The darkened city blinks past, glimpsed only in red flashes through the side window. The Witching Hour is long past, as is the Drunk Hour. Push hard, push fast. Almost-a-medic does CPR compressions with a vengeance; the last, best hope for our patient. In between, I squeeze in a few breaths, watch the rhythm on the monitor, and push the required drugs.
We roll smoothly and quietly across town, the vacant streets providing no impediment beyond the occasional pothole. RP opens the front windows, letting in the cold, and turns up the stereo.
The sound of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” fills the box It’s not the Bee Gees, but it will do.
Another day, another city slides past the side window. I again ride facing backwards. A pregnant woman in premature labor, with a nurse along to assist. Everything is stable, for now, but we need to get to Big City Trauma Center soon.
RP weaves smoothly through the mid-morning traffic, orchestrating the siren and diesel in a wonderful symphony of sound and fury. Suddenly he calls my name.
As I lean my head into the pass-through window, he bumps up the stereo slightly.
Fleetwood Mac – “Go Your Own Way”.
I can see him laughing behind his sunglasses, and I can’t help a smile myself. I think the universe is telling us something, but I’m not sure what.