thought little about getting into the SunBird and driving to Grace’s.

Some might argue that he was thinking with the wrong head or that too much alcohol and too little time had reduced his inhibition and clouded his judgment. All true of course. What ‘some’ are missing is the incredibly strange mix of personality traits, or more to the point flaws, that make the best paramedics. Risk taking behaviors are often rewarded. Life is instinctual and to be lived at full throttle. Everyday in a paramedic’s life this is reinforced. Every relationship must be deep, meaningful and fully realized in less then five minutes and rarely lasts longer ten thirty. Mike, a great paramedic, typifies these traits. He lives for the buzz of connecting quickly and tires of the work that real and true long-term human interaction requires. He’s only living when he’s got two seconds to start an IV so that he can administer a life saving drug, or charming a new widow in to smiling on the worst day of her life. All bang and boom and little else. Not a whole lot of quiet, contemplative moments or respect for that aspect of life in Mike’s or most paramedic minds.

“Every light in the house is on…” Why do drunks gravitate to country ballets, and how in the hell does he know the words to a Toby Keith song? Questions for another day. Mike is singing and driving the twenty minutes to where he thinks Grace lives. Around this time Alan is seeing (Mike probably never thought that compute chat programs have history features) that in fact Grace has not invited Mike over – at least not explicitly so. She said lots of explicit stuff; lots of talk about cut-off shorts and barely there tank tops; lots of talk about ‘connecting’ with people and shit like being wet. But in fact not once did she respond directly when Mike asked her if he should come over; but over he is attempting to come.
“There we go, must be the one with the balcony. Just like she described it, “ Mike thinks to himself. He’s out of the car heading to the door of the apartment building in seconds. This would be a beautiful night to be stargazing. Ink black sky a blaze with those million upon millions of dichotomous – at once edifying and soul destroying - spots. Just the hint of a breeze, doing very little to offset that high August heat so common and yet seemingly, bewildering to North Eastern inhabitants every year when it descends like a hot towel. A perfect night for lovers. And shift workers. Ones of those nights when it’s great to be a paramedic with the run of your entire town. A night that almost makes up for those January night shifts trying to keep you and your patient form freezing while the fire dudes cut the shit out of a car; Hurst tool cycling deafeningly in your ear as thoughts of why – in this unsafe scene – are you the only one working tonight wearing polyester and what is the safety rating of a wool blanket?

Mike’s not thinking much about the joys of walking with his wife on a white sand beach ten minutes from their house in the moonlight. He’s also not thinking about those moments of pure joy leaning on the front of a bumper of an ambulance, parked outside the emergency department, smoking a cigarette and laughing with the nurses and cops about some bag of bones you just brought in, drunk and raving about nothing. You see, Mike has forsaken the door and has decided in favor of scaling the Maritime Electric power pipe affixed to the apartment building that he feels will gain him access to what he thinks is Grace’s apartment. A very grand and exciting entrance is planned. Moments later, and unbelievably, cause he survived, he’s knocking and stage whispering to the female form lying on the bed on the other side of the patio doors.

“Psst. Let me in, Grace, it’s me. Let me in.”

OK, she’s startled, and pissed and she says, “What in the fuck are you doing out there.” Grace speaks deliberately and with a fake southern accent that no one can figure on why this particular affectation. And sober Mike has remarked that she is well past her prime. And standing tonight, even though back lit by the bathroom light in the room across the hall from the bedroom, with her hand on her hip she looks a little worse for the wear. Rather short and plump, bleached and tired hair permed to at least a ten-year time warp and sporting a lovely roll of flesh overhanging her too tight and too short cut-offs, she is standing with her hand on her hip and bristling for a confrontation.

“I’ve come for a drink. And whatever else you had in mind,” slurs an almost proud, drunk fool, still basking in the self-perceived glory of the climb.

“You can throw your ass of this damn balcony and get back in your car and go home to your wife. Or, I’ll phone Jake and he’ll beat you and then send you home to your wife. Either way your getting the fuck of this balcony you drunk and stupid dick-wad,” responds Grace through clenched teeth and strained whisper, southern accent replaced by her native Islander voicing. And ironically she grows prettier in that honest moment of anger.

Mike’s voice beginning to rise, “You said to come over for some fun and some drinks. You said Jake wasn’t home. You said to come over.”

“Listen here Einstein, let me be very clear for your small, beer-addled, male brain. You are going to go home and I’m going to try and pretend you aren’t here drunk on my balcony looking for something that neither of us really wants. I’m going to get the phone now. Leave and I may not make the call.” And with that controlled flourish she whips around and exits from Mike’s view, presumably to get the phone another room. It is then that Mike makes the bad decision on a night of really very bad decisions; he tries the door. Grace seeing this hits talk and calls Jake. The door’s locked. The combination of hearing Grace make contact with Jake and the firmament provided by the secured door brings about in Mike a momentary awakening. He sees himself; pathetically standing in his tight Jordache jeans and silly silk shirt, reflected back in the patio door the shit-head of shit heads. And she is telling Jake that he is attempting to assault her. He bolts. In the scramble off the deck and into his car he finds the one puddle left in August on PEI and falls on his ass in the middle. Now covered in mud, ass and head pounding, he speeds out of the parking lot.

That might have been the end of the story except for two very serious pieces of this goofy puzzle; Mike had a cell phone and guilty conscience and Jake fucking lost it and called Johanna even before Mike could. So by the time Mike was about to make his guilty an irate and broken Johanna was tearfully telling her Dad that Mike was drunk and had sexually assaulted a co-worker. Telling Mike’s father-in-law that Jake might very well be calling the cops. Before Mike could hit send he got a call from his father-in-law. The next hour is a blur of road-side phone calls of deep emotion and turmoil. Suffice it to say that Aliant cell tours have not heard so much begging and explaining ever. In the end a still drunk and now exhausted Mike has convinced Jake to stand down and has told Johanna that he’s leaving tonight for another life in the ‘Boston states.’ He’s ruined their lives and he can’t come back. He’s sorry but he has to go. But first he stops for a bunch more beer at the local bootleggers.

“JP, if you could just keep this quiet,” asks Mike concentrating on every word, to ensure that it is not followed with barf on JP’s boots. He waves at JP’s partner Bill still sitting in the truck, looking confused and on the radio. Instinctually Mike knows that Bill is canceling the police and letting dispatch know that there is no emergency here; probably putting the unit back in service. “Yeah, keep it quiet and I’ll give you a call later to explain. Ok?”

“Yeah, OK man. Listen, Johanna has called looking for you and I just filled the end of shift for a very fucked-up Jake. You got anything to add to this interesting pile of information muchacho?” JP is a shift supervisor – Mike’s opposite in the rotation. They’ve known each other for a long time; back to high school; broke bread with Mike’s family; was at the hospital to see Shane when he was born.

“Just drunk OK? I’ll call you later and thanks.”
“You OK to drive?”

“”I’m always OK to drive, you know that.”

And as Mike drives away, JP is over mending fences with a still concerned American busy body. It will never cease to amaze, just how fucked paramedics can be with everything other then the job. You have to see him work. You have to see the kindness, the empathy, the hands. Able to be in the moment with a little old lady who is more lonely then sick, with a burned up kid who he knows is going to die, in the moment on most calls and everyday. Totally there. Absolutely beautiful to watch and doing real and unseen blessed work; proving on a daily basis that providing service to others is a gift and he has it, medics, the good ones, all do. And yet two steps away from that stupid white van and the next thing you know you’re hanging from a seatbelt in red bikini underwear, puking your guts up, scaring tourist and your life is a shambles. Perfect.