Always Leave Your Guard Up 5z3s2w

Always Leave Your Guard Up

Jonathon S. H. Lewis.

Copyright © 2020 by Jonathon S. H. Lewis..

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-7960-8043-8 eBook 978-1-7960-8042-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 12/27/2019

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 Petre the Pollack Chapter 2 Melvin the One-Nutted Jewish Plumber Chapter 3 The Mormon Foreman Chapter 4 The Fine Wine of Mogen Damey Chapter 5 Martin the Most Irritating Chapter 6 Lana Lips Chapter 7 The Transvestite Caper Chapter 8 Tommy the Mick Chapter 9 Two Johns Chapter 10 The Mixer Repair Case Chapter 11 Lemonhead the Frog Chapter 12 Tweety, Brain and Friends Chapter 13 Pot Smokers Chapter 14 Hank the Housekeeper Chapter 15 Nice Save Chapter 16 Betsy the Switchboard Operator

Chapter 17 The Best Softball Teams in the City Chapter 18 Fun Telephone Pranks Chapter 19 100 Years Anniversary Party Fun Chapter 20 Students Chapter 21 Water Fights and Paper Wad Fights Chapter 22 The Blizzard of 78 Chapter 23 The Result of a Stabbing Chapter 24 Sleep Deprivation Chapter 25 Doctor Eats Everything Chapter 26 Another John, the Baddest Guy Around Chapter 27 Working with Rabbit Chapter 28 Are You Sure She is Pregnant? Chapter 29 Naked Crazy Men Chapter 30 I Don’t This Ride Chapter 31 Spit Stories Chapter 32 Moon Over My Hospital, Not Miami Chapter 33 Muffler Eater Chapter 34 Who Has My Teeth? Chapter 35 Glass Versus Patient Chapter 36 I Discovered More Unquotable Quotes and Words Not in Webster’s Chapter 37 She Did Look Beautiful, I Swear

Chapter 38 Do I Have to Use Sign Language?

Epilogue The End, but a new beginning.

This is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the defenseless.

Prologue

Why am I doing this again?

The following story contains more adventures of the Elite Guard Force, coworkers and characters before and after my tour of duty at this institution. My first book was a compilation of true adventures and misadventures with my colleagues and me. This second book is a continuation, a part 2 if you will. I discovered an additional treasure trove of notes while I served on this Elite Guard Force. I hope not to offend anyone with my sometimes-off-color language and sometimes not-to-politically correct and insensitive descriptions of ethnicity. If this offends you, tough shit, don’t read beyond this sentence. If you are brave and have some grit, read on folks. If not, well, bye. I worked sixteen years at this institution honing my skills in a variety of competencies. My first job was in the clinical field of study but soon evolved to a more personal hands on and I do mean hands on approach in Security. I really loved this place. I felt the most comfortable in a job where my main focus was helping people. I don’t mean to sound gallant but helping people made me feel good, about me. I strived to resolve problems, disputes and disagreements through an open communication with all parties involved. Are you buying this bullshit? Apparently, you are more gullible than I thought. Keep reading then.

All I really wanted to do was to resolve conflict as quickly as possible just to get the fuck out of there and to go home where I could get some fucking rest. I was working two full time jobs to my family and I just wanted to get some God Damn sleep! Seriously though, I did like to help people and don’t get me wrong, I loved my institution. My adventures took me to places where I never expected to venture. I didn’t think I was cut out for this type of work, but I soon learned that this was my calling. Yes, it was my calling, and no one was yelling Sooie!

So, without further ado and I think you have heard enough of my heroic bravado bullshit, I present with all the respect in the world, my first encounter and initiation thereafter to my ball-busting colleagues. This is a little taste of the characters, ball-busting characters that I have had the pleasure, not quite sure it’s a pleasure, to be associated with. My first chapter will be about Petre, titled Petre the Pollack.

Chapter 1

Petre the Pollack

Let me introduce Petre (Stravinski-ski-ski-ski). Petre was the first putz I met when I was initially hired. I say putz, but putz was a loving term of affection we bestowed on each other. We all were putzes. In reality, we were all a bunch of assholes, but putz sounded a little better. Back to Petre the Pollack. Petre certainly was of Polish heritage. I must reiterate that Petre was the biggest Pollack that I have ever met. Petre never pulled any punches no matter who he encountered, as I will describe a little bit later. I think Petre was extremely honest, but he suffered from foot-in-mouth disease. Every time Petre opened his mouth, his size eleven foot would be fully inserted into his big mouth. Poor chap! I had a checkered experience involved with the hiring process at this institution and as I mentioned earlier, Petre was the first of the colleagues I ran into during the interview process. Petre greeted me while he was in a very relaxed position. As a matter of fact, I thought he was asleep. Mind you, that he was on duty. To the best of my recollection, here is what I from his “Welcome to the Team” speech. Petre said, “Hey, I’m happy to meet you. What’s your name?” I told him my last name. After I told him my last name he replied, “What are you, some kind of a Kraut?” I said, “Yes, I am of German ancestry.” He promptly replied, “Good, we needed a Kraut on this team.” I was a little taken aback at first but plodded on, so I said, “Why do you need someone of German ancestry on this team?”

Not missing a beat, Petre replied, “We already have two Pollacks, a Mick, a Jew, a Frog and two Wops, so we needed a Kraut, Welcome.” I am not exaggerating, this shit just flowed right out of Petre’s mouth with no filter applied. This was

the first time I met this individual. Could this a harbinger of stranger things to come? Maybe? Okay, so this Kraut is happy to be here, I think. At least I knew where I stood. I was happy that this was an honest first impression of what I was getting into. I’m totally on board now, psych! Petre was able bodied but I’m not quite sure how able minded he was. He did his job on a better than average scale. Of course, the scale I am using has never been calibrated, so I don’t know how accurate this scale could be. I’ll give you an example of Petre’s far out thinking. I must first preface Petre’s far out thinking example with some explanation of our boss Floyd, who we affectionately called Floyd’s Pecker. Floyd was a terrific boss that I greatly respected and looked up to. We had over a thousand employees at this institution and Floyd recognized and knew the name of every single employee. I am not joking; he knew them all. Sometimes I couldn’t even my own name, but Floyd knew every fucking body in the world. I was very impressed with Floyd. He was fucking amazing! I would routinely meet with Floyd in his office every day before my shift began and our meetings would usually extend well into my first hour of work. Like I mentioned earlier, I respected Floyd and was spell bound with his knowledge of management techniques. Throughout my career, I used Floyd’s management techniques to the max. I hope my personal legacy will include that I was a good boss like Floyd. Thanks Floyd, I was listening to you and learning from you the whole time. I am getting a little off track, so I’ll get back to the point. I was sitting in Floyd’s Pecker’s office one afternoon before my shift began. We were discussing the correct protocol to provide when giving regarding yearly appraisals for employees. Sounds good right? That’s bullshit, I don’t what the fuck we were talking about. It was probably some crap about one of our regular goofballs we had to deal with or some stupid job requirement. So, we were talking and discussing, discussing and talking, blah, blah, blah. Suddenly there was a very loud hammering on the door. The banging on the door was loud enough to make me almost be the recipient of a “Brown Monument to Surprise.” Floyd looked at his watch and just shook his head. He didn’t say

anything. I was puzzled. I looked at Floyd with the “What the Fuck?” look on my face. Floyd didn’t answer the door at first. I guessed that he did this on purpose. Later I found out that he did not answer the door at first, on purpose. Fuck me, here we go again. The second knock on the door was even more pronounced. Bang, bang, bang rang out on Floyd’s door. Floyd breathed a huge sigh and said, “Come in.” His eyes rolled back into his head as if he expected extremely bad news. I was a little worried for Floyd and for me because I had no fucking idea what was to come next. I braced myself for the impact. What the hell came next? This incident is classified as a memory burn because I haven’t forgotten this incident after all these years. After Floyd removed his hands from his head, Floyd seemed very calm. My friend Petre, Petre the Pollack, blasted through the door of Floyd’s office. Petre said in a very loud voice just short of yelling, “Fuck you Floyd, I quit!” Floyd just replied, “Okay Petre, I get it.” I however, was shocked to say the least. Petre repeated, “Fuck you Floyd, I quit.” Floyd replied, “Thanks for the update Petre.” Petre turned to leave and before he exited Floyd’s office, he replied to Floyd in a normal voice, “OK boss, see you tomorrow, bye.” Petre promptly exited Floyd’s office. I was wondering what the hell just happened. What the fuck was this all about? Did Petre quit? Was Petre serious? Was Floyd taking Petre’s resignation seriously? What was really going on? Do you really care? Do I really care? Am I asking too many questions? I asked Floyd with this stupid look on my face, which by the way was easy for me. Floyd just said, “Oh yeah, Petre does this every single day. He quits every single day. That’s his routine. He quits every single God Damn day.” I said, “He quits?” Floyd replied, “Yes, he quits.” Floyd looked at me and again saw the dumb expression still on my face. He sensed that he really needed to continue his explanation of what just happened, so he promptly said “Petre is practicing to quit his job and tells me, fuck you Floyd, I quit, every single day, just before he heads out the door to go home. Petre says that he needs to practice his quitting speech after he wins the lottery. This is just practice, a rehearsal, if you will, for when he really quits.” Jesus H. Christ in a Polish Kielbasa, what a moronic Polish dipshit was this Petre. Petre never really did win the lottery, but his “Fuck you, I quit” tradition

continued to the day he retired. Petre, in all due respect, I love you, but you are the biggest Pollack that I have ever met in my life. Ski baby, ski!

Chapter 2

Melvin the One-Nutted Jewish Plumber

Melvin, oh Melvin, you lived your life with one testicle. You must have heard thousands of one ball jokes. I must it, my co-workers and I frequently would in on the fun. An expression we used to say to each other was, “You are nuts!” In Melvin’s case we used to say to him, “Melvin, you are nut!” Another expression we used to say was, “Look at that guy, he’s nuts, wait a minute, that’s Melvin, he’s nut.” We had many nuts/balls/testicles references we used to say to Melvin and Melvin took the ribbing pretty good. We were all nuts except for Melvin, he was nut. Oh my God, enough testicle references! Back to Melvin the One Nutted Jewish Plumber. Melvin was born at the wrong time in his life. Melvin was a song and dance man. He would dazzle us all with his Hell’s a Poppin’ songs and tap dance moves quite frequently. We never had to ask him to perform. He just performed whenever he got the urge to perform. Melvin would have been a great Vaudeville star. “Ladies and Gentlemen, for your listening and viewing pleasure, let me introduce the only one nutted Jewish Vaudeville plumber performing his song and dance.” Like I said earlier, he was just born at the wrong time. In my opinion, he was great, but what do I know, I thought everything was great. What I did know was that Melvin was very entertaining. The one thing I ask myself is, how the hell did Melvin end up being a plumber, a one nutted Jewish plumber at that? Let’s clear up the one nut scenario. Melvin was born with one testicle. I don’t know if it was some sort of a family hereditary thing or a slip up with circumcision or what. He had one ball, OK? Jesus H. Christ in a scrotum, he had one fuckin’ ball, God Damn! How he became a plumber was another story. I guess his destiny was to become a one nutted Jewish fucking plumber. All righty then, let’s move on. Melvin was a great guy but kind of a shitty plumber, no pun intended. Everyone on the

maintenance staff muttered to himself at least once, “God Damn Melvin, that one nutted bastard struck again.” Melvin’s preferred method of fixing a leaky pipe was not to fix the leak itself, God forbid, but to place one of those little hospital basins under the leaky pipe, drip, drip, drip then strategically place the basin on top of the ceiling tile. So, when an unsuspecting person would lift the ceiling tile, the unsuspecting person would usually take a bath from one of Melvin’s repair jobs, where Melvin left that little basin. Melvin usually forgot where he put those basins, by the way. After a Melvin bath, most of us were ready to perform the ceremony and make Melvin a complete eunuch. One nut minus one nut equals no nuts. Done. I know that there were dozens of Melvin episodes experienced by other of the staff, but I have a few I’d like to share. I previously mentioned the hidden basin on the ceiling tile and yes, I took a hidden basin Melvin shower after lifting a ceiling tile. I would like to say that after taking one of those disgusting rusty water showers, every time a ceiling tile was lifted, extreme caution was exercised because no one knew what little surprise awaited them. Now that I think about it, I should have kneed him in the balls for that, ooops, I mean ball. My second Melvin story is titled the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger. In Hospital day to day life people generally are sick or recovering from being sick. Situations are usually routine but sometimes situations may be a little out of the ordinary where special tools are required.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce the new Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger. Step right up, this amazing tool will vanquish shit stools faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive!” The Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger was just a plunger, duh, but this amazing plunger had a CO2 jet cartridge attachment that would speed up the plunging process a thousand-fold. Lock and load, baby! Think of a jackhammer looking tool, you know, the tool the guys use to break up concrete when working on the streets? This is what the Super-Duper-PooperPlunger looked like. Melvin exhibited all of his Vaudeville talents while singing and dancing to announce to all the nursing staff and anyone within earshot, about the amazing coming of the new “Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger.” Jesus H. Christ,

what a showman. As luck would have it, a plunger was needed to clear up a logjam in one of the patient’s toilets. Melvin and his Super-Duper-PooperPlunger to the rescue folks. This dung was done! Turds away! Melvin came singing and tap dancing up to the floor and over to the affected shit can. God, what a performance by Melvin! He was magnificent! The SuperDuper-Pooper-Plunger was placed in the offending toilet bowl, the CO2 cartridge was inserted and ready to blow. Melvin straddled the toilet, locked and loaded. He cocked the trigger and fired. This shitter is clean! Melvin has exorcised the excrement! Whoa, wait a minute.

Well, as luck would have it, the trial test of the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger didn’t quite go as expected. Brilliant one-nutted Melvin forgot to place the blow back shield on the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger that prevents, you know, blow back? You guessed it, there was blow back, lots of blow back. Melvin was drenched from his waist to his ankles with foul-smelling excrement that escaped the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger with no blow back shield attached. You aren’t sitting on a stool Melvin; you are now the stool. Fuckin’ dipshit! Melvin, red-faced and apologetic, seized the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger to exit “stage left” and this time Melvin didn’t sing or tap dance his exit. Melvin kind of duck-walked away with his legs spread apart because he was drenched from waist to toes with shit and he smelled so lovely and looked so divine. Fuckin’ dipshit, literally! I will say one thing about Melvin the one nutted Jewish plumber, even with only one operable testosterone factory, he was a manly man and he had a no-quit attitude. He was bound and determined that the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger would be a success no matter how many shit storms he would have to endure. Again, as luck would have it, he got the plunger call again, shortly after he showered, cleaned up and changed clothes the very same day. Beware turds! Melvin has the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger for a replay, a new CO2 cartridge loaded, dry pants and most important, the blow back shield affixed in place and ready to protect him from the shit storm blow back. These fucking turds didn’t have a chance this time! Melvin was a man on a mission and determined to the max. He sang no Hell’s a

Poppin’ songs. He danced no Vaudeville tap dance. He was determined and stoic in his approach to the offending logjam this time. No turd was going to get the best of Melvin, that’s for sure shit sure! Melvin, while extremely focused at the task in hand, placed the Super-DuperPooper-Plunger in the toilet, loaded the CO2 cartridge, straddled the toilet, cocked the trigger and fired. Turds away!! Whoosh, that logjam disappeared from the toilet in the blink of an eye. Blow back? Hell no, the shield was in place and Melvin was as dry as a bone. Success? You may think so but as soon as Melvin fired that CO2 cartridge, there was a blood-curdling scream that came from the ading patient room. What the crap was that all about? What our genius one-nutted fucking Jewish plumber forgot was that the sewer piping was connected back to back with the toilet in the adjacent patient room. Of course, Murphy’s Law was in full effect and the patient in the adjacent room was sitting on the John when Melvin fired the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger in the other bathroom. That poor guy in the adjacent toilet was covered with the most foul-smelling shit ever to escape a toilet sewer pipe. In addition, his entire restroom, walls, ceiling, and floor was adorned with glistening brown trout. God all fucking mighty! What a shit blizzard exhaust blast! That scene was indeed quite a sight to behold! Housekeeping was promptly called in to clean up the remnants of the shit volcano. If it was up to me, I would have insisted that Melvin clean this mess up himself. He was the one and only major cause of this shit storm. This poor patient, covered head to toe in Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger exhaust shit was being escorted to the nearest shower to start the decontamination process. That poor patient, covered in shit, used his wooden cane to help himself walk to the shower. That poor shit covered guy! I felt so bad for him, but I must it, it was quite a sight to behold and it was all I could do not to break out laughing. Just picture that poor guy if you dare. It really was kind of amusing. Oh no, wait, oh Christ, here we go again, please no, Melvin no. I saw that little twinkle in Melvin’s eye. Melvin don’t do it. I’m serious Melvin, don’t fucking do it. Damn it, too late; here we go again folks. Melvin’s Hell’s a Poppin’ talent kicked in again, this time with a comedic angle. Melvin smiled at me and said,

“Look at that fuckin’ guy with a cane, he really thinks he’s shit on a stick.” Jesus H. Christ in a comedy sketch, Melvin cut out the Vaudeville shtick, please! Don’t make this situation worse. Let’s get the hell out of here! I quickly rushed Melvin back to the maintenance shop before he replied with another one of his brilliant curtain calls. I guess in some universe the SuperDuper-Pooper-Plunger would be a useful tool but apparently not in this universe. After this Melvin exploding mountain of shit incident, the Super-Duper-PooperPlunger was retired in place never to be used again. The Super-Duper-PooperPlunger was a good idea in theory though, you’ve got to it that. Now don’t you go getting too tired of Melvin. I have two more Melvin stories in which I was involved. Melvin stories good. Boring stories bad. My third Melvin story involves one of the wonderful hospital houses surrounding the hospital campus. Here goes Melvin again. I was working second shift and would come in early to chat with Floyd’s pecker, to get an idea what transpired during the day and to plan my evening shift. If you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn very cheap. My chats with Floyd were just that, friendly chatting. We talked about hospital folks, ER fuck ups and how soon Floyd could retire and go out to pasture.

This day I didn’t go right into Floyd’s office. I went to my office to chat with the boys before they headed home. Let me preface that this day was a rather nasty weather day bordering on freezing temperatures, windy and cold rain. This was a good night to crack open a bottle of brandy and curl up to the fireplace with a roaring fire blazing. Thank goodness my job was mostly inside and I wanted to keep it inside that evening. Chilly, chilly, hot tamale, Brrrr. My buddy Melvin, Melvin, Mr. One Nut? Well, he found me. He was scheduled to carry the beeper that night and he gave me some half-assed reason why he couldn’t take call time. I think it was a dinner engagement or something like that, something he would have to dress up for. He said he tried to pawn off that beeper to anyone but no one else would take it for him. I told him, “Sure, I’ll take it.” I would be on duty anyway and I would cover anything that came up. That was a big fucking mistake, the ultimate in big fucking mistakes. After Melvin gave me the beeper, I got a STAT call. I recognized the number as

being Floyd’s number, so I called him right away. Floyd answered and told me to by and ignore everyone and mainly ignore Melvin. I rushed to Floyd’s office. When I entered Floyd’s office, he stared at the beeper I had in my hand. He said ” Where the fuck did you get that beeper?” I told him that I got it from Melvin. He sighed heavily and just said, “That one-nutted son-of-a-bitch!” I asked Floyd what was wrong. He said that Melvin was trying to pawn off that beeper all day because the plumbers were working on a roto-rooter job on one of the hospital houses. They had been working all day with no success. Melvin would have to continue after hours until the job was completed. There was a sewer back up in one of the houses and the roto-rooter couldn’t break up the clog. Melvin got me to take the beeper and, in his absence, I was the plumber. That one-nutted son-of-a-bitch! He got me again! Floyd tried his best to deflect me from getting stuck, so to speak, with the problem but he was too late. Jesus H. Christ in a sewer pipe! Now I’m stuck bigger than that c the sewer pipe. All right, all right, now I’m stuck but good. What a dumb ass I was! I donned some rain clothes, bundled up as much as I could and went to see what the problem was that I inherited. Sure enough, the plumbers had done some extensive work, but the logjam was not cooperating. I conferred with the inhabitants of the house, hospital employees as it turns out, who I knew. They gave me the scoop. Their entire basement was flooded, and the clog wasn’t allowing the water to go anywhere. I worked on this God Damn clog, solo for maybe 7 hours straight in that nasty weather and finally was able to free the clog. God Damn tree roots as it turned out. As soon as the clog was cut through, the basement drained in about two minutes. Success, Yea! Melvin, Fuck You! I will get your one remaining nut if it’s the last thing I do. The residents of the house were very grateful and like I mentioned, I knew the residents. They invited me to come in and warm up. I think I drank 5 or 6 shots of whiskey in the warmup process. That God Damn one-nutted Jewish plumber won’t get me again, or so I hoped. After the warmup whiskey, I didn’t care anyway. This brings me to the last Melvin the Jewish one-nutted plumber story and I saved the best for last. Melvin, oh Melvin, I love you pal, but I hate you so much. The last Melvin episode ranks in second place only to the Floater episode in my first book. This

incident ranks a very close second place and here goes nothing. I don’t know how I got paired up with Melvin again. It doesn’t matter. Suffice to say, we were partners again. This time Melvin was the lead and I was the dumb helper. After all, Melvin was the God Damn plumber! This call was a sewer back up in the oldest wing of the hospital. This building was built in the late 1890’s or early 1900’s. This wing was the oldest. The piping was old, and this service call we received turned old very quickly. I will preface this segment with the fact that our hospital morgue was in this old wing. Just picture, if you will, multiple Medical Examiners flinging pieces of guts and who knows what else into the hopper in the morgue and flushing the hopper, time after time, autopsy after autopsy. This is an important fact that reveal itself a little later. Just flinging guts and innards. OK, so there was a c the main sewer pipe leading to the street where it connected to the city sewer pipes. We gathered up the roto-rooter, diamond cutters and all the cable we would need to clean out the pipe clear out to the street. We worked for hours with no success. The roto rooter would only go so far but would get stuck, diamond cutter and all. We measured all the cable we had fed into the clean out. The length was long enough to reach the city sewer connection out in the street. We decided to call the city to access the street clean out in the man hole. Two city plumbers (workers), I don’t know if they were plumbers or not, (probably not) came to where we directed them to a manhole in the street. The Police Department blocked a lane on the street. The city’s truck with its flashing lights jockeyed in place. This was a very impressive scene. It looked impressive but if anyone knew it was to just clear a sewer pipe, then it wouldn’t have been so impressive of a scene.

The city guys removed the manhole cover and sure enough, there was the cleanout we couldn’t roto root past. One of the city guys removed the cleanout cover. He was standing up in the manhole and the cleanout cover was about eye level with this guy.

Anyway, after he removed the cover, he could see that the cleanout was blocked solid. He asked his partner for a bigger, longer screwdriver. He started jabbing and poking at the c the cleanout. I shouted at him to be careful and maybe poking at the clog wasn’t such a good idea. , he was standing up and the cleanout was about eye level. No sooner did I warn him and with him still poking with the screwdriver, the clog let loose. The most disgusting shit, guts and who knows what else blew out of that cleanout hitting this guy smack dab in the face. It was a tsunami of the most disgusting flotsam I have ever seen, and this city worker took the brunt of that tsunami smack dab in his face. Jesus H. Christ in a pipe cleanout! It was so fucking disgusting! God Almighty! Guts, innards, shit, sewerage, all in a massive stream directly in this poor guy’s face! Whoa! Neither Melvin nor I got a drop of this horrible backwash on us. The manhole filled up with this disgusting flotsam immediately to about the city worker’s waist with him just standing there gagging. That poor guy. He then proceeded to puke his guts out until he had nothing left to puke out. This prompted Melvin to get sick and to violently puke his guts out, coincidently, right on top of this poor city worker’s head. Holy shit, I bet this city worker would never forget about his wonderful autopsy bath. The positive part of this whole incident was that the pipes were, at least, cleared out for now. Score! Job completed!

Melvin, my one nutted Jewish plumbing friend, may you have an endless supply of patient basins to fix leaks in the ceiling, get suckers to take your call time, finally figure out the correct operation of the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger, rotor rooter to your hearts content and last but not least, time travel back to a place in time where your Vaudeville song and dance talents can really be appreciated. I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain. I love you my one nutted Jewish brother.

Chapter 3

The Mormon Foreman

Out of the many bosses I’ve had over the years, the Mormon Foreman ranks as one of the best. I’ll relate the many names we had for him and please bear with me. The Mormon Foreman was the nickname I tagged him with. He didn’t mind that nickname so much. Others called him Gino, Papa Gino and Archie and I don’t know why. I called him the Mormon Foreman for obvious reasons. Hello, duh, he was a Mormon. The Mormon Foreman was one of the nicest guys that I have ever met in my whole life. He was just a genuinely good guy. I’ve never met a Mormon I didn’t like. I’m not a Will Rogers kind of a guy but, I never met a Mormon I didn’t like. Although, I will say that he did have one negative characteristic. He believed everything I told him, everything. I don’t know why, hey it’s just me , but I took so advantage of that negative characteristic of his. I felt bad when I would feed him a double or triple helping of bullshit, but I didn’t feel bad for too long. It was all fun. I pulled pranks on the Mormon Foreman that I will reveal in a later chapter. The Mormon Foreman was brilliantly smart in a technical sense but in a common sense arena, well let’s just say that the Mormon Foreman was a little tardy getting to class. Imagine this in your head; I picture him furiously digging through a six-foot by six-foot by six-foot pile of horseshit, absolutely covered from head to toe in this horseshit. I would then ask him “Papa Gino, what the fuck are you doing digging through this six-foot by six-foot by six-foot pile of horseshit?” His answer would be, “Since there is this huge pile of horse manure here, there must be a horse buried in there somewhere and I’m going to find it.” I loved this guy. He was the quintessential optimist. Notice in the Mormon Foreman’s reply that he said “horse manure” instead of horse shit. I don’t think that a single person that knew the Mormon Foreman had ever heard him utter a curse word in his entire life. I mean no one, nada, zippo.

My mission in life was to get this fucking guy to say a curse word. Any curse word would do, shit, fuck, god damn, bastard, bitch, anything for Christ sake! He was ultimately stoic in his resolve though. I tried and tried to get him to utter a curse word, but no dice. The Mormon Foreman was a tough nut to crack. I thought that I had succeeded my mission one fine day. I pulled an irritating prank on him over and over on the same day. The same irritating prank over and over and over. He fell for it every single God Damn time. the quintessential optimist? I thought I was really getting under his skin this time. I was relentless. Archie, just say fuck once! Jesus H. Christ in a pile of horse shit, just let go and say, “Fuck you, stop irritating me, you fucking asshole!” I tried and tried but to no avail. The worst I could get him to say was, “Son of a Gun, stop it!” From that day forward we all knew he was extremely pissed when the words “Son of a Gun” slipped from his mouth. One incident with the Mormon Foreman and I involved Mormon underwear. This Mormon underwear subject was a subject along with the Mormon religion that I knew absolutely nothing about. Really, I didn’t know anything about this. What the hey? Anyway, Papa Gino and I had to scrub up, change into some hospital scrubs and go into a sterile type area. We were both men, adults, and we didn’t think it would be a big deal to disrobe in front of each other and put on scrubs. When the Mormon Foreman took off his shirt and pants, he had the funkiest looking underwear on under his street clothes. I of course wore my little tighty whiteys and run of the mill white tee shirt.

I’ll try to describe his underwear. The top piece was white and looked sort of like a regular tee shirt. The bottom piece ended just above the knee. The part that covered the genital area looked almost like a jock strap, if a jock strap was worn outside of a pair of tighty whiteys. Do I have you fully confused? Imaging seeing this strange looking contraption unsuspectingly for the first time ever. What I didn’t know was that this underwear contraption was a temple garment worn by both men and women of the Mormon faith. Joseph Smith, I apologize for my gross ignorance. What the hell did I know? I had never seen this type of underwear before.

I said to the Mormon Forman, “What the fuck are you wearing Gino, some kind of kinky underwear? Hey, don’t try to make a at me or anything.” I was just kidding at the ( at me) inference. I was just trying to be a dumb ass and of course, I greatly succeeded in this endeavor. The Mormon Foreman looked at me with a very serious look on his face, furled eyebrows and all. He was dead serious, “Oh shit.” He simply replied to me in the calmest Mormon Foreman voice possible, “This is a religious garment worn by Mormons.” Next, an idiot reply was of course, required by me. I just couldn’t help myself. I was so stuck on stupid. Even though I didn’t quite know exactly how to reply, I just said, “Well isn’t that special. I’m just wearing run of the mill heathen men’s tighty whitey undies.” He just shook his head and said, “Whew”. I thought I could have at least gotten a “Son of a Gun” out of him, but not this time. It’s a good thing that the Mormon Foreman was such a good person and such a good soul. I deserved an ass kicking at least once a week from Archie. Sorry buddy, I love you, you taught me a lot, but you were such easy pickings and I was such a schmuck.

Chapter 4

The Fine Wine of Mogen Damey

The Mogen Damey wine is a potent potable named by me. I named it after an employee’s homemade wine. He worked in my fine institution. Mr. Damey was a Supervisor in the materials department. His first name was Dan and his last name was Damey so of course, I nicknamed him Damn Damey. Damn Damey was a kind soul. He worked hard. He always did his work on time and as far as I knew, he was a great boss. I only had one problem with him and you know that I was always looking for something. Damn Damey had no ass. Jesus H. Christ in a negative gluteus maximus! He had no derriere! I’ll get to the Mogen Damey wine stuff in a bit. Damn Damey had no ass. I said that. He literally had no ass. Damn Damey was a veteran of the Army. He served 20 years in the Army and I believe he was in materials handling most of that time. He really did know his jabebes when it came to materials, how to handle them, how to package them, how to sterilize them, how to inventory them and how to deliver them. Relax, wait a second, I’ll get to the fucking point! What was my point? Oh, yeah, my point was that Damn Damey had no ass. From his waist down, it was a straight line, flat ass, no ass at all. How in the world did he keep his pants up? Damn used to tell me how hard he worked in the Army and how hard he worked in the Hospital. I guess that I witnessed a modern miracle. Damn Damey worked his ass off, his ass was all gone, no ass, zippo, ba-bye! All right let’s get to the Mogen Damey wine. Damn Damey, little known to everyone, was a vintner. Damn started with fruit, fermented it into alcohol and bottled the finished liquid for consumption. My guess is that he acquired this skill in the many years of Army life, but he would never reveal his secret to any of us. Oooo, big secret, big fucking deal. Once a year, Damn Damey would crack his wine cache and bring a half dozen or

so bottles to the big holiday Christmas bash. This big holiday Christmas bash would usually take place in the maintenance shop where the party was not near any critical hospital areas or patient areas. Floyd’s Pecker knew that we were going to act like a bunch of idiots when we got liquored up and he made sure that the location of our party was isolated. Let me back up a little because I need to tell you my brilliant naming skills when it came to Damn’s wine. You may be able to figure this out yourself, but let me explain the name. Mogen Damey is a clever little lampooned name I gave to this wine because it bore a striking resemblance to another Mogen (last name omitted) wine and I’m talking name only. My brilliant naming skills took over in my pea brain and I named the wine “Mogen Damey” after our hero of course, Damn Damey. The wine was aptly named Mogen Damey. Aren’t you glad you read through this whole chapter so far to learn that little fact? Don’t blame me, you are reading this fucking book. The Mogen Damey wine was a big hit at our big holiday Christmas bash. This party was supposed to be a small get together with just a few departments participating. Folks brought food and goodies and initially we were all having a wonderful, quiet time. Enter Damn Damey and his supply of Mogen Damey wine. Things would soon start to liven up to a fever pitch. I don’t know the process of making wine or the fermentation process or anything about it, but Jesus H. Christ in a vineyard, what the fuck was in this wine? It was very sweet tasting, like drinking a fruit punch which led to having another glass and another and another. The real punch came shortly after a few glasses of Mogen Damey! Soon this party spilled into other departments, to other floors and after a few glasses of Mogen Damey wine, it seemed like everyone was certainly in the “holiday spirit”, or holiday spirits, was more like it. I guess that I was blessed with a certain degree of self-control or restraint or something like that, certainly not brains. I saw what was transpiring. I knew trouble was a-brewing. I would grab a spare cracked bottle or even a full bottle of Mogen Damey wine and sneak off to the restroom to pour it down the toilet. Hey maybe Melvin the Jewish one-nutted plumber should have tried Mogen Damey wine to clear toilets instead of the Super-Duper-Pooper-Plunger? Who knows, maybe it would have worked? Ahh, fuck it, maybe not!

Anyway, I disposed of all the Mogen Damey wine I could get my hands on, but the damage already had been done. Lots of folks were being squirrely so the party got suspended. What I do know is that a lot of people woke up the next morning with a rip-roaring headache. I did and I really didn’t have all that much of the Mogen Damey wine. I think the wine Damn brought in was vintage of a week or so before the party. That was quality vintage stuff. That big holiday Christmas bash was the last Christmas party of its kind and I firmly believe that the Mogen Damey wine was the culprit that put the kybosh on our Holiday Party forever. God Damn, Damn Damey’s, Mogen Damey wine! Try saying that fast three times.

Chapter 5

Martin the Most Irritating

Martin was the most irritating person that I have ever met in my life. Martin was a nice enough guy, but he could get under your skin in a micro-second. God damn, he was irritating. I’ll give you a few of his irritating traits. I think it was Martin’s plan to make other people feel uncomfortable. For example, he would make sure that he would eat a very disgusting lunch. I don’t know what the hell he ate but I’m sure it included peppers and onions and anything else foul smelling. He would give it an hour or so to ferment in his stomach, then he would expel his annoying belches. He would make sure that he was right next to you and he made sure his belch exhaust flooded your face. God those belches smelled absolutely awful. He would laugh like a Hyena when he expelled this disgusting gas directly into your face. What a fucking idiot. I still shudder thinking about those disgusting belches. Another one of his irritating traits was whenever a person was really concentrating on something, anything, Martin would sneak up behind that person and flick an ear or slap a neck. This action would make a person jump out of his seat. Again, he would laugh like a Hyena. We all wanted to pound him but he was a big guy and he would probably laugh if we tried to punch him. I think every one of us threatened to get even and play an irritating trick on Martin. I don’t know if anyone else did but I’m like an elephant, I never forget. I did manage to get him back in spades.

Let me preface my payback on Martin with a little explanation of how Martin landed his job at the hospital. The hospital needed some sort of a mechanic that knew refrigeration. Martin was the man. He was a master refrigeration mechanic, at least that was how he presented himself. Actually, Martin didn’t know the difference between a compressor and an un-dresser. I don’t know what

kind of a line he gave the hiring folks, but he got hired anyway and thus began his irritating antics on all of us unsuspecting dolts. My payback on Martin was meticulously planned. I would wait until he was fully engaged on something and not paying attention to anything except his task at hand. that I said he knew something about refrigeration machines? Like I previously mentioned, he didn’t. What I did find out was that he was deathly afraid of chillers, compressors or any machine that would make a loud noise. I witnessed that he would jump any time a machine would start or kick in. He was what I called “goosey.” I don’t get mad, I get even. Revenge is a dish best served cold. I would eventually get this little prick. My payback time came when Floyd’s Pecker ordered him to try and get this rickety old air conditioning machine back working again. I knew Martin the irritating would be working by himself in an isolated location. I also knew the location and made sure that Martin the irritating was all alone, fully engaged and not paying attention to the point that he didn’t even hear me behind him. Martin the irritating was concentrating so hard that smoke was coming out of his ears. The refrigeration machine was off and he was contemplating his next move. I was as quiet as a mouse and got closer to the start switch. Let me say that I wasn’t trying to hurt him, just make him jump like he did to the rest of us. He was so fucking irritating. He deserved payback. I inched closer to the switch. Martin was now fully engaged and his hands and feet were clear of any rotating parts. I was sure of that. I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted revenge. Bam, pow, I threw the switch and the machine started! Martin the irritating almost jumped out of his skin. I immediately turned off the machine. Gotcha, you irritating son of a bitch! I told everyone of my accomplishment in order to curb Martin’s irritating ways, but this was not to be. Irritating the fuck out of people was Martin’s ion in life. He continued irritating people until the day he left the hospital employ. I don’t know what ever happened to Martin. One thing I really didn’t understand was that Martin the Most Irritating had the most gorgeous wife ever. She was drop dead gorgeous. She sured number 10, seriously. What in God’s Earth did she ever see in Martin? That fact still baffles me to this very day. Martin eventually left the employ of the hospital. I bet that he made sure he

irritated everyone else he met in his life that crossed his path. Irritation was his ion and that was just his standard MO, to irritate everyone. God damn, he was irritating and I’m getting irritated writing about Martin the Most irritating, so I will stop. Now I’m fucking irritated beyond belief! Fuck you Martin!

Chapter 6

Lana Lips

Lana C was a Nursing Supervisor. She was in her middle 30’s, very, very attractive and was a ball-busting hard ass to everyone, but strangely enough she was as nice as pie to me. She liked me. Maybe it was my dashing good looks? Maybe it was my twinkling Hazel eyes? Maybe it was my wonderful personality? Who am I kidding? Ok, so I wasn’t all that good looking, but I did have one huge positive trait. I listened to Lana as I did with all women. I respected women and their fascinating minds. I know it sounds corny and like complete bullshit, but women have been on my side and ed me my whole life. My best allies have been women throughout my career. Hands down, I would much rather have a woman boss than a man boss any day. Let me get back to Lana Lips. I told you that she liked me. I did every task she asked me to do, no matter how trivial, how small, how insignificant it may have seemed. Who was I to argue? She was the boss. All the orderlies hated her. Again, that’s because she was such a hard ass. She had a ship to steer and some stupid schmuck orderly was not going to fuck it up for her. I was asked more than once by more than one orderly, “Why does she like you so much? You got something going with her?” I did not. I just liked her and she liked me. I worked to make her hospital life easier. Lana Lips certainly ran a tight ship. Aye, aye Captain, I’m here for you anytime. Whatever you want Lana. Now let me tell you where the nickname Lana Lips was hatched. I will confess. I gave her that nickname. Would you have guessed anything else? Besides, this is my story, my book, so live with it! Lana and I had a purely platonic relationship. She was my friend. However, I will say that this woman had the most incredible looking lips possessed by any woman on any planet that I have ever seen in my life. Wow. Lana’s lips were all natural. Lana’s lips were perfect. There was no cosmetic surgery there. There was no liposuction involved. There were no Botox

injections in those lips. They were all natural. She possessed perfectly heart shaped lips. I don’t think Lana even knew that she possessed the most incredible, soft pliable anatomical structures that form the mouth margin of most vertebrates, composed of a surface epidermis, connective tissue and in typical mammals, a muscle layer. Whew, that’s the official scientific description of her lips and it was quite a mouthful, so to speak. All I can say was that Lana’s lips were un-be-fucking-believable. Jesus H. Christ in a frontal, infraorbital nerve. Pucker up baby! Unfortunately, the moron orderlies picked up on my nickname for Lana. Whenever I was in the company of an orderly and Lana would by, the pursing of the lips by these idiots would start. After Lana ed by the smack, smacks would follow behind her back. God damn it, why did I tell these morons my nickname for Lana? I was such an idiot. This was a touchy situation. Do I tell Lana about the mocking gestures behind her back? If so, I would have to reveal who gave her that nickname. I am sure that she would have been very disappointed in me and I certainly didn’t want that. I took the cowards way out. I chose not to tell her. What a fuckin’ weenie! What a fuckin’ candy-ass! Fortunately for me, the situation resolved itself rather quickly when Lana accepted a higher position at a rival institution. I was saved tons of humiliating embarrassment with her, due to her leaving the hospital for another job. Lana, I liked you, I respected you and I really thought you were one of the best management people I’ve ever seen. Oh my God, but those lips were incredible! You were my friend, but Damn, those lips were beautiful!

Chapter 7

The Transvestite Caper

The Transvestite Caper will go down in the annals of hospital history as being one of the most ingenious, well planned, clever tricks ever perpetrated on an individual. This story starts, strangely enough, at the hospital switchboard. Our switchboard operator on second shift was quite a lady. She was a widowed older woman, maybe in her late fifties or early sixties. Her name was Betsy. Everyone at the hospital knew when Betsy was working. Her low, manly, gravelly voice that emanated throughout the entire complex when she paged someone was certainly unmistakable. I will devote an entire chapter to Betsy later in my book, but for now let’s just say that everyone recognized the gravelly Betsy voice. Every orderly and lots of other employees would hang out at the switchboard at one time or another during their shift. If a call came in for an individual to report to a floor, or to do a job, or anything whatsoever, Betsy would get the call and dispatch accordingly. It just made sense. You were right there at the heart of communications. It was a place of solace at a time when believe it or not, smoking was allowed throughout the entire hospital. Folks would sit and take a smoke break and chat with Betsy. Hey, she was a nice lady. The Transvestite Caper was hatched not from just one person but was contrived, let’s say, as a group effort. We all were guilty of being co-conspirators of this plan in one way or another. All righty now, let me give you the players and the details around this most ingenious, well planned, clever trick ever perpetrated on an individual in this institution. Jesus H. Christ in a long sentence, that was a mouthful!

First was Betsy. She was key in communicating the objectives to the main

people involved. Next were three orderlies, two orderlies were co-conspirators and one orderly being the recipient of the practical joke or shall I say victim of the practical joke. Next was Fazz. He was employed at the hospital, but I won’t say which department. He was not an orderly but knew all the parties involved and was a friend to all of us. He was a very important part of this prank as you will soon find out. I was involved because this prank needed an idiot like me to design the prank from start to finish and to ensure that this scheme was well planned and coordinated. Enter me, the nimrod of masterminding this entire caper. Now let me give you a background on the players. Two of the orderlies were named Tweety and Brain. They were full time employees. They were both nice enough guys but excuse me if I sound crass, I certainly wouldn’t want to shave any guys balls or asshole in preparation for surgery. Choose your own poison, but hey that’s just not my cup of tea. Tweety and Brain both were enthusiastic young men and their jobs gave them the opportunity to know just about everyone in the hospital. That is also vital to the plot. The third of the triad of orderlies is Rex. Rex’s job at the hospital was part-time and he usually worked the evening shift. Rex was employed full time as a prison guard at one of the local prison facilities. He was older, experienced and was a royal pain in the ass not so much to me, but to his fellow workers. Rex usually used his savvy to circumvent the shit jobs and those shit jobs on to Tweety and Brain. Rex was always pulling tricks on the other two guys. Tweety and Brain fell for Rex’s stunts and scams and were more than ready to get back at Rex. This constant torture from Rex went on a long time, maybe a year or so. Tweety and Brain were just biding their time, tick, tick, tick. Ladies and Gentlemen, enter the mastermind! Tweety and Brain came to me with their tales of being screwed so many times by Rex and his scams. I then asked them some quite personal questions related to Rex. One question was about his sexual tendencies, preferences, and partners if they knew anything about those subjects. Another was his marital status, home life and those types of related facts. In my experience, this subject usually divulged some juicy information, hot buttons, if you will. Out of their conversations with me came a golden nugget or a diamond in the rough, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Any way you describe it, this little piece of information ed to me was just what I was looking for. It was fucking gold!

As it turns out, Mr. Rex liked to have intimate phone conversations with the opposite sex and the phone conversations would usually escalate to the next step, if you get my drift. I don’t know how Tweety and Brain found out this little tidbit, but now I had a great foundation to plan the attack. I was such a nefarious little putz but after you hear this whole scheme, you must it that it was brilliant. C’mon, really it was! OK, so Mr. Rex enjoyed phone sex. Got it. First, I would have to get some female assistance somewhere. Now mind you that Rex knew most of the women in the hospital so my choices were fairly limited regarding who I could recruit to talk with Rex and not puke in the process. Bam, I got it. Fazz had sisters and this part is irrelevant to the phone sex, but his sisters were 10’s. Wow! His sisters were great sports and they promptly replied in the positive to my request. Here is where Betsy was crucial. I didn’t have to ask her twice to participate. When I told her the entire scheme, she couldn’t say yes fast enough through her smiles and giggles. She was all in, 100% down with it, to the max effort, yeah baby! Here we go.

Betsy would page Rex to inform him that he had an outside call waiting. The outside call was one of Fazz’s sisters. She had a sexy voice so it wouldn’t take too long for Rex to fall into this sexy spider’s web. After all, Rex preferred this approach. Fazz’s sister wasn’t off site but was on-site in a private office that I unlocked for her. I stayed with her during her conversations just in case Rex had some questions that she couldn’t answer. I had kind of a loose script in which she could cheat off of and answer his queries. In addition, Tweety, Brain and Betsy were at the switchboard, with their voice muted so they could hear everything that was said by both parties and not have to worry about any background noise or laughter. Their first conversation was light with a little bit of flirting interjected into the conversation. We didn’t want to scare Rex off, so we had to tread lightly. The first conversation didn’t last too long, but it was a good start with a promise to continue the conversation at a later date. After all, the torture Tweety and Brain took lasted over a year or so and as they say (whoever the fuck THEY are), revenge is a dish best served cold. I think I used this before, maybe? Whatever. We were all very patient. The next call was promised by Fazz’s sister a week

later. The second call got a little more graphic. Rex decided to press the issue by interjecting a little sex talk. We were all a little bit surprised that this second conversation turned into horny talk quickly by Rex. He really got into it. Maybe it was Fazz’s sister’s voice. She was so sweet. She handled herself tremendously. She let Rex go where he wanted to go. Realize that she had me beside her silently coaching her all the way. I was such a manipulator, especially when it comes to practical jokes. Mind you that manipulation wasn’t my life’s goal but when asked to master mind a prank against a bully, I was the first person to step up. Back to the Transvestite Caper. The third phone call with Rex was scheduled for a week later. This third phone sex call started off graphic. Rex wasted no time. Rex was hot to trot. Fazz’s sister and I had Rex eating out of our hands. Rex was such an easy target. Now, here is where the caper took on an entirely different direction. My plan (our plan) was to lure Rex into a face to face meeting with Fazz’s sister. Of course, sex was on the menu to ensure Rex would be present at this scheduled tryst. I know I haven’t fully explained the Transvestite part of this caper yet so get ready, get set, enter the extremely vital Transvestite phase of this most ingenious, well planned, clever trick ever perpetrated on an individual in this institution. Holy shit, I bet you would never think I would get there. Well, here it is readers. Jesus H. Christ in a cross-dresser’s garb, here’s the plan. Fazz was our Transvestite. Let me explain. Fazz was NOT really a Transvestite in real life. He was our plant to substitute for his sister, to meet with Rex for this sexual tryst. Fazz practiced and practiced his role in order to master his performance. If he was acting, God Damn it, he deserved an Oscar for this performance! All the rest of us would be strategically hidden at the meeting place to catch Rex and to see the look on his face when he thought that this meeting was going to evolve into a promising sexual meeting, but with a man dressed as a woman. Got all that? Fazz was to take the place of his sister. Good plan? Fuck yes it was a good plan! It was a brilliant plan! Seriously, you got to say it was brilliant. C’mon, work with me here.

Fazz’s sister was a master with makeup. She really dolled up her brother. Fazz looked really sexy with his jet-black wig, tight dress to include Double D falsies, black panty hose and spiked high heels. His sister did him up masterfully. I swear, you couldn’t tell that Fazz was a man. God damn, he looked hot! Initially, we never believed Rex would go through with this tryst and show up to meet this little sweetie. Rex was married in real life. I guess that didn’t matter to him. Rex was the MAN, or so he thought. Rex did not disappoint us. He was Johnny on the spot to the meeting place. Rex showed up on time, showered, shaved, properly dressed and ready for a sexual encounter with this sexy woman. Like I said before, Fazz looked fucking great! God Damn, Fazz was hotter than Georgia asphalt! Fazz sauntered into the meeting place (a bar) and sat down. Rex engaged Fazz, our plant, with some light conversation. Fazz was a great actor. He was spot on. He let Rex do most of the talking. Rex was a gentleman at first, but it soon turned into some hinted sexual promises. Fazz played along brilliantly. Rex never took Fazz as a man. The plot thins…… As soon as Rex started to make his move, Fazz stood up and removed his wig. Fazz still looked steaming hot without the wig but make no mistake, you could tell Fazz was really a man and not a woman at this crucial point in time. The look on Rex’s face was ab-so-fucking-lutely priceless. Rex’s dumb look contained a myriad of emotions. It was a mixture of surprise, disappointment, embarrassment and the look of “What the fuck just happened?” Rex got burned. He got caught, hook, line and sinker, baby.

This was our cue for the rest of us idiots to suddenly appear. We were smiling and laughing and pointing to Fazz, our made-up Transvestite. “Rex, you wanted sex with a Tranny, you stud you!” Rex was embarrassed to the max. His face was cherry red. He didn’t know what the fuck just hit him. He didn’t know whether to shit or go blind! God Damn, we did it. Rex was fucking speechless. This caper worked and the expectation from this caper was that Rex would be humbled enough to lay off of his fellow partners. Now they really had some teeth to defend themselves against Rex. Sex with a Tranny, you stud you! You are such a perv! I don’t think that Rex ever knew the identity of the master mind behind this

whole scheme. No one ever revealed to him that tidbit of information. They were just happy to get Rex off their backs and to all share the load when it came to their responsibilities. Rex was very much humbled and was a different person after that incident. The Transvestite Caper was the most ingenious, well planned, clever trick ever perpetrated on an individual in hospital history. I will now bow proudly to my achievement. Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen. I really am such a fucking, conniving schmuck.

Chapter 8

Tommy the Mick

Tommy the Mick was my neighbor and my good friend. Tommy was a master carpenter. I convinced him to get a job at the hospital in order to get a steady income and to enjoy some great fringe benefits. The hospital was a great place to work and hey, there were lots of interesting people that worked there. I was working there, no? What else did you need? Tommy was of the Irish contingent of our cast of characters. Trust me, the term Mick was no way meant to be a derogatory term when it came to Tommy or any Irishman for that fact. Each nationality represented by our team welcomed the term designated as slang for their nationality. I’m glad I got that explanation the hell out of the way. Don’t blame me, blame Petre for the slang used in this book. As I mentioned in the first paragraph, Tommy was a master carpenter. There wasn’t anything made from wood that Tommy couldn’t build or restore. Now I’m talking about making or restoring anything whether the project was of a modern style architecture or antique style or whatever. I don’t know shit about carpentry anyway. I wasn’t totally helpless, but I even had trouble banging nails straight. I would assist Tommy on weekends with non-hospital projects. He would tell me where to bang the nails and I would bang the nails for him. Like I said, I didn’t know shit about carpentry. Are you wondering where the fuck this is going? Well, so am I. Seriously, be patient. I know where I am headed, trust me. I just wanted to give you an idea of Tommy’s brilliance in his field so that I could emphasize his negative assets. That’s how I roll, boys and girls. Jesus H. Christ in an Irish whisky bottle, this is a true story and I’m an idiot, ? The hospital was a clean environment and everyone was encouraged to wash their hands regularly. Sometimes the carpenters would restore or rebuild patient

rooms and were frequently on the floors where patients were located. Sometimes we all would see folks at their worst, whether physically or mentally. The mental ranting and ravings of a patient wasn’t much of a problem for Tommy, but the physical part was indeed a problem for Tommy. By physical, I mean blood, oozing pus from wounds, scabs, nasty scabies and anything that was visually unappealing and kind of nasty. As part of the hospital hiring process, a complete physical was required on each potential employee to include a chest X-ray and a complete blood work up. The complete physical was not a problem for Tommy. The chest X-ray was not a problem for Tommy. The complete blood work up? Problem for Tommy! Tommy had the weakest stomach constitution that I have ever seen. Tommy even went as far as to warn the phlebotomist before she performed venipuncture and drew his blood, that he may not tend to enjoy this procedure. Hey, choose your poison girl, Tommy warned you. As soon as the phlebotomist girl inserted the needle and started to draw blood, Tommy looked at his arm and Good Night Irene, or should I say Good Night Tommy. His lights went out quicker than Con-Edison could throw a disconnect switch. Out fucking cold! He fainted like a big weenie. None of us ever knew that he didn’t like the sight of blood and I can say after that fainting episode, we never let him forget it.

Whenever someone would cut themselves, Tommy would be the first person they would run to so Tommy could see the open wound. He hated blood and guts. Poor Tommy with the weak stomach. One incident with Tommy involved him injuring himself while performing his magic on a piece of wood or something involved with carpentry. Like I said before, this trade was not my forte. I didn’t understand shit about banging nails. Tommy cut himself while sawing a piece of wood or something. This cut was not bad at all, but to Tommy, here comes the lights out trick. Out he went again. He fainted again! Tommy really did NOT like the site of blood. Of course, with Tommy being my neighbor, I would set this hemophobia Mick up for some tortuous practical jokes on a personal “at home” basis. This was my devotion in life, ? This practical joke had absolutely nothing to do with my employ at the hospital, but it is well worth mentioning anyway. Work with

me, the following explanation is very vital to this practical joke, so be patient. My brother-in-law was another man that was born at the wrong time in his life. He was a mountain man. Seriously, he was a mountain man. Jeremiah Johnson was his favorite movie of all time. He could have been one of those guys that could have survived in the wild all alone, trapping game and hunting Grizzlies all while wearing a coonskin hat. He was a real Davy Crockett type of guy. Hunting and fishing were his thing. Jeremiah James, we loved you. Too bad you lived at the wrong time in life.

Tommy the Mick and Mountain Man Jeremiah James knew each other. Mountain Man Jeremiah James was my brother-in-law and Tommy the Mick was my neighbor. We were all good friends. We would get together and we would talk hunting and fishing, carpentry and general manly stuff when we got together and drank beer and belched loudly. This practical joke on Tommy the Mick took place after Jeremiah James went hunting in Pennsylvania for wild boar. Hunting wild boar? Jesus H. Christ in pigs in a blanket, hunting wild boar? I told you that Jeremiah James was a Mountain Man. Here’s the set up. Tommy didn’t know that Jeremiah James went hunting for wild boar in Pennsylvania. Tommy just knew that Jeremiah James and his family were visiting me for the weekend. Jeremiah James went to hunt his wild boar one Saturday while his family stayed with my family. Tommy asked why Jeremiah James wasn’t present and I gave him some shit story about Jeremiah James having some job interview out of state, or something like that and he would probably be back some time in the weekend. Tommy bought it. I was very persuasive. As you would have guessed, Jeremiah James bagged his wild boar in Pennsylvania, along with this pig’s mean, impressive looking and protruding tusks. This wild boar was a big fucker and mean as hell looking, even while lying there stone-cold dead. I don’t know how much this pig weighed but he was ball bustlingly heavy and hard to unload from Jeremiah James’s truck. We placed Mr. Piggy on the side of my house. It was cold outside and the outside temperature being just above freezing, acted as a perfect natural refrigerator.

Jeremiah James, Mr. Piggy and I waited for the right time to perpetrate our swine antic on Tommy the Mick.

Our wait was soon over. It was now time to prank Tommy the Mick. Jeremiah James and I were more than ready. By the time we were ready to deliver our hog-wild prank, a fluffy light snow covered the ground. It was a perfect night for Mr. Piggy to do his stuff. Perfect night, perfect prank. I love it. Jeramiah James and I dragged this huge swine from the side of my house to the front door where Tommy the Mick resided. We placed the pig on Tommy’s front steps leading to his front door. Picture a huge pig looking like it was climbing up the stairs. We made sure that the Pig’s mouth was wide open, tusks displayed and apparently growling and mad as hell. Sooie!! I rang the doorbell. Jeremiah James and I ran to the side of the house to hide and see what came next. Tommy the Mick opened the front door. He had two dogs, a German Shepard and a mutt. The mutt jumped out of the front door and as if one hit the reverse button, his mutt jumped backwards right back into his house. His German Shepard was much braver though. The German Shepard snarled and growled with her hair standing up on her back and she didn’t back off at all. Son of a Bitch, the reaction we got from Tommy the Mick was certainly not what we expected. We thought Tommy would experience a vasovagal attack or neutrally mediated syncope, or something. Get sick to your stomach and puke, anything bud. Instead Tommy the Mick broke out in uncontrollable laughter. I think Tommy thought this trick was the best thing he’s seen since sliced bread. He congratulated both of us with handshakes and back slapping all while laughing like hell. What a fucking disappointment. I wanted to see him faint. He still re the Porky Pig story to this day and laughs out loud every time he tells the story. I think however, that his weak stomach was the determining factor with him leaving the hospital employ. Sorry buddy, the hospital lost a great master carpenter. Stay vertical my friend. May your Irish whiskey bottle always be half-full.

Chapter 9

Two Johns

I bet you thought this chapter would be a chapter with additional shit/toilet related stories. Well, it isn’t. This chapter, Two Johns, will not be about two water closets, two loos, two shitters, two thrones or two porcelain Buddhas. This chapter is about two of my friends and hospital workers named John. How clever is that? What? The Two Johns I am writing about are Johnny C and Johnny G. These Two Johns are both Italians. Of course, Petre approved of both Johns because he needed to say that we had Italians in our mixed bag of nutty group of idiots. Note that the Two Johns were referred earlier by Petre as the two Wops. Petre had a way with words, that’s for sure. Johnny C and Johnny G were both tradesmen. One John was a carpenter and one John was an electrician. They both were solid union tradesmen and had been laid off from their full-time jobs. Construction was relatively slow in the trades at this time, so they both landed up on the hospital crew. The hospital was very fortunate to get these two Johns to work on the construction crew. They were both good workers. The Two Johns were a bonus benefit to the hospital staff. Like I mentioned earlier, they were both union tradesmen and were highly capable at their trades. There was absolutely nothing negative with their job performance. The only negative with these two bozos is that they couldn’t take any form of criticism and they definitely couldn’t take a joke. Enter Mr. Practical Jokester, ta-da, me. I wouldn’t let these fucking guys escape without a practical joke played on them. They must be initiated to the crew and must be humbled to the point of “What the fuck just happened?”

These Two Johns were as annoying as hell to all of us. Every day it was “mio fratello” which is “my brother” in Italian, at least that was what was told to me. I don’t fucking know, I’m a god damn Kraut, what do I know? These guys were so close as Italian brothers, it made you puke. I must find a way to get these two linguini eaters to disagree and maybe toss a little Luca Brasi into the mix. I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse or maybe an offer they can’t ignore. I would like to include that at the time of the Two Johns and this great construction team build up, there was a major construction development occurring at the hospital. It seems like construction and or renovation never ceased at this place. There was always plenty of projects and renovation jobs to keep a full team of tradesmen busy for an extended time period. I will start my Two Johns chapter story off with one of the Two Johns, Johnny C. Johnny C was the carpenter, ? Johnny C was a great worker. He had one speed, second gear. He never rushed to get anything done quickly especially if it compromised the quality of his work. His second gear speed lasted all day long. He was like the energizer bunny, he just kept going and going. I am building up Johnny C with all of the positive kudos because there was one particular aww-shit trait of Johnny C that negated all of the atta-boy things I’ve ever said about him. C’mon, you had to know there was something I had to pick at him about. Well, here it is folks. Johnny C smoked the most disgusting fucking cigars ever wrapped in tobacco. I know I promised not to mention any shit/toilet related references, but Johnny C smoked the biggest turd looking cigars ever seen. Where the fuck did Johnny C buy these gross stogies from, Reeking Cheroot’s-R-Us? Holy Christ they stunk to high heaven!

Johnny C loved to light up those stogies and watch while everyone did an exit stage left as quickly as possible before the exhaled vapor drifted their way. Coincidently enough, the only person that would stay and enjoy smelling this cigar shit was his Sicilian buddy, Johnny G. They both would cut up and laugh and comment on how easy it was to clear the room. Dumb fucks! Maybe I should have enlisted Martin the Most Irritating to unleash a Mexican burrito belch or fart their way and see who would gag and exit the room faster? That would have been a great idea, but I didn’t think of it at the time, so excuse me all

to hell. I can’t think of everything. The brilliant idea I did think of was a cigar related revenge. How do I, or what can I do to that fucking cigar to make Johnny C think twice about lighting up that disgusting fucking turd while we were all present? Is there something I could do to alter the taste of his cigar to make him gag as much as we all did when he fired up that stogie? Whoa, by Jove, I think I’ve got it. Johnny C would always extinguish his cigar and butt it for a later date, making it tantalizingly ripe, so to speak, for the pickings. He had a habit of leaving the butted cigar remains on the edge of one of the work benches to savor it for a later time, all nice and juicy and dripping with Johnny C saliva. Eventually at the right time, he would re-fire up this butted baby and dutifully clear the room again. No one would even get near this butted Johnny C cigar because, I don’t know, maybe they thought they would catch the Heebie Jeebies or something that exuded the saliva of Johnny C. What the hell was this serous, mucous, or seromucous shit on that cigar turd? Johnny C spit? I don’t fucking know! Eeeeuuuu!

Alright, so this was a hospital, , and latex rubber gloves were easily attainable. Me, the hero, would use these rubber gloves, of course, to pick up and taint Johnny C’s cigar with something as nasty tasting as Johnny C’s turd cigar’s exhaust. I didn’t quite know exactly what kind of offending layer of shit to apply to this cigar butt yet, but I certainly didn’t want something that would cause any permanent damage to him. I’m not a monster. I will say that I had the complete and full of my moronic cronies. They all hated the nasty smell of that nicotine infested Solanaceae family plant. Jesus H Christ in a Nicotiana Genus weed, eliminate this fucking Johnny C cigar already! All right, now I needed some sort of disgusting coating on this cigar to make Johnny C gag to the point of almost puking. What do I use? There was some interesting stuff in the maintenance shop but again I didn’t want anything to cause permanent damage to him. I eventually settled on a rotten goose egg mixed with fish oil. Now that should be puke inducing, I think.

I waited until Johnny C butted his cigar and put the saliva dripping remains of his cigar on one of the work benches to fire up later. Break time was over and everyone returned to their jobs. I informed Lloyd’s Pecker of my intentions and he was in with the plan 100%. What a great boss! The only thing he stressed was that I didn’t do anything to cause any harm to Johnny C. I promised that wouldn’t do that, at least not on purpose. The breakroom cleared out. Lloyd’s Pecker was my lookout. I got the thumbs up from Lloyd and then I proceeded to coat this disgusting cigar butt with my rotten goose egg/fish oil concoction. Mission accomplished and now all we had to do was to wait until the next break time. Johnny C would fire up the coals and hopefully taste on his vermicelli lips what we smelled from those turd cigars. The wait was over. It was break time girls! We all filed into the break area and waited with worm on tongue (baited breath) for Johnny C to fire up. Johnny C didn’t disappoint. He smiled his little smart-assed smile and fired up his rotten goose egg/fish oil Sicilian saliva coated turd cigar. His lips smacked and his tongue dutifully licked the end of that rotten goose egg/fish oil Sicilian saliva coated turd cigar. C’mon Johnny C, help us out here, give us something, please, anything. He fired up that Stogie butt baby and he looked at us with this “doe in the headlights” quizzical look. We were all quivering with anticipation. We had this shithead now. Soon the puke would be freely flowing. Johnny C just smiled and smacked his lips with the biggest grin in contentment-looking history. He said, “Wow, this fucker is especially fantastic.” He then repeatedly licked the end of my rotten goose egg/fish oil Sicilian saliva coated masterpiece and discharged that God-awful stink upon all of us. He proudly boasted that he would be sure to purchase more of this brand of cigar from this day forward, yummy. What the fuck? Were his taste buds so completely destroyed by spicy Italian food and nicotine laden cheap cigars that he couldn’t possibly taste my rotten goose egg/fish oil Sicilian saliva concoction? Did my practical joke fail? Do you really care? Do I really care? Am I asking too many questions again? OK, I it, my joke did not have its desired effect. Damn! The bottom line was that Johnny C eventually got called back by the Union Hall and he went back to

his former Union job. Maybe his co-workers would find a non-lethal solution to his shit smelling cigars. I never found out and frankly I didn’t care. Johnny C, fuck you and your turd cigars. Bye-bye Johnny C. Let me now tell you about Johnny G. When Johnny G wasn’t busy smelling Johnny C’s turd cigars, he was bragging about how his career as an electrician was error free. According to Johnny G, he never made a mistake on the job, always completed his jobs on time and always, but always, he was a gentleman and cleaned up after himself. No mistakes, zero, nil, zippo, nada. I’m sorry, but I never saw him walk on water. There must be a chink in his pasta loving armor somewhere. I tried to this no mistakes horseshit through devious means like chatting with his co-workers and folks he worked with in the past, but I was never able to either confirm or deny his boasts. I guess that I would just have to be a fly on the wall and see for myself. I must add that I didn’t do this investigation all by myself but enlisted any and all of my cronies who were sick of his braggadocio. That’s a 25-cent work for bullshit by the way. We all disliked his constant boasting of having a perfect record. Sorry, but no one has a perfect record. that Johnny G abhorred criticism and was extremely egotistical about everything autographed “Johnny G”? Now don’t get me wrong, Johnny G was surely a nice enough guy and like Johnny C, he worked in second gear and second gear was all fucking day long for him, energizer bunny stuff. Work wise, no problem. We all unanimously agreed, with the exception of Johnny C, that Johnny G just needed to be reduced in his higher-than-mighty stature just a peg or two, you know, humbled to the point of being red-faced in front of all of the rest of us idiots? What do we do to accomplish our goal? Well ladies and gentlemen, here is the brilliant but moronic plan we gave hours of investigation time and effort to devise. By the way, yes, we did work at our jobs, but my motto was “You have to love what you are doing. You also must have fun doing it and if you can’t have any fun, well, get the fuck out.” Good motto? I thought so. Think about it. All right, back to our plan to humble Johnny G. He never made a mistake (bullshit). We would ensure that he would make some kind of a mistake and break that so-called perfect record of his. I must add that we weren’t total monsters. At least we would make sure that safety would be the top priority. No one including Johnny G would get physically hurt.

Jesus Christ get to it. Finally, here is the plan. Johnny G was currently doing some electrical work running wires, connecting circuits in an electrical and making sure everything worked correctly. Boring!! He was connecting a brandnew Central Station in the Cardiac Unit to include a new next-generation heart monitoring system. Kind of important shit. I enlisted my nursing friends on this scam and had their entire on this scam. I loved these nursing girls. They liked to have fun too. I truly loved these girls and they loved my idea to humble Johnny G. These nurses would assist me in performing my joke on Johnny G to absolute perfection. I was sure of it. What a great fit. Johnny G, you are toast, bud. OK, so the nursing staff would take some outdated equipment, not the new equipment, use some black looking powder, provided by me, to coat the old outdated equipment to make it look like it blew up after it was turned on. Johnny G, you fucked up man, you toasted this equipment bud! Shame on you. This equipment site looked authentic like the circuit was mis-wired, shorted out and caused the equipment to blow up. Mistake 1. In addition, I provided some wire and wire insulating remnants to add to the job site to illustrate that Johnny G slipped up and didn’t clean up after himself. Mistake 2. Double screw-up naughty boy. I love it. The plan worked perfectly. The nursing staff performed flawlessly. The job site looked like a disaster area. Here was the backlash. Johnny G was called into Floyd’s Pecker’s office and was asked what the hell happened according to the report from the Nursing Staff received from their boss. Floyd’s our fucking boss so Floyd asked Johnny G “Did you screw up this time Johnny G?” Johnny G, did you finally make not one, but 2 mistakes? Did you blow up the central station along with thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment? Was your perfect record marred? I know, I know, I’m asking too many questions, so I’ll get to it. Johnny G was at least a man of integrity and itted that he must have finally screwed up. I will give him that. Johnny G was totally humbled. He itted that he fucked up and it was his fault. He didn’t understand how he screwed up, but he took total responsibility for the incident involved. I must give him all the credit in the world for his man-up attitude. However, I think that this really was a wakeup call for him.

From that day forward, he was a different person. He didn’t boast about how perfect he was and how perfect he performed. Johnny G even suggested to Johnny C that perhaps, he take his turd stogies somewhere else and have a little consideration for others. As you may have guessed, I never told him that this whole thing was a farce. How could I? Johnny G was humbled and was a changed man. Besides, I wasn’t in the mood for an ass kicking. Johnny G followed Johnny C and took a page from Johnny C’s book. Johnny eventually got called back by the Union Hall and he went back to his former Union job. The Two Johns were just another chapter in life’s book of ignoramus, half-witted nincompoops.

Chapter 10

The Mixer Repair Case

This case involves the one and only asshole that didn’t appreciate my brand of humor. He didn’t appreciate my interpretation of doing one’s job to the ultimate degree while having some fun. He was the worst boss ever and in general, he was just a miserable fucking schmuck. This guy didn’t like anything. He had a disposition worse than Mikey and Mikey hated everything. I will get into more detail about this illiterate putz in the next chapter but for now, the Mixer Repair Case is just one of his attempts to curb my enthusiasm. What a dick! The Mixer Repair Case starts off in the Security office where I had my stash of tools in my locker. that I used to repair stuff that was broken? I collected this stash of tools for many years. I had some common tools and I had some very precise specialty tools. Maybe you thought that I would pull out my A-Team tools for this job but sorry to disappoint, only my common everyday tools were needed. Aw shucks, no James Bond caper this time. Be patient, this is a good story though, you’ll see. Ho-Hum, how ordinary of a day today was going to be. Seriously, today was just an ordinary run of the mill Wednesday evening. I was working second shift and things were usually quiet and ordinary mid-week. I didn’t think this evening would be anything out of the ordinary. So, do you get that this was an ordinary day? Jesus H Christ in an ordinary handbasket, I hope so, I put enough ordinary out there. I had completed all my mundane routine tasks early and I settled in for a nice quiet evening. Oh, wait a minute, this is about the Mixer Repair Case. I almost forgot. All right, mixer repair, mixer repair. Oh yeah, I had to repair a mixer.

First, let me go back to this mixer. This mixer was a hand mixer that happened to

be my personal property. Well actually it belonged to my wife. She had been using this hand mixer to whip up some potatoes or some concoction. I’m not trying to infer that I am some sort of a Chauvinistic Pig and my wife did all the cooking but in my masterful collection of skills, cooking surely wasn’t one of those skills. I think I am probably the only person alive that could burn water. Seriously, I was a disaster when it came to cooking. All right, so my wife was the cook in the family. She had this cute little hand mixer. She really liked this mixer. I believe we got this mixer as one of our wedding gifts or something. I don’t . Anyway, it’s not important. She was using this mixer and it slipped out of her hand and it hit the deck, splat! She was heartbroken and I must say that the mixer was broken too. There were lots of pieces on the floor. I scooped up all the pieces and put them along what was left of the mixer in a plastic bag. I would carry this mess of broken pieces in the plastic bag and take this mess to work and try to put it back to together again. Maybe I should have called this chapter the Humpty Dumpty Repair Case? Nah, forget it. I didn’t have access to any of the King’s Horses and any of the King’s Men. I just relied on little old me to do the repairs on this sorry looking little broken mixer. Back to the present time. I patiently waited until all required work type tasks were completed this evening before I tackled putting this shattered piece of shit together. I had tubes of epoxy, super glue, crazy glue, Elmer’s glue, chewing gum and school glue ready for this famous repair. I was primed and ready. I think I spent more money on the repair stuff as opposed to buying a brand-new mixer. It was just the principle of the matter, you know, a man-up thing. I can do it. I must say that I would have gotten kudos from all the precision repairmen, watchmakers, jewelry repairmen or any fix-it type person alive. I did a masterful job on this repair. I glued this broken little mixer back together. I didn’t need no stinking Kings Horses or no stinking Kings Men. Even Dr. Frankenstein would have given me a thumbs up. Although this poor little mixer did kind of look like the Frankenstein Monster with the scars and all. However, the main thing was that it was back together and here is the best part, it still worked. Score! So, this episode is kind of boring in its content, but it gets better. The real story comes after the actual repair of the mixer. Here goes nothing or something or

who knows what? Read on. Little known to me or anyone else for that matter, this idiot that I mentioned earlier, you know, the prick that hated everything guy? Well, he was strategically camped out in one of the small offices that had a window overlooking the parking lot where employees parked for the evening shift. I have no earthly idea what was the fucking covert operation with this guy. Maybe he was trying to catch someone trying to filch some band aids or toilet paper? Who the hell knows what brand of espionage this asshole was conjuring up in his pea brain? I found out about the covert operation the following day when I reported to work. As soon as I arrived on the job, I was summoned to Floyd’s Pecker’s office. This was my usual routine. I would meet with Floyd and discuss anything and everything. When I entered Floyd’s office, Mr. Hate Everything was sitting there with Floyd. I knew Mr. Hate Everything and said a cordial hello. He just sat there, smiled and chewed his lower lip. I then knew something ominous was about to reveal itself. At least I had Floyd’s Pecker there to be on my side in case the shit hits the fan. Mind you, I didn’t have a clue what this meeting was all about. To the best of my recollection, here is the third-degree interrogation I got from Floyd’s Pecker’s office. Floyd’s Pecker asked me to sit down and make myself comfortable. I sat down. Floyd said, “Mr. Hate Everything has some questions to ask you.” I replied, “Sure enough.” Mr. Hate Everything started his questioning off by asking “Did you work last evening?” I promptly replied, “Yes sir, I worked last evening.” His next question was, “What time did you leave work last night?” Now I started to get a little uneasy, not that I did anything wrong but where was this going? I replied to Mr. Hate Everything, “I punched the timecard at about 11 PM. I could run and get my timecard if you need the exact time.” He replied, “No need, I watched you leave last night.” I said, Oh, I didn’t see you. Why didn’t you say hi?” Mr. Hate Everything just smiled his little piss-ant smile and said, “I was hidden from view and I saw you leave with a package of hospital property that you stole from the hospital. What did you have in that bag?” Now it was my turn to smile. I said to Mr. Hate Everything, “Are you accusing me of theft? Please say yes because my first call will be to see the Hospital and my second call will be to my Lawyer. So, what’s your

pleasure Mr. Hate Everything? Am I a thief or what?” Now he really started to chew his lower lip. I could smell the rubber or whatever the hell was contained between his moronic ears. Mr. Hate Everything said, “No, I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know what was in that plastic bag.” I guess I should have just answered him straight up and be done with it, but now I was just starting to warm up and was starting to have some fun. I liked to have fun? Fun, fun, fun till the Daddy takes the mixer away. Someone should make a song out of that line.

Now back to Mr. Hate Everything. His set of hard, bony enamel-coated structures in the jaws of most vertebrates, used for biting and chewing were demolishing that lower lip. Jesus H. Christ in a Mr. Hate Everything inquisition, you are going to lose that lower lip man if you don’t let up on that chewing. I smiled an even larger smile and I said to Mr. Hate Everything, “I had some personal property in that plastic bag, if you must know.” I looked over at Floyd’s Pecker and he was trying oh so hard not to laugh. He knew my style and I know that he knew I was in overdrive in fuckin’ with Mr. Hate Everything. Mr. Hate Everything was nervous, and his little beady eyes were darting back and forth between Floyd’s Pecker and me. I think I had just about enough fun watching this jackass squirm. I knew that Mr. Hate Everything didn’t know whether to shit or go blind, so I guess I’ll let him off the hook. Shit, no more fun, just for now though! I don’t get mad, I get even. I needed to end this inquisition and I finally itted that I had a personal mixer in that bag. I explained that I used my own repair materials and did the repairs to this mixer on my dinner break. I also suggested that he could confirm what was in this plastic bag with my fellow partner guard. I opened that bag and showed my partner the contents as I was walking out the door, not that I thought I needed to corroborate any kind of a story but hey, I was proud that I fixed this little broken mixer. My wife was happy. Her mixer was fixed. I was proud that I could facilitate the repair. The best part was that Mr. Hate Everything discontinued his Special Ops ventures to the very day that he left the employ of the hospital. Chew that lower lip and fuck you Mr. Hate Everything.

Chapter 11

Lemonhead the Frog

This chapter’s main character resembles someone very familiar to us all that was featured in the last chapter. Hooray, you win a cookie. Yes, you guessed it, drum roll please, Mr. Hate Everything. I won’t reveal his real name, so I dubbed him, because he was so near and dear to us all, as “Lemonhead the Frog.” The frog part of his nickname was easy. He was a Frenchman. Refer back to our old friend Petre. French equals frog, frog equals French. Petre always assisted me with my nicknames. Now the Lemonhead part was just slightly more difficult to invent but not really. The Lemonhead part was like the pronunciation of his actual name. Given the sour disposition of this wanker and his blundering, nonsensical command of humankind, the Lemonhead moniker was an easy fit. Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce to you, Lemonhead the Frog. He was the worst and least effective boss ever to walk the face of this earth and in the most simplistic , he was the biggest most miserable fucking schmuck I have ever met. Refer to the last chapter if you doubt my assertion. Lemonhead the Frog was ex-military. He was a former officer in the United States Armed Forces. Don’t get me wrong, I have all the respect in the world for the US Military and I did respect Lemonhead the Frog’s service to our country. Believe that part, but I can’t fathom how this dunce ever wound up as an officer. His command of people was a disaster. I think of the old saying about attracting more flies with honey than vinegar. Lemonhead the Frog didn’t possess an ounce of honey. Lemonhead the Frog was 200 pounds of pure, unadulterated vinegar. It’s too bad that this joker commanded our great crew. He made blunder after blunder and always came out on top due to the great employees that reported to him. Lucky Lemonhead the Frog! Included in Lemonhead the Frog’s obviously brilliant Special Ops intelligence career as demonstrated in the Mixer Repair Case, Lemonhead the Frog displayed

multiple instances of his incompetence in his tenure as our big boss man. I will now reveal a couple instances of his stumbling, bumbling ineptitude. My first episode example and as a matter of fact, usually all of Lemonhead the Frog’s incompetent episode examples included that he loved to put his fingers where they didn’t belong. He loved to tinker with shit all the time. He was what we lovingly referred to as a button pusher. He pushed buttons, flicked switches and flipped levers with reckless abandon. It didn’t matter that he had no idea what the fuck would happen after he inserted his hands-on approach to everything. Generally, his button pushing turned out unfavorably. I must interject at this point in this sparkling chapter that Lemonhead the Frog previously was the ultimate decision-maker whether I would get hired in the first place at this institution. Floyd’s Pecker said that I was a shoo-in for the position, but Lemonhead the Frog had the ultimate decision. Well, Lemonhead the Frog initially made his decision in the negative. Asshole! After a few weeks and after Lemonhead the Frog’s desired crony didn’t work out, he decided that little old me, second-best on his list should be offered this job. Button your God Damn shirt before your heart falls out Lemonhead the Frog, you putz. I eventually did get hired but General Fuckstick never really liked me. I don’t know why, but he never liked me. All right, let me rid myself of this intense dislike for this prick and move on to the examples of Lemonhead the Frog’s ineptitude. My first example is called “What the fuck is this stuff?” Lemonhead the Frog was very proud of his appearance. He loved to wear his Sears and Roebuck suits and parade around looking all high and mighty. He loved his upper class ranking and it manifested in the suits that he bought to wear on the job. He certainly strived to look the part of a big shot. I must find a way to alter his look and if his suit was soiled and or torn in the process, so be it. Enter the inked soldering iron handle caper. This caper took a lot of planning, but not really. The inked soldering iron handle caper wouldn’t be that hard to pull off because , Lemonhead the Frog loved to touch things. OK, so here’s the plan. I would coat the underneath portion of the handle of the soldering iron with black stencil ink. The stencil ink had to be black because the handle was uh, black.

I would then ask Lemonhead the Frog to show me how to solder some sort of lug to a wire or something like that, anything to get him to grab that handle. I hated to have to ask him to grab that handle because he would then know that it was me that suggested that he “grab the handle” and he would then blame me for his own stupidity. If I asked him to take a long walk off a short pier, would he do that? Don’t answer that because you know he would. I was just testing you. I didn’t care though. It was worth it to dirty up his hands. I would just deny, deny, deny. As it turned out, I didn’t have to deny anything because I didn’t quite factor in the profundity of the Lemonhead tinker factor. I didn’t have to ask or suggest to him anything of the sort.

This dumb shit saw the soldering iron sitting on the workbench and walked over to it and firmly grabbed the soldering iron by the handle. I don’t know if he has ever seen this type of a tool or not but Jesus Christ, this was just a soldering iron. It wasn’t a scalpel or a hemostat or anything special. He firmly grabbed the handle of that soldering iron like it was his own dick. I guess Lemonhead the Frog must have sensed something sticky and gooey on his hand, so he gently put down the soldering iron and looked at his hand. His hand was covered with black stencil ink. Now here is an example of what I mean when I say Lemonhead the Frog lacked a genius IQ. His first gut reaction was, of course, a sour puss yucky look on his face while muttering ahhhh. His second reaction resembled what any five-year-old child would do next. Lemonhead the Frog immediately wiped his hand on his jacket like a five-year-old would wipe his hand on his clothes to remove something nasty on his hand. The look on Lemonhead the Frog’s face was priceless. His look was total wonderment, quizzical “what the fuck just happened” and “I can’t believe that I just ruined my suit jacket” all rolled into one. This caper worked out even better than I predicted. Lemonhead the Frog just dropped his head, shook it back and forth and exited stage left. I looked over at the guys that were present for this display of Lemonhead ineptitude. I thought their heads were ready to explode. They were containing their laughter until Lemonhead the Frog was out of sight but when he disappeared, the laughter flowed like hot lava. The “What the fuck is this stuff” mission was successful

folks and all I did was coat the handle of a soldering iron with black stencil ink.

I bet you thought that the next Lemonhead the Frog show of stupidity couldn’t possibly top the first one. Guess again because the next example surely did. I must rate this episode much better because the “What the fuck is this stuff” caper had my hand, so to speak, involved. I was responsible for setting up Lemonhead the Frog. I know, I know, he did it to himself, but I technically set him up for failure. This next example was solely his fuck up, plain and simple. Lemonhead the Frog had proven that he could certainly stumble over his own shoelaces. What the hell have I alluded to these past nine or so pages? Work with me here. This next case of Lemonhead the Frog’s tomfoolery I fondly call, “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” The “What the fuck is this stuff” incident was just a fond ing memory. Currently we were not bothered by Lemonhead the Frog very much after that incident. I don’t know, maybe he was a little embarrassed? Maybe not, he had a pretty thick skin. In any case we were doing our jobs pretty much unfettered due to the absence of Mr. General Disarray. This was good. Lemonhead the Frog left us alone to do our jobs. This was one of the positive things that I learned to be an effective manager of people. Let them do their fucking jobs! All right, no more pontificating about my style of managing people. I just wanted to add that I learned a lot of what to do and what not to do by simply paying attention. So, pay attention! Read on! Lemonhead the Frog was off wandering around. Hopefully he was keeping his button pushing, switch flicking and lever flipping hands to himself after the “What the fuck is this stuff” lesson he learned. I know, I know, you can’t change the spots on a leopard blah, blah, blah.

True to form, Lemonhead the Frog’s spots or warts, if you prefer, didn’t change. He was back pushing buttons, flicking switches and flipping levers. When will this incredible dolt learn his lesson? Oh yeah, now I get the spots on a leopard analogy. We had all gathered in the maintenance shop for mid-morning coffee break per

usual. We were just drinking coffee and gabbing about really nothing in particular. About five minutes into breaktime, Lemonhead the Frog zipped into the maintenance shop and ran right up to Johnny G, the electrician. Why Johnny G the electrician? Lemonhead the Frog was excited or agitated or let’s say kind of hyper looking. He was chewing his lower lip a mile a minute. His perfectly coiffed hair was messed up almost to the point of his hair standing on end. His left hand had black marks like it had been charred by a flame. One of the lapels on his suit jacket looked as if it was burned. All he could say was, “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” Johnny G asked him, “What the fuck just happened.” Lemonhead the Frog could only reply, “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” He must have muttered “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” at least a couple more times while shaking his Lemonhead back and forth. Johnny G told him to sit down and calm down. I then intervened and asked if he needed to see a Doctor because it looked like he somehow burned himself. He eventually calmed down and said, “No thanks, I’m OK.” We all waited for him to explain what the hell happened. Lemonhead the Frog in his usual meddlesome mode of operation had spied the cover of a circuit breaker just a little crooked. He decided to fix it himself by removing the cover and adjusting the mounting brackets so that the cover could be straightened out by one or two millimeters. He should have called Johnny G the electrician or anyone else that knew the dangers lurking behind that electrical . I didn’t witness this display of stupidity but here is what must have happened. He must have unscrewed and lifted the cover off the electrical , stuck his screwdriver in a place where a screwdriver didn’t belong and shorted out a circuit. This electrical zap must have traveled up the screwdriver to his hand until he dropped the screwdriver. This zapping action discolored two fingers on his hand and fried a two-inch jagged spot on the lapel of his pretty new suit jacket. This screwdriver-wielding fuck up must have produced a very beautiful flash of the prettiest blue light you have ever seen. Lemonhead the Frog wasn’t hurt, but he could have gotten more than just a scare.

“Look at this, look at this, whaa?” was the catch phrase to pretty much everything after that. If someone completed a job and it looked good, the answer was, “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” If someone wanted to point out something interesting, he would say, “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” If anyone wanted to comment on anything, he would say, “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” what I said about paying attention? Lemonhead the Frog did teach us something. Know what you are always doing and don’t put your hands where they don’t belong, “Look at this, look at this, whaa?” Lemonhead the Frog’s time ed with our institution when he decided to leave for greener pastures. I didn’t really dislike him, but he wasn’t my favorite person to be around. I just hope that he learned his lesson about pushing buttons, flicking switches and flipping levers. Spots on a leopard? Nah, I don’t think he learned. I’m sure of that.

Chapter 12

Tweety, Brain and Friends

Tweety, tweety, tweety, you are the king of nincompoops. You are not a birdie, my boy. The nickname Tweety does fit you though. You used to flitter about doing your orderly job just like a little Tweety Bird. Tweety was a full time orderly as was Brain the other flitting Bird. Brain and Tweety were best buddies. Usually where you saw one, you saw the other one. Those two birdbrains were as tight as a frog’s ass, and as you well know, a frog’s ass is watertight. Tweety and Brain usually worked the same shift that I worked, but they did adjust their shift from time to time. I used to see, talk and interact with these two guys a good deal in my tenure. Brain and Tweety were both nice enough guys but they did get taken advantage of often, as described in the Transvestite Caper. Usually when Brain and Tweety planned their own little moronic tricks, they fell woefully flat. I will give you a glimpse of one of their fall-flat tricks a little bit later but now I need to give you a little background on Tweety and Brain. Both Brain and Tweety were full time students at a local community college. I believe that they were both in the early stages of exploring the advantages of the nursing profession. Here’s my lesson and my time for pontification! Sorry in advance, but I must do this because this is number one on my list of positive fundamentals of life in the hospital.

Nursing is a major profession. I have the ultimate respect for nurses as you may have surmised in my previous writings. Brain and Tweety were pursuing nursing, so I had the full respect for their desires. Brain and Tweety were birdbrains, granted, however they were headed in the right direction. I’m certain of that. I’m a believer! Hey, maybe they should make a song out of that phrase?

They did? Damn, a dollar short and 52 years late. The Monkees? Oh well, that was a good song. Hold on, I have this sudden urge to “Take the Last Train to Clarksville.” All right, all right, I’ll get off the 60’s nostalgia trip and get back to Brain and Tweety. First, let me start with Tweety Bird. Tweety was a tall, skinny young man working as an orderly. This orderly job was a fine start to cut Tweety’s teeth on the path to the nursing profession. Tweety looked like a Tweety Bird. I already said that he was tall and skinny, but he had a very pronounced Adam’s Apple and an Afro style haircut. His feet were too big for his body, maybe size 14 or 15. He walked heal toe, heal toe, heal toe. Does this description sound suspiciously like Big Bird? Maybe we should have called him Big Bird instead of Tweety Bird? No, Tweety Bird fit him just fine. Tweety shared orderly duties with Brain, his cohort. I would always ask Tweety and Brain who drew the short straw when it came to prep for a hemorrhoid operation for a male patient. We all lovingly called this prep job and I’m not sure the term lovingly fits this prep job, but we called this prep job a “Brown Eye.” I hope I don’t have to explain why we called this prep job a “Brown Eye.” I hope you are clever enough to figure this one out. Jesus H. Christ in swollen and inflamed veins in the rectum and anus that causes discomfort and bleeding, figure this one out for yourself!

Besides the occasional shaving of assholes, Tweety, Brain and occasionally me, were summoned to give a gurney ride to the less fortunate of patients to their final resting place at this fine institution. I’m talking about the morgue ladies and gentlemen; the last resting place of life’s end in our hospital. The morgue was a sad but a necessary chapel of rest. I’m only going to share just one morgue story. I respected the departure from life for all the unfortunate souls who rode that final gurney ride to their final chapel of rest. My morgue story is about Carl. Poor Carl. He was an elderly patient that found his final resting place in our morgue. I don’t know if he was a former patient in our hospital or was brought into the hospital as the recipient of some pitiful incident tied to his probably miserable life. It doesn’t matter. All I need to say is

that we transported Carl to his reserved slab in our morgue. What a shitty final place to end up. We didn’t get a cause of Carl’s death and even though I wasn’t a Medical Examiner, I had a fairly good idea what ended poor Carl’s existence. Carl displayed multiple, very small puncture wounds in his chest area. Either he or someone else stabbed him in the chest. Did I mention that these stab wounds were very small? Oh yeah, I did. The wounds were like little pin holes. It appeared that he was stabbed by a small object, perhaps maybe an ice pick? I later found out that Carl did indeed get stabbed by an ice pick and his wounds were self-inflicted. Holy shit, suicide by ice pick? What a fucking morbid way to go! What was so bad in this old duffer’s life that he had to stab himself multiple times in the chest area in order to induce the final fatal stab wound through the heart? God Damn, that’s depressing!

I feel as though I must mention Carl the ice pick stabber story because someone near and dear to me wanted me to mention Carl in this book. Hello, Ms. exneighbor of mine, my lips are sealed, (please close your mouth Carl) about the real story concerning Carl. This is between you, me, Rich and Tommy the Mick. Love ya kiddo. Anyway, I want to get back to my original morgue story with Tweety. That story about Carl in that macabre location gives me the willies. We transported Carl to the morgue, enough said about that. Tweety and Brain had long been trying to get one of our Radiological Technicians to accompany them to the morgue in order to scare the shit out of her. You understand that we all were having fun and scaring the shit out of someone was having fun, right? Tweety and Brain were pressuring this certain Radiological Technician to visit the morgue to view a gruesome dead body. Now this girl had previously seen and X-rayed a dead body before. She was not a rookie. This was not new to her. In our descriptions of the morgue to her, we would include the “Rue Morgue” eccentric descriptions of what we witnessed in the bowels of the hospital morgue. Oooo, we wanted to make this a scary incident where she would possibly deliver a Brown Monument to Surprise in her panties. Translation, we were trying to scare the livin’ shit out of her. God, Tweety and Brain were such

idiots and me like the consummate consenting idiot, was a part of their hairbrained scheme!

While Brain and Tweety were earnestly engaged in trying to persuade Lindy the technician to visit the morgue, my part was fairly easy in this ruse, if you can call my part easy. Hey, I’m always up to the challenge and have fun, right? Just think about what a putz I am! Here’s my part. I would climb onto and lay on one of the body slabs in the morgue’s refrigerator unit. Tweety and Brain would then cover me with a sheet and close the door. I was entirely down with this scheme, although the smell emanating from the cooler was really revolting when laying inside of the cooler. Dead folks do not smell so good. Eeeeuuuuu! Brain and Tweety finally persuaded Lindy the technician to enter the morgue in order to view the subjects in the cooler. When my cooler door opened, Brain and Tweety pulled back the covering sheet. I sat up, said boo and hoped our trick would be successful in inducing a Brown Monument to Surprise in Lindy’s panties. We had a high degree of confidence that this scare trick would surely manifest a Brown Monument to Surprise! OK, so we were stupid. What was so bad about being stupid? Lindy was our good friend. We were idiots. She could take a joke, right? This joke did have its desired effect on Lindy, scare wise. Scare wise, I do believe that Lindy was just a small, whack a mole turd short of making that Brown Monument to Surprise in her panties. However, it didn’t actually scare the shit out of her. Damn, it was close but no cigar. Scare good, Brown Monument to Surprise, unsuccessful. Lindy’s reaction progressed quickly into a very, very highly pissed state, especially aimed at Tweety. Tweety, why the flying fuck did you think this stupid trick would be funny? You incredible asshole! I blamed Tweety, not Brain or me.

Lindy’s immediate gut reaction to this scare tactic of ours was to haul off and drop kick Tweety smack dab in his shin. Now, I am talking about a Lou Groza five-star boot. This shin kick was a 65-yard, last second field goal kick to win the Super Bowl. The deafening thud of this kick still resounds in my ears to this very day. Field goal! It’s good! Penalty kick. Gooooooooooooooooalaaaaaaaah!

Seventy-yard punt. Touchback, no return! Awesome kick Lindy! Tweety immediately collapsed on the morgue floor from that first-class kick to the shin. God Damn, that kick had to be one major hurt! I think that this morgue trick wasn’t exactly our finest hour. What I do firmly believe is that the “Woman Scorned” or “Woman Pissed” factor wasn’t totally figured into our caper. Lindy, even though you were highly pissed, you have got to it that drop kicking Tweety’s shin in the morgue wasn’t exactly cricket! C’mon girl! Oh My God, Lindy was so pissed. She was so very highly pissed. Obviously, there was no denying the “Woman pissed beyond belief” scenario with this Morgue caper. Calling all morons, calling all morons, report to the morgue, wait a second, we were already there. Lindy remained on the war path. She looked at me. I put my hands up in submission, completely backed off and laid silent on my morgue slab. I may be dumb but I’m not stupid because I just personally witnessed the next level of the “Woman pissed beyond belief” factor. I wanted no part of that degree of crapola. As Tweety lay agonizing on the morgue floor, Lindy looked at Brain. Brain put up his hands and backed off. Brain did not want to be the next recipient of the breaking of the current longest field goal kick to the shin record just recorded by Lindy and Tweety. I remained completely mute and motionless on the morgue slab. I knew that the worm had turned on this caper, big time. Lindy’s fiery response to us was, “Fuck you guys, you all are fucking assholes! I hate you all!” Lindy stormed out of the morgue with only the three hapless scorned tricksters remaining to absorb the agony of defeat, along with the stiffs accompanying me in the morgue refrigerator. Don’t forget about those esteemed guests along side of me. One of the three ill-fated tricksters was writhing in pain holding his shin on the morgue floor. The other two of us remained with mouths agape and totally awed by Lindy’s extreme reaction to our stupid trick. This was fun, 10-4? More like a 10 count and you are out, Tweety. Well, you can’t win ’em all but this didn’t stop my creative juices. My warped mind was in overdrive to invent some more “fun” times! Let me put that morgue caper securely behind me and move on to the final fun event involving Tweety. This next incident with Tweety I’ll call the “I Love

Cream Cheese on my Multigrain Bagel and You Should Too” lesson. Tweety loved his multigrain bagels. I’m talking about the intense, potent love that Tweety shared with his multigrain bagel with cream cheese. I rated Tweety’s multigrain bagel with cream cheese love totally beyond any human knowledge of a mere dense bread roll in the shape of a ring, made by boiling dough and then baking it kind of love. Holy Christ, I liked bagels too, but I didn’t come just short of orgasmic euphoria at the thought of ingesting a fucking bagel with cream cheese. Tweety did. If Tweety could have proposed and married a multigrain bagel with cream cheese, the “Here Comes the Bride” song would ring out through the hospital’s loudspeakers! Jesus H. Christ in a firm doughnut shaped roll, this was Tweety’s love at first sight. I have got to find a way to drive a little wedge between Tweety and his multigrain bagel with cream cheese BFF. Let me think. I don’t think that I could do anything with that multigrain bagel. The bagel was a pretty standard order from the bakery to the cafeteria. Perhaps I could find a way in with the cream cheese. By Jove, I think I’ve got it! Now here is where this plan goes from the sublime to the ridiculous. I can’t believe that I took so much time and effort with this prank, but it was worth it to see Tweety flash a scornful look at that fucking bagel. I’ve got to mess up that cream cheese somehow. You should have witnessed the enormous effort that Tweety took to squeeze every last drop of cream cheese from its packet onto his perfectly toasted bagel. It was like a heart surgeon performing an operation where life was in the balance. Every last drop, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Please spare me this routine bagel after bagel after bagel. I had some assistance with this prank. I got the cafeteria lady to hide the cream cheese packets. She would offer Tweety the cream cheese in a little small cup with a lid. Before putting the cream cheese in the cup, Ms. Cafeteria Lady and I would spice up the cream cheese a bit. We crushed up some sour nerds with some citric acid added. This was a sour blend that would pucker up the best of them. This joke worked perfectly. Tweety spread the spiked cream cheese on his perfectly toasted multigrain bagel. He looked at his masterpiece like Romeo looked at Juliet. Just take a bite for Christ sake!

Tweety took a very large bite and started to chew. I think the perfectly toasted multigrain bagel with cream cheese exited his mouth quicker than it entered. Talk about the pucker factor! Success! I never did re-connect with Brain and Tweety after I left the hospital. I just hope they pursued their path to the nursing profession. I did have lots of fun with Brain and Tweety though. God bless those birdbrains.

Chapter 13

Pot Smokers

Pot smokers are everywhere. I have seen weed, cannabis, ganja being lit up everywhere in my life. This is not such an uncommon sight at present times but back in the late 60’s and 70’s, it was not so common. That didn’t stop folks from buying and smoking grass even where they worked. Yes, I’m talking lighting a bowl at my institution where health and comprehensive attention to the less unfortunate is paramount. The fact of ultimate patient responsibility did not exactly curtail the real stoners to wait until they were off the clock to fire up. Smoke ’em up Johnny! I was amazed at how common this practice existed where I worked. I am not a narc or anything like that, but I despised this practice at my institution. This was my place of business and my responsibility to the less fortunate. Whenever I saw someone light up in a less traveled section of the hospital, I would just shake my head and walk away. I would tell the stoners to keep that shit away from patient care and if it affected patients in any way shape or form, I would narc on them. I didn’t ever narc, but they thought that I would. I have just one marijuana story involving me that I would like to present, and I’ll call it “Huge Cache of Pot destroyed by the Local PD.” I should have expanded the title to “Huge Cache of Pot Destroyed by the local PD. Security Guards and PD get Stoned in the Process.” This title would have been too long, so I’ll stick with the first title of the story, but you get the idea.

This story starts with the local Police Department. The local PD had ten huge garbage bags full of pot they confiscated from a local distributer. These ten bags of evidence were duly ed for in the ensuing investigation and subsequent trial of the perpetrators. God Damn I sound like Joe Cop, don’t I? Truth is that I

watched a lot of cop shows. Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? The local PD was now charged with destroying this cache of Mary Jane evidence. I’m sure that the local potheads were crying in their beer that this weed was removed from the street. Tough shit stoners! This cannabis is history bud! Now where on earth is the best place to dispose of this shit? Hmmm, let me think. Here’s the answer dudes. Some Einstein at the local PD heard that the hospital had an incinerator. The hospital at this point in time incinerated probably ninety-five percent of their generated waste. The incineration method would soon cease due to the high cost of fuel, but during the Huge Cache of Pot destroyed by the Local PD time frame, the incinerator was the best option to eliminate the pot. This incinerator was extremely efficient. This incinerator employed an after burner in the burn cycle exhaust that destroyed any refuse that escaped the original burn. Radical. However, this incinerator was very expensive to run. It burned the shit out of fuel, so its demise was a product of the fuel shortage we older folks . Getting off track a bit, but I needed to mention that this incinerator was very efficient in disposing of unwanted refuse. I guess that’s why the local PD chose our incinerator to burn and dispose of the confiscated bags of grass. I was ed by the local PD. They asked me when and at what location they could bring the bags of marijuana over to the hospital incinerator to be destroyed. I told the Lieutenant to bring the bags of weed to the loading dock, where the incinerator was located at 7 PM. I would fire up this bad boy incinerator and this pot would end “up in smoke”, so to speak. I did not broadcast this plan where or when we were to cook this weed. I told no one because if word got out about this operation, every stoner in town would be hanging around to maybe scavenge a few unburnt buds. I have to say that the local PD was very punctual. They arrived at seven bells, right on the dot. I asked them if they needed any assistance unloading the product. They replied, “No, we need to handle this stuff ourselves.” I said, “OK but after I fire this bad boy up and open the door, you need to whip those bags in the fire chamber as fast as you can throw them.”

They replied that they would chuck the bags in as fast as they could. I said all right, but I again stressed that they needed to throw the bags in quickly because the fire chamber is about a gazillion degrees. The bags would ignite before they even hit the bottom of the chamber. Once I close the door, I couldn’t open it again during the burn cycle. Here is the caveat, they needed to see the bags physically burn, so I couldn’t close the door until all the bags ignited. They agreed again to the expediency of the burn. What up dudes? I opened the fire chamber door, fired up the incinerator and waited until the temperature gauge read a gazillion degrees. The cops were armed with their pot bags and were ready to destroy the evidence. The gazillion degrees in the incinerator fire made the officers hesitate. Holy shit it was hot! I yelled at them to hurry up and chuck the bags in the fire chamber. They yelled back and said that they needed to see the bags physically burn. It was some sort of a rule that they needed to see the bags burn to the ruination of the weed. That incinerator door remained open until every single bag was thrown into the incinerator. During this radical burn cycle, the incinerator door stayed opened way too long, as you may have guessed. The loading dock filled up with the most pungent marijuana smoke escaping the burn chamber from the incinerator. I was imploring the PD guys that I had to close the fucking door on the incinerator because the pot smoke was filling up the loading dock. I was laughing and cracking up the whole time. I was completely toasted due to breathing that incredible weed. The local PD guys were obviously feeling the effects of the marijuana high as much as me. We were all laughing uncontrollably. I was yelling to the PD, “Chuck the fucking bags in the fire dudes.” They were all yelling, “OK man, hold your fuckin’ water dude, this fire is hot.” Jesus H. Christ we were yelling at each other like Wayne and Garth. Schwing! Ass sphincter says what? We were as high as a kite. We all were laughing and feeling the effects of this high. God Damn, talk about an accidental way to get a major buzz on! Being as dumb and stupid as all of us assholes involved, including the local PD; we all got totally fucked up! I’m not a prude but I never got it when it came to the effects of marijuana. I was a 60’s generation but I really didn’t get the big deal. This incident really educated me

on the effects of weed. It was totally accidental, granted, but eye-opening. Holy jumping catfish, the local PD and I got major fucked up together, big time! It’s a good thing that I kept this caper on the down low. The loading dock inadvertently was turned into largest bong ever seen. We were higher than high. Wow man, radical! We were all stoners that evening.

All of the ten bags of evidence were completely destroyed, I think, who fucking cares at this point? The exhaust post afterburner cycle was subsequently dispersed into the atmosphere. I wonder if any wildlife, birds or whatever were subjected to this marijuana exhaust? All in all, this operation was a success even though the PD dudes and I experienced a major high. That’s good right? Let me just interject here. Holy Shit man, I am starved. I got the munchies! Time to hit the vending machines! What up dude?

Chapter 14

Hank the Housekeeper

Hank the Housekeeper was mentioned in my first book. I tagged him with the nickname Rag Mop. The Rag Mop incident was only one small incident involving Hank. I recorded and ed so much more involving Hank the Housekeeper that I needed to expand on this example of a challenged but jobworthy human being and friend. I must first explain that I didn’t completely understand the transition of the Housekeeper title. I don’t know how the name Housekeeper evolved from a person that was primarily a janitor, titled as Housekeeper in the Housekeeping Department had morphed to the new title, Environmental Technician in the Environmental Services Department. Now do not get me wrong, I have all the respect for women and men in the Environmental Services Department. They perform a very valuable service. An employee in Environmental Services realistically is probably one of the lowest paid jobs in the hospital food chain. Yes, Environmental Technicians clean floors, clean toilets and clean hospital rooms but this is a necessary position in the operation of the hospital. The pay treatment of Environmental Services folks doesn’t really matter to me and is none of my business. I always respected the job that they performed. They were all my friends. In my opinion, they performed a very integral and necessary part of the total hospital process. Hank the Housekeeper was quite a character. Hank started his illustrious career with the hospital as a boiler operator in the steam power plant. His technical training was zero. Hank didn’t know the difference between a steam boiler and Mike the Steam Shovel.

I never figured out how Hank the Housekeeper landed his job as a boiler

operator. The boiler operator position was a fairly technical job and this job involved an important function involved with the hospital physical plant. These steam boilers provided steam for heating patient areas and general heating for the whole hospital. The steam generating plant also provided steam for autoclaves to sterilize all sorts of equipment. Got to generate that steam baby! Like I said, this was kind of an important function and here is Hank, two IQ points short of being a moron, one push button away from turning the hospital into a giant igloo or maybe worse. Are you getting the idea that I wasn’t totally comfortable with Hank at this position? Jesus H. Christ in a Hot Stim Walwe, I didn’t have a warm fuzzy feeling with Hank at the controls of these boilers. Realistically, with all things considered, Hank did an adequate job operating the steam boilers. Hank was able to take simple, basic direction satisfactorily. If the instruction was to push this button, turn this lever or open this valve, he was good with it and he pushed the button, turned the lever and opened the valve. However, if something were to happen out of the ordinary push, turn or open, he wouldn’t have a clue how to react to something out of the ordinary. Let’s just say that he wasn’t quite a forward thinker. Two IQ points short, ? When we talk about the sharpest tool in the shed, Hank was not the brightest bulb in the box. Thank God nothing negative happened on his shift! He was a good soul though. Hank the Housekeeper was indeed a good soul. One of the major idiosyncrasies’ Hank the Housekeeper had was that he was the owner of the worst rug ever to be placed on anyone’s head. Hank was an older guy with grey patches of hair below the toupee line. His wig was as black as coal. I think everyone who knew or met Hank knew that he wore a rug. It was obvious. Poor Hank. Everyone could spot his ridiculous hairpiece from a mile away. He didn’t care. He was totally at ease with the belief that this was his real hair. He believed that everyone else also thought that this was his real hair. His hairpiece was in the shape of a Dutch Boy hairstyle. Like I mentioned earlier, the rug was jet black and straighter than an arrow. It would look way out of place on anyone’s head. He didn’t care. This was his own hair in his own little mind. There was a small problem that manifested concerning his rug. Hank wore that hairpiece for so long that he suffered with disgusting sores and lesions on his scalp. His Doctor ordered him to remove the wig in order to let his scalp breathe and to let those nasty lesions heal. One fine day, out of the clear blue sky, Hank

the Housekeeper showed up for work with no toupee, bald head fully displayed. Holy Shit, what a different look for Hank. He was completely bald except for the grey hair around his ears and below. He looked normal with his bald head except for those nasty lesions plastered on his scalp. Hank’s justification for his sudden baldness was that he had to shave all his hair off his head per Doctor’s orders. Of course, everyone knew the true story of Hank’s rug and all were kind enough to accept Hank’s explanation for his sudden baldness. Bless his heart and lesion covered chrome dome scalp! You are probably wondering how Hank the Boiler Operator evolved into Hank the Housekeeper. I will explain that a little later but there are a few more Hank quirks stashed in my little bag of Hank the Housekeeper isms. Here’s one ism. Sometimes after a long day on the job, Hank used to ask folks including me, to him for a popper. Popper you say? Have you ever heard this expression? What the fuck is a popper? I didn’t know and was afraid to ask what a God Damn popper was. I’ll try to explain. In Hank speak, a popper was a drink, a shot of booze, a cocktail. Where he got the expression popper, I’ll never know. I am saying I’ll never know a lot throughout the Hank the Housekeeper chapter. Please the two IQ points short of a moron factor. Furthermore, in scanning my miniscule amount of brain cells, I may have mentioned once to Hank that after work, I’m going to go home and have a little pop of booze, meaning a shot of whiskey to take the edge off. I guess the word to say a pop of booze in Hank speak was “popper.” One evening after work, I needed to find out what the fuck is this popper thing. I told Hank that I would him for a popper. We went to a local gin mill. Apparently, the bartender knew Hank as a regular. Hank said to the bartender, “Louie, two poppers please.” Louie replied, “You got it Hank.” Louie brought us each a shot of whiskey. That’s when I learned the secret of the popper. Jesus H. Christ in a shot glass! A popper was a just shot of booze. I asked Hank where he heard this expression and he pointed at me. Hank morphed my “pop of booze” expression into “popper.” Are you tired of this popper explanation yet? I certainly am. In all these years I was trying to forget the expression “popper.” Now I’m going to squirrel this expression back into the deep dark recesses of my brain. One last time; popper, popper, popper. Now I have shared this fucking popper expression story with you. You either need to thank me or curse me. You’ll never forget this

expression. Either you are welcome or I’m sorry. Popper! Hank was the quintessential comedian in his own mind. Hank’s jokes weren’t even jokes. Hank would routinely bombard folks with his stand-up routine whether they wanted to hear his stand-up routine or not. I will only give you a couple of his “jokes” because more than a couple of Hank’s jokes would be nauseating. Here goes nothing and I mean nothing. that we all worked in a Hospital. Here is one of Hank’s favorite jokes; “Calling Dr. Crotch, calling Dr. Crotch, Dr. Crotch you are needed in the ER STAT, we have a crotch case.” “Hahahahahahaha”. I warned you that Hank’s jokes weren’t even jokes. The funniest part of Hank’s stand-up was that Hank would laugh uncontrollably at his own attempts at jokes. Want more? No? Tough shit, I had to endure these nonsensical rantings so welcome to my world even if only for a few agonizing minutes. Here’s another one. “Hey, did you hear about this asshole that had bleeding hemorrhoids?” OK, now I thought this joke may have a little substance. Asshole? Hemorrhoids? This joke may have a good punchline. Here’s the punchline, “Yeah, this guy’s asshole had hemorrhoids that were bleeding.” “Hahahahahahaha.” I’m going to stop. I heard these jokes a thousand times and Hank’s jokes still invoke the two IQ points short of a moron rule. I just have one more Hank experience that I would like to share. Hank was a kind and gentle soul and I am not really poking fun of Hank. Hank had his challenges both physical and mental but , he was a kind and gentle soul and he meant well. I need to set up this next Hank experience with a little pre-Hank explanation. Hank was a Hospital employee and his boiler room boss recommended him for an apartment on the hospital proper. Hank put in his application for a hospital apartment and secured a first-floor apartment in one of the hospital houses. That apartment was a perfect fit for Hank because Hank didn’t have a car. The apartment was within easy walking distance to the hospital entrance. It’s a good thing because I’m not even sure that Hank had a driver’s license. This apartment was really a nice little first-floor apartment, but it needed some minor renovations. I need to reiterate that all of following content, cross my heart is true. To be honest, I’m not a clever enough person to make this shit up.

Like I said, this apartment was nice but needed some minor renovations. The minor renovations consisted of paint, wallpaper and some ing. Let me start with the painting. The hospital provided the materials, but Hank had to do the labor part himself or hire someone to do the painting for him. Hank was cost conscience, so he decided to tackle the painting part himself. All in all, except for not using drop cloths, the painting wasn’t too bad. However, there were drip spots and splotches everywhere. OK, not too bad for two IQ points short of being a moron. Painting complete. Since Hank did such an underwhelming job with the painting, he would not hire anyone to install the ing and try his hand at ing the living room. One of the hospital carpenters measured the living room area and ordered the ing and supplies for Hank. The ing was delivered and was stacked in the middle of Hank’s living room. This next part is kind of difficult to describe, but try to picture the following. Hank started in one corner of the room where a full sheet of ing would fit. Hank put the first sheet of ing in place, glued it to the wall and secured the first sheet with a couple of nails to hold it while the glue dried as per the carpenter. OK, one sheet up and it didn’t look too bad. The next sheet however, had to be trimmed around a door casing. Here is where the shit hit the fan and just for a moment, pretend that I am Hank the ing installer. OK, door casing and the full sheet of ing won’t fit, so fuck that next piece. Now, where the hell would another full sheet fit? I got it. A full sheet will fit over the front window if I turned it sideways.

All righty, now I’m making some progress. Second sheet is secure, but it looks funny because the seams run horizontal instead of vertical. Screw it, at least the shitty plastered wall is covered. I don’t think anyone will notice. Let’s move on. Where can another full sheet fit? Aha, over there. Third sheet firmly in place. I will stop right here being Hank and using the Hank two IQ points short of a moron rule because I’m starting to comprehend Hank’s logic. Hank continued to checkerboard only the full sheets of ing mounted vertical or horizontal wherever a full sheet would fit. He did no trimming of any sheets of ing. It didn’t matter how ridiculous it looked. He continued until there wasn’t a spot remaining to fit another full sheet of ing. It looked like a checkerboard, a

full horizontal piece or vertical piece as long as that full sheet would fit. Of course, there were huge gaps where bare wall was showing. I think that I am approaching one IQ point short of a moron rule with Hank’s next brilliant fix to the huge gaps between ing pieces. The carpenter had also ordered in his supplies, a can of black paint for Hank. The carpenter explained to Hank that before you glue and nail down the sheets, measure where the two s meet each other and spray a black strip on the wall where the ing butts up against each other. That way you will not see any of the painted plaster wall behind where the s butt up against each other. This plan was logical. During Hank’s ing installation job, Hank went back to the carpenter and asked for some more black paint. The carpenter asked Hank why and Hank simply said, “to cover the walls where the ing doesn’t butt up against each other.” The carpenter gave Hank another can of black spray paint to finish the living room ing job. Hank completed the ing job and was proud of his accomplishment. Next, we got a call from the carpenter. I’ll call him Tony. Tony was absolutely stunned. Tony said, “You guys have got to see this. I have never seen anything like this before in my whole life. I can’t believe that this fantastic ing job is not featured somewhere in a magazine.” He badly wanted us all to see Hanks proudly ed living room. Oooo, we have got to see this masterpiece! We waited for coffee break and walked over to Hanks apartment. I don’t think that I could adequately describe what we all saw. Picture randomly placed sheets mounted vertical or horizontal, wherever a full sheet would fit with huge gaps of the wall behind the ing showing and those gaps were spray painted black. There was no molding either on top or bottom. If there was a gap from the floor to the wall, it was spray painted black. Now mind you that Hank didn’t use any kind of overspray protection with his black spray paint so there was black spray paint everywhere, floors, ceilings, everywhere! This was one certainly for the books. Hank thought this looked fantastic and he was so proud of his handy work. Jesus H. Christ in knotty wood ing, there are no more IQ points to spare. The man was indeed a moron!

I also mentioned that wall papering was included in on the renovations of Hank’s apartment. After Tony saw the ing job, he offered to wallpaper Hanks two bathrooms for free only if he could take pictures of Hank’s ing job. Hank agreed. I saw the pictures that Tony took. These pictures that Tony took were used to instruct his co-workers the incorrect way to install ing. Hank eventually transferred to the Housekeeping Department. The pressure of operating a highpressure steam plant was too much for Hank to endure. Hank couldn’t handle the responsibility. He was extremely nervous and jumpy the entire time he worked in the boiler room. The Housekeeping Department was a much better fit for Hank. Maybe one day Hank, we will meet up in that bar in the sky and have a popper or two or three. Popper!

Chapter 15

Nice Save

Sometimes in my employment, I had the opportunity to personally experience some very serious moments. One would think that I would have had lots of serious moments especially working in a hospital environment. I did. In hospital life, serious moments were almost a routine day to day occurrence. Serious moments usually aren’t planned. These serious moments just tend to creep up on you before you realize it, then they bite you firmly in the ass. I think one of my most memorable serious moments occurred on a typical mundane, routine working day; nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a ho-hum day. This serious moment, true to life, jumped up and took a huge bite out of my ass. I do need to preface this experience with some explanation of some of the facts leading up to this moment. I was never a Boy Scout, but I always tried to be prepared whatever job or recreation in which I was involved. My motto has always been (You never know.) The hospital offered lifesaving R first responder courses to any employee who was interested. This course was mandatory for certain folks but like I already said, the course was available to every employee interested in taking this course. This lifesaving R first responder course took place on company time and the best part was that whoever took the course was paid as if working a regular shift. Easy money as they say. Getting paid to go to school. What a great concept! I worked in an institution with nurses, doctors, orderlies, ambulance EMT’s and other ing folks with all this lifesaving R first responder training so why do I need to take this training? I’ll tell you why. Because I wanted to take this training. I wanted to always be prepared and (You never know.) The lifesaving R first responder course took place once a week for two hours each class, for five consecutive weeks. It was taught by a Certified ed Nurse instructor. She was of course, a great teacher. Me being the quintessential

clown always tried to lighten up the tight asses around me that were also taking this class. I believe the reason those folks were being such tight asses was the fact that they were required to take this class. I wasn’t required to take this class. I wanted to take this class because, well you know why. I took this class very seriously even though I did try to lighten it up for the tight asses around me. I did get some laughs from the instructor and some of the students. I’m sorry, but that’s me, take it or leave it. Rescue Annie also known as Resusci Annie is the name given to the training mannequin used to train millions of folks on lifesaving techniques. Resusci Annie is also known as the most kissed face in the world. There is a whole story behind Resusci Anne but I’m not going into that. Just ask Siri or go onto Google to get more information on Resusci Annie, if you wish. All you need to know for the purposes of this experience is that we used this fucking no arm, no leg doll to practice lifesaving and R techniques. Enter me, the quintessential clown trying to lighten things up. In week two, I started by asking the instructor why am I saving this patient, Resusci Annie, because she had no arms or legs and what kind of quality of life would she have if I saved her life? I got a few laughs from the class, but I did perform the R with excellence. I did well and ed the one-man R rescue. When it came to the buddy R approach, the two-person training, I paired up with a quite attractive young nurse. Lucky me. Yay!

I asked my partner before we started the two-person training exercise with Resusci Annie if she would like to begin the training exercise with pounding Resusci Annie’s chest or sucking her face? This got big laughs from the rest of the class. Now I realized that I was indeed the fucking class clown. I was never really a class clown in my previous studies, but I always tried to keep it light, especially when the situation is supposed to be dead serious. It just keeps people loose. God Damn it, you need to be loose. Don’t take this shit so serious, loosen up folks! I believe an individual performs at a much higher level if they are relaxed and can calmly analyze the situation at hand. My partner and I ed the two-person R save with flying colors. We traded pounding Resusci Annie’s chest and sucking her face with precision. What an awesome flawless procedure. My

lifesaving R first responder course was two classes complete and I had only three more classes to go before I became a certified lifesaving R first responder. This would add to another accomplishment on my resume. I am fucking awesome folks! I hope you are not believing this awesome shit I am feeding you, but I did good through my second class. The point that I am trying to make is that I was only two out of five lessons into R first responder certification. Two fifths baby, only three more to go. Only two classes into certification is very relevant to this chapter. Now let me get back to the nice save serious moment. Stay with me because I’m going to shift gears. I want to fast forward to the God Damn boiler room again. My wife’s uncle worked in the boiler room as a boiler operator. He was very qualified to hold this position. He was a smart guy and very familiar with this mechanical type of stuff. I recommended him for his job at the hospital. As a matter of fact, I went out on a limb to recommended him for this job. His name was Bobby and I will refer to him as Bobby going forward. Bobby was a great guy for an Uncle-in-Law. We used to play cards together when he was recovering from his diabetes problems. He taught me how to play cribbage. We were close. I mentioned that I went out on a limb for him to get his job at the hospital. That limb I was dangling from was that Bobby didn’t exactly inform Human Resources that he had previous heart problems. I’m not sure if this would have mattered whether he got hired, but this full disclosure stipulation wasn’t quite fully disclosed by either of us. Anyway, I would visit Bobby quite often when we were both working the same shift. One of my routine Security rounds required me to sign into the boiler room. Reason being was that the boiler room was in a very remote location and safety was a concern. This shift that Bobby and I both worked this particular time was a day shift. It was mid-morning, and this was a typical routine day. There was nothing out of the ordinary happening. The events that happened during that ordinary day turned extraordinary in a heartbeat, so to speak. This was one of those unplanned serious moments that would creep up on you and bite you in the ass. Jesus H. Christ in a Bulgarian Squat with slam ball in the gluteus maximus, this was a huge bite out of my ass! I did my required safety round to the boiler room. Bobby and I engaged in a

conversation about Hank the Housekeeper. Hank the Housekeeper was one of our favorite subjects for reasons clearly stated previously in the Hank the Housekeeper chapter. Bobby and I always had something to chat about. After maybe five minutes into our conversation, one of the plumbers showed up to repair something or another. Bobby’s attention turned to the plumber to discuss what needed to be repaired. I focused my attention to the sign in sheet while Bobby and the plumber chatted. Suddenly the plumber yelled to me that Bobby fell to the floor. I ran around the desk and sure enough, Bobby was on the floor clutching his chest and breathing very deeply. I was in the middle of assessing the situation when Bobby stopped breathing and went totally limp. Uh oh, now this was one of those unplanned serious moments that jumped up and took a huge bite out of my ass. Be prepared. You never know kept resounding in my brain. Think man think and think quick! I looked at the plumber and he looked at me like he just saw a ghost. This plumber was standing riveted in the same the spot, wide eyed and mouth agape. He didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. Fuck me, he was not going to be any help at all, useless as tits on a boar pig. Shit, now I’m fucked but good. At least maybe he could call for assistance. I yelled at him to call a code red to the boiler room. He made that call and I heard the announcement over the loudspeaker. Thank you, thank you, help is on the way. Did I mention that the boiler room was probably the hottest area in the entire hospital? If I didn’t, I just did. It was hotter than hell and the situation at hand didn’t help at all with the hot temperature. In the blink of an eye, my two course R training kicked in to do something, anything. I started one-man R on Bobby. This was the real thing happening folks. At least I didn’t deliver a brown monument to surprise, but this was a genuine emergency situation and what made it doubly tense was that I knew the victim. This wasn’t armless, legless, never returning a kiss dummy Resusci Annie. This was Bobby. I can’t let Bobby die.

I continued R for what seemed like an eternity in this God forsaken boiling hot fucking boiler room. When are the emergency team professionals going to

get here? I’m starting to get tired. One of the maintenance guys showed up and I told him to run to get some help and show them where the boiler room was located. Bobby wasn’t doing so good. I was barely keeping Bobby alive by pumping his heart with my two lesson R skills. I don’t think the emergency professionals had one fucking clue where the boiler room was located. That indeed was the case I soon learned after the emergency professionals finally arrived. They didn’t know where the God Damn boiler room was located. Jesus H. Christ, go figure. The emergency professionals then took over for me. I was exhausted and covered with sweat. The emergency professionals had to zap Bobby with the defibrillator a couple of times and then his heart finally started pumping on its own. Whew, Nice Save! They put Bobby on the stretcher and then Bobby headed to the Cardiac Care Unit. In the middle of all this commotion, this fuck stick Hospital Tom showed up, for what reason, I have no earthly idea. I guess he tried to be a “big man” and “take over.” He looked at me and commanded, “Please exit the area because you have no business being here.” I very impolitely replied to him, “Tom, in all due respect, Fuck You and if you prefer that I speak Quaker, Fuck Thee.” He stared at me in shock. I further said, “Listen Tom, I kept this guy alive before the professionals got here so I’m staying. Maybe you should leave.” The Doctor of the Emergency Team replied without turning his head, “He stays, Tom you leave!” Mr. fuck stick Hospital just turned, started walking away and disappeared into the steam filled boiler room like Francis Marion would melt into the swamps of South Carolina. Bye, bye dipshit. Oh baby, that felt good. I was still hot and sweaty, but that felt good. Bobby made it. The following day I went to visit Bobby. He was resting comfortably in the Cardiac Unit. His first words to me was, “When I recover and get discharged to go home, I want you to come and visit me.” I replied, “Sure Bobby, I’ll visit you. Maybe you’ll feel up to playing some cribbage.” Bobby then said, “I don’t know about cribbage, but the first thing I’m going to do is kick your ass.” I was very surprised with what he said to me. I said, “Bobby why do you want to kick my ass?” Bobby replied, “My chest is so sore where you were pounding on me. What the fuck were you using, a sledgehammer?” Bobby then beamed a huge smile and said, “Thanks for saving my life.” I think for the first time in my life, I was speechless. There was no witty

repartee, amusing retorts or smart-assed remarks spewing out of my mouth. I was totally without speech. I didn’t know what to say to Bobby other than a weak, “You’re welcome.” I regained composure quickly and said, “No big deal, anyone would have done the same thing. Forget about it.” This was all we said to each other. I visited him every day in the Cardiac Unit until he was sent home, then I visited him at his home. We played cribbage. He didn’t kick my ass. Are you wondering about my last three R first responder certification classes or have I gotten so far off course, that you forgot all about that? I guess the later. In any case, I’ll tell you about the last three R first responder certification classes. I reported to my third class. I was kind of apprehensive what the reaction would be from my classmates. Surely no one would know anything about this incident. Yeah right. There is no rumor mill in the hospital. Yeah right. Wrong! If someone were to go into a restroom and fart, everyone in the hospital would know within five minutes of the ing of gas. OK, so here we go.

I entered the classroom and all my classmates were seated. The instructor was looking down and leafing through some papers on her desk. Oooo, maybe no one will say anything, and I won’t have to endure any undue embarrassment. Yeah! Wrong! Now picture this; I took my seat and opened the lesson booklet on my desk. As if on cue, all my classmates plus my instructor stood up and gave me a standing ovation. I was the point man in the middle of this multitude of accolades. The congratulations and kudos were flowing like lava. Now for the second time in my life, I was speechless. There was no witty repartee, amusing retorts or smart-assed remarks. The class clown was silenced. I was duly humbled again. A very valid point that I’m trying to make is that all of the professional folks, doctors, nurses, orderlies, and EMT’s do lifesaving frequently. I did the R procedure only once and I didn’t deserve all of these kudos. I humbly thanked everyone and took the final three classes seriously with no clowning around and with no smart assed remarks. Bobby returned to work after his recuperation and therapy. There is an ending to this chapter that haunts my brain from time to time. I was on duty one afternoon when I got a call to report to the Emergency Room. I didn’t think this was anything out of the ordinary. I had to report to the Emergency Room dozens of

times. When I got to the ER, the nursing supervisor called me into her office. She said that she had some bad news to tell me. She said that Bobby had a heart attack at home and he didn’t make it. She needed me to identify the body. This was not one of my favorite things, but duty calls. I entered the trauma room and I identified the body I saw as certainly being Bobby. All I could muster was a whispering “Yes, that’s Bobby, God Damn it.” Someday I will re Bobby and perhaps we will play cribbage again and this time he can kick my ass.

Chapter 16

Betsy the Switchboard Operator

I introduced Betsy earlier as our switchboard operator that generally worked second shift. I will say again, Betsy was quite a lady. If you don’t recall, Betsy was a widowed older woman, maybe in her late fifties or early sixties. Everyone at the hospital knew when Betsy was working. Her low, manly, gravelly voice that emanated throughout the entire complex when she paged someone was certainly unmistakable. I’ve said all that before but there is more I will tell about Betsy. Betsy would announce every request we gave her. Hey Betsy, please page Dr. Crotch to call the ER. They have a crotch case. “Dr. Crotch to the ER please, DR. Crotch to the ER.” That was an actual request from Hank the Housekeeper. “Hahahahahahaha.” One of my favorites was when I asked Betsy to page Mr. Ben Dover to Physical Therapy. OK folks, this tomfoolery was way before any Bart Simpson’s calls to Moe. These calls were pure unadulterated phony phone calls before even Stern. “Ben Dover, Mr. Ben Dover please report to Physical Therapy.” Betsy would page anything. We all loved her. My partner Kurl and I were on duty one weekend. It was a dull slow day. My partner Kurl was feeling a little frisky and wanted to lighten things up a bit. Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time to have Betsy page someone. Kurl called the switchboard. He asked Betsy to please page Miss Carriage to the Delivery Room. “Miss Carriage, Miss Carriage please report to the Delivery Room, Miss Carriage please report to the delivery Room.” Betsy would page whoever we told her to page. I know this sounds like a little over the edge now, but it sounded like a good idea at the time. She was not an unintelligent person by no means. She was just very dedicated to her job and the hospital. Betsy desired to do a great job. It was not difficult to befriend Betsy. She was easy to talk with and loved to have everyone visit with her at the switchboard. The one subject she never talked

about was her personal private life. We all knew that Betsy was widowed and had a grown daughter that lived out of state. That’s about all we knew of her personal life. I think I knew Betsy about two years before I would crack a little into her personal life. We talked and I found out that she was a little older than I guessed. She was a retired switchboard operator with the phone company. Aha, that’s where she got her training and expertise on the switchboard. “One ringy dingy, two ringy dingys. Is this the party to whom I am speaking?” Betsy was good at her job. I will say that. I couldn’t pull much of anything else personal from Betsy that is worth mentioning. Her low, manly, gravelly voice was enhanced by a lifetime of smoking those camel cigarettes. She was a chain smoker and when anyone visited her at the switchboard, she would fire up a camel, one after the other. It’s a good thing that the switchboard was able to be behind closed doors. Yes, I was a complete dumb ass those days and smoked right along with Betsy. Those were the days where one could smoke just about everywhere in the hospital. It’s hard to believe but personnel would smoke right at the nurse’s stations. Now no one can smoke anywhere on hospital property. I smartened up and stopped smoking a long time ago. The phony phone calls requested came to a halt when my partner Kurl went just a little too far with his request. Kurl stepped just a bit over the line. This is not quite the truth, Kurl obliterated the line.

This stepping over the line occurred one Saturday afternoon. Kurl and I were not particularly busy. That’s the cue to pull a prank, a practical joke, anything to overcome the boredom. We already did the whoopie cushion prank a dozen times before and everyone was cautiously guarded (not an intentional pun) around both of us when they saw us together. An elaborate scam like the Transvestite Caper would take way too long to set up and neither of us were that motivated at the time. Here are the choices; pull a prank or chat with female employees. My suggestion was to just talk with female employees. I was kind of pranked out. Kurl, on the other hand wanted to do some mischief. Betsy was working and she

would page anything we asked. Let me point out that this hospital had a very diverse population of employees and patients, among them being Spanish speaking folks. Since I just wanted to chat with girls and Kurl wanted to do some mischief, Kurl decided to radio the switchboard. Kurl asked Betsy to page, “Calling all conyo’s, calling all conyo’s please report to the front lobby. Calling all conyo’s, calling all conyo’s please report to the front lobby.” The word conyo in Spanish refers to female genitalia. Ooops Kurl. I guess Kurl was too smart for his own britches. He didn’t factor in that Spanish speaking folks knew exactly what was being paged. We didn’t get reprimanded but poor Betsy was warned about not paging anything out of the ordinary. Betsy retired from the hospital when the switchboard was updated to the current century and was digitally automated. She didn’t want to learn a new switchboard. I can still hear her low, manly, gravelly voice resounding through the halls of the hospital. “748, 748 STAT to the ER. 748, 748, STAT to the ER.”

Chapter 17

The Best Softball Teams in the City

The hospital was very kind enough to sponsor and a female and male softball team to play in the City Softball League. These softball teams were a great physical and mental escape from the rigors of hospital life. In addition, these teams were a family type of affair. By that, I mean my family was quite involved in both the female team and the male team. I managed the female team and my wife who was quite a good softball player herself, was a member of the female team. My brother managed and played on the male team and I helped him with the male team by coaching and playing on the male team. OK, I’m tired of this politically correct shit, so from now on the female team is the girl team and the male team is the boy team. Jesus H. Christ in a politically correct world, let’s be reasonable, female, male, girl, boy who the fuck cares? Anyway, it is girl, boy going forward. I’m glad I got that out of the way. We all took our jobs very seriously and we treated playing softball very seriously. Playing softball wasn’t quite the life and death we faced every day on the job but any outsider who saw us play, both girls and boys, saw that we treated every game like life and death. I’m not trying to sound melodramatic by any means, but we played every game for blood, literally played for blood. We were fully committed to playing our best. I don’t know, maybe we all should have been committed, to a mental institution. One great example of our team spirit was that the girls team ed the boy’s team and vice versa. Either team was present or cheering at the other games. It was a great time in my life. Can you say camaraderie? We had that in spades baby! You may wonder how I had the time to work two jobs, coach my kids little league teams, play softball and manage the girl softball team? I will be very honest; I don’t fucking know. Seriously, I don’t know. The hours in a day don’t

add up to the hours expended. Just believe that I did all the previous activities. In addition, we used to have some combined parties in of our teams. I’m going to stop rationalizing the how. I just fucking did it, OK? I will first start with the girl team. We were a powerhouse. We had a girl I’ll call Mo that could hit the softball as far, if not further than any boy or man. When we played a game, the opposing infield would routinely back up into the outfield grass when Mo came to the plate. I used to pitch batting practice to her, and I told everyone on my team to play in the outfield so no one would get hurt. She was the most feared hitter in the league. Next was my wife who was not a power hitter but had the best batting average on the team and nothing got by her in the infield. She was a great high school softball player. The rest of the team was difficult to pick out who was the weakest because I had no weak players on this team. I had a great core group of girl players to choose from. I had the nursing schoolgirls. I had the lab girl students. I had candy stripers. They all were mostly young kids, late teens, early twenties. Most of the girls played softball before either in High School or recreation or church leagues. It was like fishing in a barrel. The best part of this whole team was that the girls really wanted to practice and play the games. I used to preach my motto which was a modified combination of hugely famous people. My motto was “Winning isn’t everything, but it’s a hell of a lot better than losing.” I know, I know, it’s only a game but I loved coaching these girls. They were motivated and hungry to play.

I managed this girl team for five years and dominated the City League. We were undefeated in five years and won the City Championship for five years in a row. Our reign ended when the current crop of students graduated and the rest of the girl’s kind of lost interest. We did however disband the team and retire undefeated and to this day this has not been matched. I was and forever will be so proud of them. They played hard. They got their bumps and bruises but played through all the aches and pains. I you all. Thank you, girls. Now let me tell you about the boy team. To the best of my recollection, we were all hospital employees in many different departments. We were youngish at the time, but we did have some more mature guys on the team. We welcomed anyone to play on the team that wanted to play. I don’t think we were quite as

serious as the girls, but we didn’t like losing. We did have that in common. I think we concentrated more if there was enough beer on ice to satisfy everyone’s thirst after the game ended. We were a little more mellow than the girls. Don’t get me wrong, we were competitive. If we won, we would celebrate. If we lost, we would drown our sorrows. Folk, this is categorized as a win/win situation. The boy team was not undefeated any season. We did win the City Championship one year and shared the victory with the girls. I will get into that championship in a minute, but I must tell the story of one of the disappointing seasons. This particular year we had injuries and pretty much sucked. I blamed the injuries, but the truth is that we just sucked. We were out of contention halfway into the season. I managed the girl team. You know that already. I had a big game the last game of the season. It was the clash of the Titans. We needed this game to stay undefeated and the other team needed this game to make the play-offs. It was huge. I recruited my brother to help me coach the girl team for this game. I must mention that my brother played professional baseball for a double A major league baseball team. He was great, and he knew baseball. He solidly agreed to help me with this important game. Coincidently the boy team had a game this same night. The boy team was out of contention and were just playing for fun, so my brother graciously agreed to help me. My brother was also nursing an injury. He stepped on a sharp object at the beach and ripped open the bottom of his foot. He had a difficult time even walking. He informed the boy team that he would be helping the girl team that evening. He helped me immensely with the girl team that evening. With a victory, we were able to secure top seed in the playoffs for the girls. After the game we decided to drive over to the field where the boy team played. All the girls came with us to the boy team. What a great bunch of kids! The boy team was losing badly. It was a lost cause. My brother substituted Fazz as the manager that night. Fazz of the Transvestite Caper? Fazz told my brother that we were fucked and were not too good that game. We were double digits behind in the game with two outs in our last at bat. There was no one on base. Fazz asked if my brother if he would like to pinch hit. My brother said no, let the guys play who showed up for this game.

Fazz called time out. This main character in the Transvestite Caper would not be deterred. Fazz was adamant. He said to my brother, “Listen, I am the manager of this team tonight. You are on this roster. You are going to pinch hit.” My brother replied, “My foot is really sliced up and I can’t even run.” Fazz said, “God Damn it, I don’t need you to run, I need you to bat. Fuck it, just bat.” We all egged my brother on. Just fucking bat. All right. I am building up to this crescendo. My brother took his turn at bat. I’m not a believer of divine province or anything, but this is one for the books. My brother stepped up to the plate. I swear to god that the ball my brother hit was the longest ball I have ever seen hit in my life and I am talking Ted Williams bombs. This softball was hit so far that the ball was still going on an upward angle when it cleared the trees at maybe 400 feet. That fucking ball was never found. Both teams stared with mouths wide open, watching that softball leave the county. Jesus H. Christ in a four-bagger, that ball was hit a long way. My brother limped around the bases as best as he could to complete his fourbagger. Both teams stood and gave him a standing ovation as he limped around the bases. God Damn that ball was scorched! The next batter popped out to end the game but that didn’t matter. We were winners no matter what the scoreboard said. I will it that the home run my brother hit was even more exciting than winning the girl championship for the fifth time in a row. I will never forget it. I’ll go back to the boy team the one time we did win the City Championship. We won the City Championship along with the girl team and made the playoffs with the boy team this particular year. We weren’t expected to go any further than the first round in the playoffs. We somehow won the first round and advanced. We somehow advanced through to the finals. To this day, I don’t know how we won the City Championship, but we did. We were ecstatic. So, both the girls and men won the championship that year. We were the best softball teams in the city. OK, what next. I’ll tell what next. We celebrate baby! We decided to have this huge party at one of our teammate’s house. We would have a celebration cookout party. Let the food and drinks flow. The only negative part of that big party was that was the last time I would ever drink Wild Turkey and I mean ever but, totally worth it!

Chapter 18

Fun Telephone Pranks

I have already mentioned a few telephone pranks sprinkled throughout previous chapters. Some of these telephone pranks were small and petty. An example would be having Betsy page a phony person. They were fun and funny. Some of the telephone pranks were very elaborate and took a long time to manifest. That example was of course, the Transvestite Caper. That caper took weeks to develop. That was fun and kind of tedious but one of the most ingenious, well planned, clever tricks ever perpetrated on an individual. The telephone prank examples I will now showcase were totally dreamed up in my warped brain. I will classify these telephone pranks as ordinary in content but humorous, nonetheless. At least I thought these pranks were funny and clever. Judge for yourself. The first couple of telephone pranks were perpetrated on the Mormon Foreman. The Mormon Foreman as described in an earlier chapter, was an easy target. The Mormon Foreman’s demeanor was pretty much “all business” so pulling these pranks on him was easy peasy lemon squeezy, like shooting fish in a barrel, child’s play. So, do you get the idea that I had no problem being the early bird that got the worm, I never let the cat out of the bag and the Mormon Foreman was a sitting duck? Jesus H. Christ in funky animal idioms, I hope you get it. OK, sorry about getting carried away with these crazy animal idioms. Now let me get back to my fun telephone pranks on the Mormon Foreman. The Mormon Foreman and I had desks situated in the same office. Our office was quite a large space and we were close in proximity but not too close to eavesdrop on each other’s phone calls. The first telephone prank was very simple but we were in close proximity. That point will become clear a little later in this chapter. Please the time frame era involved here. No one had cell phones because there were no cell phones. Cell phones were not even invented yet. We all carried pagers (beepers) and had to use land lines to communicate, also

referred to as POTS lines. For those who do not know what POTS means, it means Plain Old Telephone Service, POTS. Enough of the Alexander Graham Bell lesson, back to the first fun telephone prank on the Mormon Foreman. Like I already mentioned, this first prank was simple. I simply took a piece of invisible scotch tape and taped down one of the switch hooks buttons under the cradle part of the phone. With the switch hook button taped down, the phone could never be answered. The telephone would just ring and ring until the person on the other end of the line just gave up and hung up on their end. This prank didn’t take the Mormon Foreman too long to figure out. It was certainly funny to watch him try to answer the phone. The phone would just ring and ring. The first time I tried this, he just put the phone down and waited for the phone to stop ringing. The second time I pulled this prank, he figured it out. He was mad but this prank did not elicit a “son of a gun.” Damn, it was funny but not irritating enough. The second fun telephone prank I pulled on the Mormon Foreman was funny and clever enough to get under his skin and was fucking irritating enough to get a “son of a gun” out of the Mormon Foreman. This prank was fairly easy, but I did this prank in phases so this one took a while to develop. In the handset of the phone, there was a transmitter and a receiver. I simply opened the transmitter cover part of the handset and removed the microphone, then screwed the cover back on.

When someone would call the Mormon Foreman, the Mormon Forman answered the phone but the person on the other end of the phone couldn’t hear the Mormon Foreman. He could hear the caller, but the caller couldn’t hear him. He would raise the volume of his voice to almost a shout until the person on the other line would just give up and hang up. I swear that I had all I could do to not break out laughing. The Mormon Foreman simply said, “My phone must be broken.” I said to him, “Call my number.” He said OK and dialed my number. Here is where the proximity in our office is relevant to this prank. He dialed my number and my phone rang. I answered the phone and said, “Hello.” He said, “Hello.” Then he continued by saying, “Can you hear me?” I replied, “I hear you loud and clear.” Jesus H. Christ, yes, I could hear him talking. He was in the

same fucking office sitting just a few feet away. He placed the phone back in the cradle and said, “I guess it works all right now. That must have been a fluke.” Now here is the mastery and brilliancy of this trick. I’m so proud for being such a jackass. When he left the office, I returned the microphone to the handset. The next time the Mormon Foreman answered his phone, everything worked to perfection. He could hear the caller and the caller could hear him. His phone worked to perfection. You can guess where this is going. The next time he left the office, I removed the microphone from his phone. The caller couldn’t hear him. He called me again in the office and again I heard him. that I was so close to him that I heard him loud and clear. When he left the office, I returned the microphone to the handset and again the next call he got, the phone worked perfectly. I tried this trick a third time and this time the Mormon Foreman had the telephone repairman replace his phone.

The telephone repairman replaced his phone. Now he had a brand-new phone. This new phone couldn’t possibly be defective. I bided my time and waited for the most opportune time to make his phone defective again. The opportune time presented itself when the Mormon Forman left the office. I did my trickery on his phone once more. Same result. This time I couldn’t contain myself. I invited a couple of guys to our office to witness this trick. The look on the Mormon Forman’s face was priceless. He had been royally HAD in spades. We all were laughing uncontrollably. With all of us cracking up, he looked at all of us standing there and just exclaimed, “Son of a Gun!” He stormed out of the office. The fun telephone prank was enormously successful, and I didn’t get a fuck, shit, or asshole from the Mormon Foreman but hey, I did get a “Son of a Gun” out of him at least. So, SCORE! I really enjoyed the fun telephone pranks in my tenure at the hospital and I hope they live on.

Chapter 19

100 Years Anniversary Party Fun

Someone and I’m not sure who that someone was, did research and found out exactly when the hospital was officially founded and opened for business. I think it may have been some Einstein in the Public Relations office that d that the hospital was 100 years old. It was in the 1870’s or 1880’s timeframe. I don’t really the exact date. It doesn’t matter. All I knew was that the hospital was 100 years old and a celebration was planned. We all were going to be part of this grand gala event. This gala event was going to be ed and represented by each department in the hospital. One hundred years were going to be performed in a chronological order with this celebration. It was decided that a variety show with song and dance, comedy skits, instrumentals, and any other idea was welcomed to partake in this event. This gala event was going to be a super huge deal to include programs and refreshments. Local politicians were invited to watch the show. The local paper was going to send a reporter and a photographer to record this event. One hundred years, Woo Hoo! Are you thinking what I am thinking? Who is the best choice to direct this event? Do we have the only logical choice right here at our fingertips? Why am I asking so many questions? C’mon, you know who I am talking about. “Ladies and Gentlemen, for your listening and viewing pleasure, let me re-introduce to you the only one nutted Vaudeville Jewish plumber.” Heeeeee’s back. Melvin the one nutted Jewish plumber was the perfect choice to lead this event. I think Melvin said yes before he was even asked to help. Melvin probably would have given his remaining nut to direct this show. Finally, Melvin had a venue to display his real talents. Like I mentioned earlier, the history of the 100 years variety show was to be performed in chronological order dating back to the late 1800’s. So that means either Melvin had to assign a decade or two to a department or the department

would choose its own time frame to perform their act. As expected, Melvin chose his favorite era when Vaudeville was popular, mid 1890’s through the early 1930’s. This particular time frame was Melvin’s baby. Melvin chose a female partner in which to perform his song and dance. His female partner was quite a singer and dancer herself, so this act was golden. Now, what are the rest of us no talent schmucks going to choose? The rest of the departments covered all other decades except the 50’s and 60’s. That’s not so bad. Things are starting to look up a little. The 50’s and 60’s decades were right up my alley. I was more of a 60’s person but I fondly the Doo-wop days from my older brothers. The DA (ducks-ass) haircut, Ozzie and Harriet, the baby boomers, Hula Hoops, Barbie Dolls, family fun and Drive-In movies. We are going to do something awesome. I didn’t know exactly what, but it will bring the house down for sure. Doo wop it will be. I asked Melvin’s partner if she would help us with the dance part of our act. Our dance skills were nonexistent. My team of three guys and me added up to having 8 left feet. We were God awful dancers. How could Melvin’s sweet young partner develop anything that looked like dance steps with the four bozos in front of her? I’ll tell you what the answer was, practice, practice, practice. We practiced our asses off. By showtime, we would be dancing up a storm like Gene Kelly. Who am I kidding? All we wanted to do was not trip over our own feet when we took the stage.

The song we chose was Blue Moon, Doo wop style. This was classic Doo wop. If you looked up Doo wop anywhere, you would surely see Blue Moon circa 1961. Bom ba ba bom ba bom ba bom bom. Bom ba ba bom ba bom ba bom bom. Dang a dang dang ding a dong ding. Blue moon, moon, moon, moon, moon. Di, Di, Di, Di, Di, moon, moon, moon, blue moon. Di, Di, Di, Di, Di, Blue moon, moon, moon, moon, moon. Di, Di, Di, Di, Di, moon, moon, moon, blue moon. Bom ba ba bom ba bom ba bom bom. Bom ba ba bom ba bom ba bom bom. Dang a dang dang ding a dong ding. Blue moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own etc., etc., etc. How awesome is that? We had our song, now we must learn the dance part.

practice, practice, practice? We practiced our asses off. I will say that that we weren’t that graceful, but this is a Doo wop song. We didn’t have to be that graceful. Bluuuuuuuuuue Mooooon. We had the song, we had the dance steps, now what do we wear? This should be easy. It’s the 50’s. I suggested the following; blue jeans appropriately pegged (pegged pants), black shoes with a clicker on the heel to make a tap sound, white socks, white tee shirt with a pack of camels rolled in the one of the sleeves and a camel in our mouths, a DA haircut with lots of Brylcreem and a tattoo on our left arm. My dress suggestions for our group were approved by all of the of this greaser group.

Now here is a little twist, our tattoos were not real tattoos but Henna tattoos and would be unique to the individual. The tattoo idea was a fun idea and the tattoos we chose were very clever. Tommy the Mick sported a tattoo of a hypodermic needle. Mr. Lights Out when Tommy the Mick was stuck with a needle? That tattoo was a logical choice. Melvin wore a tattoo of a plunger. John the carpenter displayed a claw hammer tattoo. Both Melvin’s and John’s tattoos were appropriate. All the tattoo ideas that remained of our group was Patty our dance teacher and me. Patty was a dance instructor in her real life. She wasn’t too keen on the tattoo idea but was a good sport, so she relented to my suggestion. Her tattoo was a pair of ballet shoes. Her tattoo was not quite funny, but this is what she decided on, so ballet shoes it is. Now me, hum, what do I sport as a tattoo? I got it. Who better to represent the 50’s better than James Dean? Maybe Elvis Presley but I settled on a James Dean kind of aura. I when I was a youngster, I saw a teenage kid with the typical 50’s mode of dress style and he had a real tattoo on his left arm. It read “Live Fast Die Young.” I asked him what that saying meant and he told me that was James Dean’s motto, “Live Fast Die Young.” James Dean did live fast and died young. He was only 24 years old when he died. That was young. He died in a car wreck. He was driving fast in his race car, so he lived fast and died young. That young Juvenile Delinquent’s tattoo quote always stuck with me so what would be better to display the 50’s in a tattoo than “Live Fast Die Young?”

Nothing I say. That’s what I settled on for a tattoo on my left arm. Now to the really big show, or really big shoe as Ed would say.

The 100 Years Anniversary Party was a huge success. All the acts were successful. I’m not bragging (yes I am) but the 50’s Doo wop group got a standing ovation. All the folks that knew us couldn’t believe we could sing that well. The singing coupled with the smooth dance moves brought the house down. Yes, I guess I am bragging although we really did put in a lot of rehearsal time. Totally worth it! Melvin the one nutted Jewish Plumber was in hog heaven. He directed this show and he performed flawlessly. If Vaudeville would ever make a comeback, Melvin would quit his plumbing job right then and there and sing and dance his way onto the stage. After the final performance, which was the 1950’s group, even the local politicians gave us a standing ovation. The local newspaper reporter wrote a very nice article about the Hospital 100 Years Anniversary. We all had a great time at the cast party with good food, good drink and good friends. We were a family. What a great bunch of people. I really do miss it there.

Chapter 20

Students

I always loved being a student. Earlier in my life I was a conventional type of student. I went to High School and graduated from a two-year Technical School program after High School. I continued to be a student throughout my whole career attaining various Professional Certifications and Licenses. I am a huge fan of all students. It’s a great thing to learn everything possible. I learned a plethora of communication and life lesson skills while working in a hospital atmosphere. This self-boasting is of boring and conceited, so I’ll get to the heart of this chapter. This chapter has nothing to do with my student life. This chapter is devoted to the students I knew and met while I worked at the hospital. Our Institution was fortunate enough to have a certified Nursing School where students graduated as ed Nurses, a Radiological School for Radiological Technicians and a Laboratory School where students graduated as Phlebotomy Technicians. We had students everywhere, on every floor. Our Nursing School included dormitory rooms for the students if they chose to reside at the hospital or some lived off campus and commuted to classes. Most of them chose to reside in the dormitory rooms. The Laboratory School had day classes and did not have dormitories. Our Hospital employed quite a few of the graduate nurses. In addition, our hospital employed a number of the graduate Radiological and Phlebotomy Technicians.

The School of Nursing was established in the 1800’s and flourished through the later 1900’s. This nursing program was eventually phased out due to the national trend steering nursing programs from the hospital environment to a collegiate type of environment. Initially the nursing school consisted of a two-year field of study. Later the program was expanded to a three-year field of study. This

history lesson doesn’t have any to do with this chapter, but I just thought this information would be of interest. I just wanted to stress that this school of nursing stayed around for quite a long time. OK, back to the students. I loved all the students. Most of the nursing students were right out of high school. They were young, energetic and anxious to learn, for the most part. I must it that my main interest with these kids had selfish motives. With all these young, athletic, and energetic kids available, who better to recruit to play on my softball team? I had some great athletes to choose from. I took full advantage of the recruits from the school of nursing. The only negative aspect was that the girls would go off and graduate and either go back to their hometowns or just move on to a different job with another hospital. I worked through that because every year it was a revolving door with new softball recruits. The women’s dormitory was located an older section of the hospital. This older section was very remote. Since the dormitory was in an older section, the heating and cooling of the dormitory was more than a challenge. The dormitory had those old steam radiators in all the rooms. Someone was either too hot or too cold. The too cold problems were easy. Whenever I would go to the women dorm, the girls were usually all bundled up with parkas or comforters.

The too hot calls were a different story altogether. The too hot calls were my favorite. Picture dozens of nursing students parading around very skimpily dressed because it’s too hot in their rooms. The girls didn’t seem to mind me checking out the cooling system. Obviously because they didn’t hurry to cover themselves up. I guess that they were comfortable with me because I was married, had a family and coached a lot of them in softball. I was sort of a father figure to them even though I was only a few years older than most of them. I did have to draw the line in the sand one time that I had to visit the girl’s dorm after hours because it was too hot. I certainly wasn’t expecting to walk into the situation that I walked in on. I treated this call as a routine too hot call to the nursing student’s dormitory. I entered the main door and I announced my presence in the dorm. I always announced my presence because I didn’t want to surprise anyone. I announced my presence loudly once again, just to make sure everyone could hear me.

What happened next is absolutely true and wildly amazing. After I loudly announced my presence twice, the best-looking girl of all the student nurses walked out of her room without a stitch of clothes covering her body. She was nude, naked, in the buff, in the flesh, bare, au naturel, totally in her birthday suit. Can you tell that this incident had no effect on me whatsoever? I didn’t know whether to cover my eyes, turn my head or just look straight at her like a deer in the headlights. You guess it. I chose the latter of the three. I couldn’t take my eyes off this perfect female standing right in front of me. I was without speech again. Awkward but awesome!

She just smiled at me and said, “Oooops, I guess I didn’t hear you and I didn’t realize anyone was out here in the hall.” I just replied, “That’s OK, I’m just here to look at your heat.” Jesus H. Christ in boiler room! I’m here to look at your heat? What a stupid, boneheaded reply. Think of something, anything, dipshit. Don’t just stand there and gawk at her. I couldn’t help it though. What next? I didn’t know what to do. I must mention that this student was a current player (shortstop) on my softball team. Of course, she was the best looking of all the students and was one of the best players on my team. Now what do I do next in order to save this embarrassing situation? I was excruciatingly embarrassed and didn’t know what the fuck to do. She didn’t seem embarrassed at all. She finally said after a few agonizing minutes, “The temperature seems to be hot everywhere in the dormitory. My room is hot so if you would like to start there, be my guest. Just let me go in and put on some clothes first.” Now where did this young, gorgeous perfect naked lady get the composure and tremendous poise to totally defuse this situation? I didn’t know. I was in the twilight zone. She was as comfortable as can be as she turned around, flipped her long brown hair and walked back into her room. Memory burn! Just a side note, her back view looked just as wonderful as her front view. Hey, I feel as though you deserved to know that fact also. It’s only fair, right? She announced to me when she was ready for me to check out the heating problem in her room, appropriately wrapped in a towel. All the experiences in the women’s dormitory weren’t as noteworthy as this experience. This experience was indeed a “memory burn.” After that episode, I called the main number of the dormitory and waited for someone to answer and they would announce my presence before

I entered the dormitory. I guess it was the proper thing to do. Damn!

I had a lot of fun with the Phlebotomy students in the laboratory. I routinely visited the laboratory to maintain equipment in the laboratory. Whenever one of the students was in the lab, they would ask me if they could practice drawing blood from my arm. The blood drawing request from the students was my mistake. One afternoon as I was testing a piece of equipment in the lab, one of the students approached me. We knew each other because of the softball team. She said, “Coach, I really need to practice drawing blood. I haven’t been doing so good lately. I messed up the last time I tried drawing blood and my instructor is on my ass.” She continued, “I noticed you checking out the equipment over here and I also noticed that you have beautiful veins.” What the fuck? I have beautiful veins? What kind of pick up line is that? I didn’t know what to say to her. She proceeded on, “I’m serious, your veins are so beautiful to draw blood. Can I practice drawing blood on you?” I could only muster a weak, “Sure.” She then did her thing and drew blood from my arm. Like I mentioned that this was my mistake. From then on whenever I was in the lab, one of the students would ask to draw blood from me so they could practice. What am I, some sort of a fucking pin cushion? They always had the correct reply and that was that I had “beautiful veins.” I’m such a sucker. I did however make it a little more difficult for the students before they would ask to draw my blood. Whenever I would see one of the girls approach me, I knew the purpose of her visit. Even before they asked, I would say, “What do you want, blood?” This always got a smile. Of course, the answer would always be, “Yes, because you have beautiful veins.” I miss my students. They always made me feel young. I made some great friends and always had a championship caliber softball team.

Chapter 21

Water Fights and Paper Wad Fights

Water fights were a part of our daily tomfoolery. Paper Wad fights evolved when water fights ceased. I will explain later the cause of the water fights coming to a halt. First, I will tell you about these wonderful water fights we morons dreamed up. The water fights started simple. I started the whole ball rolling when I put a rubber band around the handle of the water sprayer in our sink. Whoever would turn on the water faucet would get a good soaking from the water sprayer. Usually a person would only get caught once except for the Mormon Foreman. He never caught on to the water sprayer trick. He was just too easy of a target. The Mormon Foreman was not to be outdone. He continued the initial water fight on his own . Syringes were plentiful throughout the hospital. I must say that we all just used the syringe part, not the needle. I want to get that fact straight. Anyway, he got a smaller type of syringe and whenever he was the victim of the water sprayer trick, he would lay in wait when I returned to the office and sprayed me with the syringe water when my back was turned. This amused him so I enlisted one of my working buddies to in on the water fight. My friend who I will call Timmy, obtained a larger syringe and laid in wait for the Mormon Foreman. Timmy blasted the Mormon Foreman with a good dunking right in the crotch. This prompted the unwritten rule, I guess, that the water shots should be directed to the most embarrassing spot available. From that point forward the water sprays were almost always directed to the crotch area. This water fight increased to a higher level every time we played this game. There was one time when we were ready to put a voluntary cease and desist order on our water fights. This time our water fight escalated to a fever pitch. All three of us were involved in this water fight and the syringes we used were the

biggest we could find. It started in the maintenance shop where the Mormon Foreman fell for the same water sprayer joke again. He just didn’t get it. He fell for this joke over and over again. He was almost to the point of a “Son of a Gun” outburst. No son of a gun but all in all, he still was pissed. He loaded up his syringes in the sink right in front of Timmy and me. He had two giant water cannon syringes loaded. The Mormon Foreman was loaded for bear. He was serious. He never hesitated after loading up his water cannons. Then he came right at both of us. We split up but both of us got soaked. We retreated to other places in the hospital where we could also acquire giant syringes and load them up for the round two of the water fight. Round two got very messy or should I say, got very wet. We all had the biggest syringes available and soaked each other to the extent that we all had to change clothes. that we were on duty. Did you think this would have ended at round two? Well, it didn’t. All three of us were lying in wait for each other to release the flood waters. I don’t how all three of us ended up on the second level of the maintenance shop but all three of us were there with both barrels locked and loaded.

We were blasting each other and running around willy-nilly trying to avoid the water cannon blasts. Timmy was elusive in trying to avoid a water spray and made a defensive move that would make a pro tailback proud. The only problem is that Timmy didn’t see the eight-inch water pipe and couldn’t avoid the lowlying pipe. Thud, Timmy ran right into that eight-inch pipe full force. Bam, what a shot to the noggin! This head shot almost knocked Timmy out. This incident put a temporary cease and desist order on our water fights but only for a short while. I couldn’t help myself. The following week, I pulled the rubber band around the water sprayer trick again on the Mormon Foreman. He fell for it again. What a schmuck! God Damn, he was easy. I broke the truce. I it that. I broke the truce. Here we go again, back to the water cannons. The first water fight after breaking the truce was the very last water fight for all three of us, the Mormon Foreman, Timmy and me. This water fight lasted most of the morning. Don’t get me wrong, we did our jobs but this water fight was important, you know, a male testosterone thing.

We expended water cannon shots at each other and all three of us were soaked. This all ended when the Mormon Foreman was after Timmy and me. We ducked into one of the shops. This shop was the old pharmacy that was converted to the Electrical shop after the pharmacy moved to a new location. The main entrance to the shop had a split door. This type of door had a split in the middle in order for the pharmacy techs to dispense medications. There was a latch type of mechanism right about belt high so there was hole in the door about belt high.

Timmy and I were lying in wait for the Mormon Foreman. There was a knock on the door. Timmy and I looked at each other and pointed to the belt high hole in that door. We nodded the understanding to each other. We approached the main door. We aimed both water cannons at that belt high hole. Ready, aim, fire, whoosh we fired both barrels. After we fired, we heard a loud, “What the heck?” We thought that the Mormon Foreman was lurking behind that door. Wrong, behind that door totally innocent, without knowing any of our tomfoolery was Floyd’s Pecker and I do mean Floyd’s actual pecker. the hole in the door was belt high? Poor Floyd, he didn’t know anything about our water fights and he certainly wasn’t expecting a double barrel shot of H2O to the crotch area. Luckily, Floyd didn’t fire all three of us. He just shook his head. He knew that he was dealing with three children. It’s over. This ill-aimed and ill-timed flood of water to Floyd’s crotch put a permanent end to our water fights. Now I had to resist my urge to use the rubber band around the water sprayer trick on the Mormon Forman. “Son of a Gun!” All three of us dolts signed an armistice to permanently put away the water syringes. So long to the water fights. Now what do we do to fulfill our sophomoric desires? I’ll tell you what we did, we graduated from water fights to paper wads shots from rubber bands. What, are we in Junior High School? Don’t answer that! Paper wad shots from rubber bands? Yes, you heard it correctly, paper wad shots from rubber bands. Guilty. I warned you that we were a bunch of morons. For the life of me, I don’t know who started the game of paper wad shots from rubber bands. I just know that it wasn’t me. I take no credit for this completely bullshit game.

The most that I can from this game is that it started out at very close range and with as many rubber bands one could fit between their thumb and index finger. The more rubber bands, the more power to shoot the paper wad. By close range I mean right up against the victim’s shoulder, arm or back. The paper wad shot would come totally unexpected, so the surprise factor was part of the game. Let me summarize the rules of this brilliant game. Wrap as many rubber bands around your thumb and index finger. Place a folded paper wad on the rubber bands between thumb and index finger. Pull back the paper wad and shoot at close range at the unsuspecting victim. Got it? Stupid game, yes? Getting tired of these idiotic games? I am too. The paper wad fights didn’t last too long. It was just too difficult to explain to our wives how we got those red welts on our backs, shoulders and arms. Those paper wads produced some spectacular looking welts. Not to mention that those paper wad shots hurt, much like getting stung by a bee. At one of these paper wad fights, we went all out. We fired wildly at each other. The only rule we had for this paper wad fight was that we all wore safety goggles. C’mon, we weren’t that stupid. Well, maybe that is debatable but at least we couldn’t shoot each other’s eyes out. As we had to do with the water fights, all three of us dolts signed an armistice to permanently put away the paper wads and rubber bands. I miss those days.

Chapter 22

The Blizzard of 78

Most people will the Blizzard of 78 as just a major snowstorm that blanketed feet of snow on parts of the United States. I did not. There are many occurrences that happened during this blizzard that were noteworthy and were unique to my life, my family and my employment at the hospital. Let me start with some of the logistics of this blizzard. This blizzard was a historic nor’easter that brought blizzard conditions and dropped feet of snow where I lived for three days. I’m talking snow drifts ten plus feet high. Winds sometimes raged up to seventy miles per hour blowing blinding snow everywhere. Roads, interstate highways, and local streets were completely covered and paralyzed any sort of traffic movement. A severe blizzard is characterized as having wind speeds of at least forty-five miles per hour with great amounts of falling or blowing snow reducing visibility to zero accompanied with temperatures ten degrees or lower. The Blizzard of 78 was truly a major blizzard and was truly an historic event. Before I begin with my adventures and responsibilities during the Blizzard of 78, I want to say that the whole time pre-Blizzard and post Blizzard I made sure that my family was completely safe and my house was safe and sound. I needed to explain that because I didn’t want to give the impression that I ignored my family during the Blizzard of 78. Jesus H. Christ in a snow drift, I always take care of my family first and foremost. All right, enough of that shit. Back to the Blizzard of 78.

The Blizzard started early morning snowing initially with just light snow flurries. The initial snow flurries didn’t seem too intense. It was a usual noneventful drive in to the hospital. I was on duty during that day. The snow started to increase and by noontime the snow started to get deep. In addition, the

windspeed started to increase to the point that visibility was a blinding white. Holy shit, it was really coming down and accumulating. I called home first and checked to make sure everything was OK on the home front. The wife and kids were home and all was well. I was preparing for some serious overtime. Our hospital team needed volunteers to assist with several chores that needed to be done. I volunteered to help in any capacity. My first task was interesting. The powers to be were worried that the flat roof on one of the buildings may collapse under the weight of the falling snow. The snow built up by accumulation and drifted on this flat roof to maybe three feet. My partner and I lugged two snow blowers to the roof. We were going to clear the roof of all the snow. Have you ever heard the expression, “shoveling shit against the tide?” That expression certainly was appropriate in this case. As soon as we cleared a path of snow the full length of the roof, we both looked back to see our progress. What progress? The wind was blowing so hard that by the time we cleared a path, the drifting snow filled in our cleared path. Fuck, now what? We tried kind of a side by side clearing approach. So maybe a path twice the width may not have the blowing snow fill in the cleared path so quick. No such luck. We gave it the old college try for two more hours. After those two plus hours, it looked like we didn’t accomplish anything. The only thing we accomplished was working our asses off in a fucking Blizzard, frozen to the bone and worse off than when we started this folly of trying to clear this roof. This roof clearing attempt was a resounding failure. It wasn’t feasible to try and clear this roof until the storm was over and the wind subsided. I communicated my inability to clear the roof to the powers to be. I suggested that if a roof collapse was feared, then any personnel in that building should be removed to another area. They listened to me. Personnel were moved to different locations on the hospital proper. Whew, that emergency was averted for the time being. In case you are wondering, the roof never did collapse. The Blizzard of 78 lasted for three days. The length of this storm presented challenges to both the patients and personnel. The patients currently in the hospital certainly needed care and we needed staff to care for those patients. We couldn’t just close down. We were a hospital. My next chore was even more challenging than clearing snow from a roof. I was tasked with taking personnel home after their shifts and picking up fresh personnel to report to work.

The hospital owned a four-wheel drive vehicle. This vehicle had a fully functional snowplow attached to the front of the vehicle. This vehicle was my transport vehicle to move personnel. This transporting of personnel was going to be quite a challenge. The Governor declared a state of emergency for the entire state and all travel was curtailed except for emergency vehicles. The only vehicles allowed on the road were snow mobiles and after receiving authorization from the State Police, my transport vehicle. Isn’t that special? I felt empowered and was ready to tackle the challenge ahead of me.

My first trip was to the city garage. I wanted to have snow chains installed on all four tires. Picture this vehicle. This vehicle was high off the ground. It had fourwheel drive. It had snow tires on all four tires. It had snow chains on all four tires. It had a fully functional snowplow attached. It had a full tank of gas refueled at the city garage. My name for this vehicle was “Supercar.” I figured with Supercar; I could go anywhere with this vehicle. I started out by making short hops to take folks home after their twelve-hour shifts. My first commute wasn’t too challenging. After Blizzard conditions still continued, the personnel trips got increasingly challenging. The third time I ventured out, I became slightly nervous. I was traveling roads, or so I thought they were roads under my chained snow tires. I drove places where there weren’t any roads. After all, I had “Supercar” and I could go anywhere. I did get slightly stuck one trip but was able to back up, engage the snowplow and push through the snow drift. Other than getting slightly stuck that one time, “Supercar” performed flawlessly. In addition to shuttling personnel back and forth to the hospital, I was tasked with picking up patients needing treatment. The treatments some of the patients received were obviously required or else the treatments could have been delayed until after the Blizzard. The most notable of the patient pickups was for a patient needing dialysis treatment. This patient was a slightly built older gentleman. The fact that he was slightly built is a fact that I was grateful for that I will soon reveal.

This patient didn’t live very far from the hospital. Although he didn’t live far

away, that I’m driving through blinding snow on roads not yet plowed. After I drove through the blowing snow to the address given to me, I just parked on the street. The whole city was like a ghost town. There were no vehicles on the roads except for an occasional snow mobile. I plodded through waist deep snow and knocked on the door. The lady that answered the door informed me that Mr. Patient lived in the second-floor apartment. Oh shit, now I must climb Mt. Everest to get to this patient. All righty then, up the outside stairs I ventured. It was a fairly difficult climb because the stairs were not shoveled and the stairs were slippery. I knocked on the door and this little old man answered. Yes indeed, this was the patient. This poor guy had a walking cane and had a very difficult time even standing upright. How the flying fuck was I going to get this guy out of his apartment, down the stairs, into the car and delivered to the hospital? I was all by myself. I had no assistance. I was not going to run back to the hospital and get somebody to assist me. It was tough enough just getting to this patient. I told Mr. Patient to put on his coat and his hat. I asked him if he had a problem with me carrying him to the car. Mr. Patient had no objections. I hope to Christ that I don’t slip and make this situation worse. Mr. Patient was ready to go. I was tired but I lifted him up and carried him fireman’s carry. I was sure footed down Mt. Everest and placed Mr. Patient into the enger’s seat of “Supercar.” We made it to the hospital and Mr. Patient received his needed treatment. When it was time to deliver Mr. Patient back home, I had another person accompany me to climb the mountain to Mr. Patient’s apartment. Mission accomplished. that I was still driving “Supercar.” I could go where there were no roads. When I had a little break in the action, I would use this time to drive up the mountain to my house and plow out my driveway. The snowbanks on the sides of my driveway were close to ten feet high. Wow, what a fucking blizzard! In three days all the streets finally were able. The hospital was fully open for business after the three-day blizzard. It was now time for me to go home to my normal life whatever the fuck that was. The road to my house had been cleared of all the snow. The city had to use a bulldozer to plow the road up the mountain where I lived. I parked my car down at the bottom of the mountain where my house was located because the roads were unable during the blizzard. I had a friend drop me off where I thought I

parked my car three days earlier. I couldn’t find my car. The snow was so high my car disappeared! Balls, now I had to find and dig out my car. I was so tired that I could have fallen asleep standing up, but I had to get my car and get home to bed. I hoofed it up the mountain to get a snow shovel to dig my car out. I got the shovel, descended the mountain and looked for my car. I knew approximately where it was, so I probed the snow drift with a broomstick and voila, there it was. It took me close to an hour to dig my car entirely out, fire it up and drive home. Bless that 65 Dodge Dart with the slant six engine. They don’t make them like that anymore. The Blizzard of 78 is now a distant memory of the power of Mother Nature. Never, but never, underestimate the power of Mother Nature.

Chapter 23

The Result of a Stabbing

I’m going to jump back into my Security Guard days again. I will devote this chapter to my experiences involving stabbing victims either self-inflicted or otherwise. Self-inflicted stabbings I just couldn’t understand. I’ll give you a couple of examples of self-inflicted stabbings that I witnessed. I didn’t actually witness the stabbings as they happened, but I witnessed the aftermath. The first example of a self-inflicted stabbing involved a poor old man that wanted to end it all. As matter of fact he succeeded in ending it all. The preferred weapon he chose was an ice pick. He stabbed himself multiple times in the chest until he pierced his heart and bled out. This poor soul was an elderly gentleman obviously with health and financial problems. All I can surmise is that he was not living a quality life and his bizarre method of suicide certainly worked. I physically counted multiple stab marks on his chest, but the home run stab was well defined by an ample pool of dried blood. Poor misguided old soul. My next example of a self-inflicted stabbing involved a young, very attractive female. She was in a relationship with some bozo boyfriend. I learned that he physically abused her, cheated on her and treated her like dirt under his feet. It baffles me how such a beautiful girl could be attracted to this perfect example of an asshole. Go figure. Apparently, he was going to leave her for another woman. She just couldn’t live her life without him, so she grabbed a razor and sliced her wrists. I will say that she did a bang-up job as far as wrist slicing goes. She didn’t bleed out, but it was quite messy. She lost a lot of blood, but she lived and sported some gold medal scars. I didn’t know if she stayed with this guy that abused her and I didn’t really care because anyone that condones abuse like she experienced must have a screw loose. This poor girl was eternally stuck on stupid. I have witnessed the aftermath of lots of stabbings in my days working the emergency room. Stabbings happen at close range. Anger is obviously the hot

button when it comes to stabbings. You can’t argue that it is not a good thing when a very sharp object pierces the body. I am saying this because sometimes a stabbing looks a whole lot worse than it appears on the outside. I recall one incident when a patient walked into the emergency room saying that he was stabbed. He was covered in blood. He really looked bad but after being cleaned up and treated, he had a few small cuts here and there that required less than a dozen stitches total. Again, this stabbing looked a whole lot worse than it appeared on the outside. Now let me get to the opposite end of this spectrum. I was working the graveyard shift one Saturday night. This Saturday night was a rare slow, easy night. Most of the patients treated so far were typical routine cases. By that, I mean there were no dipshits hammered out of their skulls with liquor, no psycho nut balls ranting and raving or howling at the moon. No one got shot or beaten up. We didn’t have to referee any waiting room fights or get physical with anyone. Like I said, it was a rare slow night for a Saturday night. God Damn It, you know what’s coming. Like a chameleon, that slow night changed in a New York minute.

A middle-aged Hispanic fellow walked into the Emergency Room. Let’s call him Senor Stab. Senor Stab was of medium build and spoke English very well. He told us that while he was having a cocktail at the bar, someone stuck him. He didn’t see the person that stuck him. I didn’t really believe that. No one did. His story didn’t seem plausible. There was more than a shadow of a doubt with his story. Oh my God, am I insinuating that people lie? I can recall a thousand tales involving the most gargantuan fabrications ever told. I’m not going to get into my recollections of those misrepresentations, so back to Senor Stab. Senor Stab was holding his right side about halfway between armpit and waist. When he removed his shirt there was a very, very small cut on his side. It couldn’t have been more than a quarter inch slice, maybe requiring one stitch. There was just one small drop of blood that trickled down his side. All right, this didn’t seem too bad. Senor Stab was laying on gurney in the treatment area. He complained that he was feeling uncomfortable. The ER Doctor ordered an X-ray just to make sure nothing was injured beneath the skin. All I can say is that it’s a God Damn good thing the doctor ordered the X-ray.

The X-ray revealed that his left lung was punctured from the stabbing. There was no visible external blood anywhere. We learned that all the bleeding from this stabbing filled his left lung with blood. Senor Stab was starting to have difficulty breathing. A chest tube would have to be inserted to drain the blood from his lung. Now I’m going to get technical so hang onto your hats. A chest tube is a flexible plastic tube that is inserted through the chest wall and into the pleural space or mediastinum. It is used to remove air, pus, or in this case, fluid from the intrathoracic space. It is also known as a Bulau drain or an intercostal catheter. Jesus H. Christ in a Pleural space, that was a mouthful. Senor Stab’s condition was going downhill fast. The medical team geared up to insert the chest tube. I really didn’t have any medical reason in any way shape or form to assist with this procedure. I was just curious to observe and assist if required. I asked the Doctor and he agreed for me to be there just in case the patient decided to get a little combative. This procedure was set up in the ER trauma room. The medical team started the procedure. Sorry, here I go getting technical again. The initial part of the procedure was to make a small incision in the fourth or fifth intercostal space in the mid-to-anterior axillary line (just lateral to the nipple in males), immediately behind the lateral edge of the pectoralis major muscle. Then the tube was directed as high and anteriorly possible for a pneumothorax. All right now in layman’s . The Doctor made an incision between the ribs on his side below his armpit. The Doctor inserted the plastic tube through this incision into the pleural space to drain the fluid (blood). The other end of the tube would be placed in a container in order to catch the fluid (blood). The incision was good, check. The tube was initially inserted, check. A nurse held the other end of the tube, check. As the Doctor inserted the tube further into the pleural space, a huge volume of blood erupted from the other end of the tube. I’m talking about a tsunami of blood escaping that fucking tube. In an instant, the trauma room floor was covered in blood. I haven’t seen that much blood since the elevator scene in the hotel lobby from that certain horror movie about a caretaker at a remotely located hotel in the mountains. Holy shit, that was a lot of blood. The point I’m trying to make is that you never know what lies beneath

the surface. Senor Stab had such a small stab wound but whatever object he was stabbed with caused major inside damage. Oh Yeah, Senor Stab survived his ordeal. Thumbs up medical team!

Chapter 24

Sleep Deprivation

This is a very interesting chapter about my sleep habits. It involves the root causes and effects of my insomnia and working way too many hours. To this very day I continue to have an extreme challenge falling and staying asleep. Sometimes I will wake up in a cold sweat, ready to respond to a STAT call to the ER. I’ve tried numerous remedies. Nothing seems to work. In addition, I will tell some additional stories of friends and co-workers that I have had the opportunity to witness the effects of their lack of sleep. Sleep deprivation is defined as “not getting the required amount of sleep or the situation or condition of suffering from a lack of sleep.” No shit Sherlock! Sleep deprivation can have causes that aren’t due to any underlying diseases. Those causes could include stress, a person’s job or poor sleeping habits. Another contributing factor to sleep deprivation is the consumption of large amounts of caffeine-containing drinks. This would certainly be a contributing factor because I drank gallons of java mud every day I worked, which was seven days a week. I presently do not drink coffee. That, for me is a direct result of consuming all that hot drink made from the roasted and ground seeds of a tropical shrub, in other words, coffee from coffee beans. I worked two jobs. That’s 80 hours a week folks. There are only 168 hours in a full week. According to my precise calculations, that only leaves about 12.57 hours a day for eating, sleeping, showering, shopping, Little League, coaching and playing softball. Is that enough hours for a good night’s sleep? No way. Sleep usually came last on my list of things to do. I was lucky to get 4-5 hours of sleep every night. If I got 5 hours a night, that was a bonus. Usually 4 hours was the norm. I’m revealing all this amazingly interesting bullshit because I am setting up some sleep deprivation highlights concerning my friends and me. I would try to catch a quick nap wherever and whenever I could. This quick nap usually didn’t last very long. Sometimes these quick naps lasted less than a

minute. I called these “seconds nap.” I later shortened that to “SNAP” for “seconds nap” of course. Brilliant, right? SNAPS was our communication to let our partners know that we wanted to inspect the insides of our eyelids. Whenever you would hear, “Hey partner, I’m going to see about a SNAP” we knew the exact meaning. The SNAP communication later evolved into a mere snap of the fingers. That was the signal for a SNAP. Hey, we were innovative and high tech! Morons you say? Yes, that’s right, we were morons. My first story involves my brother. He was a person that also worked a Godawful number of hours in a week. He worked not two jobs but three jobs. Granted two of his jobs were part time jobs but he racked up close to 80 hours in a week, sometimes more. My whole family were working fools. I guess we got this trait from our parents. They were both working fools. Enough about that, back to my brother. On this rare occasion, we both worked the same shift. We had just reported for duty on the graveyard shift one Friday night. The first part of our shift routine was to man certain parking lots in order to ensure safety and security. The employees felt a whole lot better when Security Guards were visible when either leaving their shift to go home or parking their vehicles and starting their shift. The hours for shift change were usually between 10:30 PM and 11:30 PM every night. The second shift guards would overlap the third shift hours because we had two parking lots to stand watch. I’m explaining this because we had a double shift of guards for an hour, usually two guards per designated parking lot so we paired up. This hospital was not located in a great section of the city, so pairing up was a good idea.

My brother and I paired up and stood guard in one of the parking lots this evening where there was an enclosure for Security. This enclosure was really appreciated by Security during inclement weather or bone chilling frigid temperatures. On this night, the stars were out, and it was a comfortable 65 degrees. What a beautiful night to work another shift. I’m being facetious in case you couldn’t tell. Grind out another eight hours, you schmuck! I knew that my brother was tired. He was always tired. During the procession of employees exiting their vehicles to report to work my brother whispered to me. He said “Man, I am really, really dog tired. I just need to take a quick SNAP. I just can’t keep my eyes open.” I said, “OK, just go into the guard shack and put

your feet up.” He replied, “No, if I do that, I will totally fall asleep and employees would see me all splayed out and snoring. We can’t have that.” I said, “So what do you want to do?” He said in a very serious tone, “Just move your mouth occasionally, and use some hand gestures, like you are explaining something to me, and we are conversing. I’m going to lean up against the guard shack and take a little SNAP.” As God is my witness, this is no bullshit, my brother fell asleep standing up! Standing the fuck up! He was in slumber land leaning up against that guard shack outside in the God Damn parking lot. As instructed, I occasionally moved my mouth and made some hand gestures as if we were talking to one another. This was perhaps one of the most bizarre things I have ever seen in my life. Jesus H. Christ in a Serta Perfect Sleeper, this poor guy was so fucking tired that he fell asleep standing up. His legs never wavered for an instant. He finally woke up maybe five minutes later. How the fuck did he do this? Why didn’t he fall? Was this enough of a SNAP to satisfy him for the rest of the night? Why am I asking so many questions? Why am I asking you? After this amazing event that I witnessed, my brother seemed wide awake, totally lucid and ready to tackle any situation that arose for the rest of the shift. I still don’t believe that I saw someone fall asleep standing up. I can’t even imagine the depths of my brother’s exhaustive state. I’m getting droopy eyed just thinking about sleeping standing up, so I’ll move on to another example of sleep deprivation. Now that should wake me up and stand at full attention. Yeah, right! My second example of sleep deprivation involves one of the many nurses that I worked with and had torrid love affairs. Did I succeed in awakening you? The torrid love affairs are a complete fabrication. I just thought I needed to insert something there to wake us all up after talking about sleeping standing up. Sorry, I was just trying to liven things up a bit. OK, so no torrid love affairs. This is about sleep deprivation. My bad, but I think I did wake you up. I’m awake. This nurse friend of mine was my partner in crime with our SNAP moments. I’m not talking flat out night-night land but just little SNAPs. Little close your eyes moments. If this sounds nonsensical, it’s not. Try working all those hours in a week for all those years and see if taking a little SNAP was stupid. Anyway, my nurse friend and I cooked up a way for her to close her eyes for a few fleeting moments without anyone being the wiser. First, I must mention that she had these incredibly huge brown eyes. We were great friends. She was a single

mother with three children and worked two jobs. Sound familiar? She deserved to shut her eyes for a little SNAP occasionally. Her SNAPs usually came when the activity in the Emergency Room slowed down to a crawl. That lull in the action time was the most difficult time to keep your eyes open. That is when I knew that she needed a SNAP. Either her or I would make a fresh pot of coffee. We would pour each other a fresh cup and sit down at the nurse’s station. We would chat and sip our coffee. When she was ready to take her little snap, she would say nothing, stare at me for a minute with those huge brown eyes, blink twice, wink one eye, then close both. I would continue our make-believe conversation. She was in slumber land. Sleepy time folks. Like I said earlier, I would keep talking like she was wide awake. We both agreed that if she started to waver, I would just tap, tap, tap her hand. She would then pop open those incredible brown eyes. I liked our little ruse, but I must it that I loved watching her pop open those huge brown eyes. I will now get into my sleep deprivation stories. I have already explained my many working hours in a week and how tired we all were. I’m sure that you are more than tired of reading about that. My sleep deprivation moments tend to be a little strange and a little humorous. My partner on third shift, Don was a great guy. I think he really understood the extent of my exhaustion. When I partnered with Don on the graveyard shift, we always covered each other’s butt. We never left each other high and dry. At the end of my work week on a Sunday morning, maybe 5 AM, I would say to Don, “I am going to read my book.” This was our high sign that I was going to seriously shut my eyes for an hour and a half. I had my radio right by my ear in case he ran into some nefarious characters and needed back up. That Sunday morning nap was the best sleep I had all week. I would be in the deep purple in less than a minute. This little nap didn’t happen every Sunday morning, but I took advantage of every Sunday morning opportunity available. I do have to relate one incident while I was in the middle of my little Sunday morning nap.

My partner gave me the OK to read my book one Sunday morning at 5 AM. I quickly obliged and retired to our office. We had this big easy chair in our office.

It was the ugliest chair in the world. I think that is why it ended up in our office. No one wanted this poor chair. This chair didn’t match anything. I didn’t give a shit how this chair looked. It was the most comfortable chair in the world. When sitting in this chair, you would just sink down and be engulfed in comfort. I never took me long to fall fast asleep in this wonderful chair. I sat in my favorite chair, put my radio volume full blast in case of an emergency and dropped off to sleep. Sleep deprivation can play funny tricks on people. In my case, sleep deprivation manifested itself in the form of wild, crazy dreams. I was having this crazy dream that our ER waiting room was loaded with people and one certain jackass was entertaining the waiting room folks with his breakdancing skills. This dream seemed strikingly real. The hospital staff was yelling for this moron to stop break-dancing and the visitors were encouraging this putz to keep it up and “get down” with it. In the middle of this fascinating dream, my radio cracked with a STAT call to the ER. I jumped up, shook myself awake and raced off to the STAT call in the ER. When I arrived, my partner was in the waiting room trying to calm down the parents of this young lad. This young lad was on the waiting room floor having a Grand Mal Seizure. I was still trying to get a handle on the situation while knocking the cobwebs out of my skull. My partner had settled down the parents. I asked my partner why was this kid break-dancing? He looked at me like I had two heads. I told him about my dream. We had a great laugh about that. Grand Mal Seizure? Break dancing? What the fuck? Sleep deprivation is for real and I experienced this in spades.

Chapter 25

Doctor Eats Everything

This chapter is about a Medical Doctor. He was a practicing surgeon at our hospital. I don’t his real name, but I’ll call him Dr. Glutton. Dr. Glutton was a good surgeon, a young man married with children and apparently never ate at home or was perpetually ravenous. Maybe both applied to Dr. Glutton. I need to set this up with some background facts on how we named Dr. Glutton and some of his antics while stuffing his face. Our third shift Emergency Room staff was a team of competent, able, attractive professionals. I would characterize them as the best ER team ever. They were so patient focused and made sure the patients were comfortable and received the most excellent care possible. I sound biased but if you could have witnessed their amazing skills, you would agree with me. Great people, great team, great friends. We were a family. On special occasions like a birthday or a holiday and sometimes for no reason at all we would plan a potluck banquet. This banquet would take place on the job, in the breakroom after business slowed down to a crawl. The planning was meticulously arranged by the nursing staff to include appetizers, soup or salad, entrée dishes and desserts. We had all courses covered. I’m getting hungry just thinking about the mouthwatering food everyone brought to our banquets. We never knew which Physicians were on call for their specialty talents. Generally, most of the situations that arose in the ER, the ER Doctor and staff could usually handle. Sometimes a specialist would have to be called in for “out of the ordinary” cases. Their call service would be ed and the Physician on call would be dispatched. When a Urologist was needed, a Urologist would be dispatched. When a Surgeon was needed, a Surgeon was dispatched. One Saturday night we planned a banquet extraordinaire. One Nurse was

celebrating her birthday and another Nurse had just got engaged. This was a banquet where Henry the Eighth would have been proud. Everything seemed to progress as planned. The patients were all treated and sent home and it was time for our sumptuous repast. Oh shit, a little wrinkle developed. That’s all right though. We got this. A male subject was brought in by ambulance complaining of lower abdominal pain. He was put through a battery of tests. It was determined that he had appendicitis and needed to go into emergency surgery before his appendix burst. OK, this isn’t so bad. The Surgeon on call was ed and the Operating Room Team was informed that a patient was on the way. We were going to have this fucking banquet if it’s the last thing we do. We were all hungry and we spent a lot of time and trouble putting this feast together! All the food was arranged and displayed. It was a grand display of nutritious substances that people consume in order to maintain life and growth. Now what? Oh, hell no! The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave the luster of mid-day to objects below. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Doctor fucking Glutton? Holy shit, Dr. Glutton was on call and our banquet was in serious jeopardy. We always tried to avoid bringing in any food whenever he was on call. Why did this patient decide to get appendicitis tonight of all nights? Dr. Glutton stopped short and spied our food. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. This guy probably didn’t eat anything for a week. His mouth was watering. His eyes were transfixed on that food in anticipation of what was to come next. It looked similar to the anticipation before a sexual encounter. I’m not sure, but I thought that I saw a single tear of happiness escape his eye.

As if on cue and without regard to anyone, Bam, Dr. Glutton dove into the banquet with both hands grabbing anything that he could hold. In his right hand was a piece of meat, in his left hand was a fork full of pasta. When one hand full of food was consumed, he would simultaneously stuff the food in his mouth with one hand of food while reloading the empty hand. He was a whirling dervish in a gluttonous display of the most voracious lust riot of eating the world has ever seen. Do you think that I am exaggerating? I never exaggerate when it comes to food. Dr. Glutton didn’t seem to give a shit who furnished this feast. Dr. Glutton didn’t

even care who witnessed his display of gluttony. Dr. Glutton was totally oblivious to the folks around him. He was just focused in on stuffing his waiting pie hole. The rest of us were stunned with his display of total disregard to us and his attitude of, “Fuck You, I’m hungry, I want food. Food good fuckers!” After Dr. Glutton finished stuffing his mouth, he grabbed a napkin to wipe his face and expelled a loud, thunderous belch. Only then did he realize he wasn’t alone. He looked at us all with our mouths hanging wide open. He muttered, “Wow, that was good.” That was all Dr. Glutton had to say, not kiss my ass, kiss your ass, kiss his ass, Happy Hanukkah, just “Wow that was good.” He then muttered, “I gotta go to the Operating Room.” He left the banquet area as fast as he entered the banquet area. I looked at my friends and all I could say was, “What the flying fuck was that all about? Did we really see what we just saw?” We all shook our heads and shared what was left of our beautiful banquet. Dr. Glutton decimated our feast. What an asshole! After that banquet fiasco with Dr. Glutton, the staff arranged to find out who were the Doctors on call for their specialties. Any banquet planned after that night would never be on a night when Dr. Glutton was on call.

Chapter 26

Another John, the Baddest Guy Around

Bad, bad Johnny Brown. He was the baddest guy in our town. He was the baddest guy around. I will have to step back and rewind ten years. John was one of the many young men I coached on a middle school basketball team. John was really a nice kid back then. I knew that he had some family dynamics challenges. His brother and he were being raised by his grandparents. His father disappeared and his mother was hooked on drugs. The family court took the kids away from the parents and the grandparents were the legal guardians. The grandparents were nice enough folks but John and his brother were quite a handful. I felt sorry for the grandparents because they were older folks and it was difficult for them to cope with raising these two tough kids. I liked this kid, I really did. He had a strong desire. I recognized this right away in the way he attacked the basketball court. John was advanced in his maturity. While all the other boys’ voices varied between normal and cracking, John’s voice was fully developed. In middle school John was a man among boys. All the other boys followed John. He was like the pied piper. I needed a leader for this team so the logical choice was John. I named John as captain of this team. John was a go-getter. He showed hustle, talent and the will to win at all costs. The rest of the team followed his lead. I already told you that I liked this kid, but the only negative aspect with John was that he wanted to kick my ass. John always wanted to fight me. Every day was a challenge from John. He would say, “C’mon coach let’s have a little fight.” I would always say, “Not today John, we need to concentrate on basketball practice.” I never took John seriously. I later learned that John was dead serious. I don’t know if was a rite of age for John or just a teenage testosterone type of thing but, I was getting tired of John asking to fight me every day. I didn’t want John to completely undermine my authority. This was going to be tricky. I can’t fight a teenager. This was a catch-22. If I didn’t take his challenge the rest

of the boys would never take me seriously and if I did take his challenge, would I have to beat up a minor? Did I mention that John was a physical specimen too? I wasn’t worried about fighting John. I had taken tons of self-defense classes. My father was a professional boxer. My father taught me the pugilistic arts a long time ago. I had not used these boxing skills in a long time. I wasn’t going to box this kid but what are my options? I am not an animal. Think man, there has to be a solution that doesn’t diminish any respect for either John or me. John and I got together and worked out a solution. We told the rest of the team that we would resolve John’s desire to do battle with me. John and I would resolve this situation behind closed doors and when we came out of the closeddoor session, there would not be any more nonsense about John and me fighting. We would concentrate solely on playing basketball and John would concentrate on being the captain of this team. This would end today. I dismissed the rest of the team and John and I were finally alone. I reiterated to John that whatever happened next would end this bullshit once and for all. I was getting tired of his nonsense. Neither one of us would reveal the outcome of our battle to any of the of the basketball team. This would save face for both of us. All right John, give it your best shot.

John put up his dukes. I told John I wouldn’t hit him but he could give it his best shot. John swung at me. I evaded his punch and put him in a wrestling move I learned in High School. I took him down to the ground and applied a maneuver that wouldn’t allow him to escape. He struggled for a couple of minutes. When he realized that he couldn’t escape, he relented, gave up, tapped out, whatever you want to call it. I didn’t let him go right away. I said to him, “John, this shit is over capiche? You are going to behave yourself. We are just going to tell the rest of the team that this is settled. We will concentrate solely on basketball and you are going to lead this team. Got it?” John replied, “Got it coach.” I think this was the turning point for John. He finally found someone, a father figure if you will, that will teach him, respect him and praise his accomplishments. John was the ideal Captain. His teammates respected him. I respected him for holding and keeping his promise. He was a good kid. We had a very successful basketball season. After John graduated from middle school, I lost track of John. I believe his grandparents moved and he attended a different school close to our town.

Needless to say, I hadn’t seen John for a long time. Now let’s fast forward those ten years I rewound earlier. I was working a graveyard shift. This was the usual run of the mill graveyard shift. The local PD was bringing in a combative patient and they requested Security. They were bringing in the baddest guy in town and he threatened to put a beat down on anyone that touched him. The cops brought in the baddest guy around handcuffed. They zip tied his ankles and he was face down. They wrestled him onto a hospital bed, manhandled him still face down and put four-point restraints on him and left him for us. Oh great. Thanks police guys.

The officers that brought this guy in repeated that this guy was the baddest guy around. They had dealt with this guy previously and he was bad news. He was brought into the hospital because there was a scuffle after this guy was arrested. He needed to be checked out medically before he adorned their presence in jail. I will say that this must have been quite a scuffle. In reality, the PD tuned him up quite effectively. OK, so they pounded the shit out of him. There were certain medical orders requested for his treatment by the ER Doctor and these orders couldn’t be accomplished with the patient face down and restrained. Oh great, now we are going to have to grapple with the baddest guy around. He was quiet for the moment and still face down. His face was turned away from me. He had long hair that covered his face when he turned and I entered the trauma room. I informed this guy that the medical team needed to do some tests and check him out. He raged at me, “Fuck you!” After he told me to have intercourse with myself, he whispered, “Jonathon, is that you?” I lifted the hair out of his face and lo and behold, the baddest guy around was my middle school basketball captain John. Jesus H. Christ in a first round TKO! I was absolutely stunned. I said to John, “John, what the hell have you gotten yourself into? Wait a minute or two, I’ll see if I can get those nasty restraints off of you.” I went out to the nurse’s station and told the head nurse that he is ready to get the required treatment. I asked the head nurse if John’s restraints could be removed. The first response I got was a resounding no. I then asked the ER Doctor if it was all right to remove his restraints. The Doctor was very apprehensive about freeing up John’s hands. The Police officers warned the ER team that removing the restraints from this patient would be a bad idea. After all, this guy was the

baddest guy around. I informed the staff that I had a history with this patient. I assured them that I would take full responsibility for the any actions that would go south. The ER Doctor said, “You know this guy?” I shook my head in the affirmative. He said, “It’s your funeral. He’s a real bad ass. He’s just a bad seed.” I told him that I would take that chance. The Doctor nodded his head yes, remove the restraints. I went back into the treatment room where John was lying. I said to John, “Hey buddy, I am going to take this hardware off of you but you have to promise me that you will behave. This is from me to you John. I trust that you will honor my request.” John lifted his head, looked at me and said, “I promise you coach. I will behave myself as long as you stay with me and don’t let anyone else beat on me anymore tonight.” I was valiantly trying to hold my composure as I replied, “You really need to get some treatment. John, over my dead body, nobody will lay a hand on you anymore tonight. I promise you that. I’ve never lied to you.” John weakly said, “I trust you coach.” I removed all of his restraints, closed the door to the treatment room and gave the thumbs up to the medical staff to give me some time to chat with him. John told me that he did finish high school. His grandfather ed away and that’s when things started to slide downhill for him. You’ve all heard the sad story about hanging out with the wrong crowd, getting into trouble and having his whole life turn bad. This was John’s sad story. He grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you coach for giving me the best times of my life. You were like a father to me when you knew me, coached me, made me captain of the basketball team and I’ll never forget you.” I had tears in my eyes. God Damn it. Life sucks. This was a good kid and life took a huge dump on him. I stayed with John for his treatment and until the PD returned to take him to jail. That was the very last time I saw John.

Chapter 27

Working with Rabbit

I will introduce another gentleman that I had the extreme pleasure of working with. I will call him Rabbit. I had the highest respect and iration for this individual called Rabbit. In many ways, Rabbit was my hero. This man didn’t necessarily look intimidating or speak in an intimidating manner. One could not pick him out of a crowd as being a highly educated human being or one could never imagine all of his amazing accomplishments. As a matter of fact, he seemed like a normal average Joe. After I knew him a while, I realized that this onion had many layers, one layer more intriguing than the other. Rabbit was probably the second smartest person that I’ve ever met. Rabbit lived in Kentucky. I never detected a hint of a twang or a southern accent in his voice. Like I mentioned earlier, he seemed the quintessential John Q. Public. Rabbit was your typical youngster during his early years playing in the hills of Kentucky. There is just one wrinkle I will mention during his childhood years. His childhood ion wasn’t to be a policeman or a fireman but this boy wanted to fly. He lusted to fly through the air with the greatest of ease, but not on a trapeze. He wanted to fly airplanes. I’m sure that an individual must be born with this type of desire. It doesn’t just happen. His ion for flight never waned but grew throughout his teenage years. His ion grew to the point that flying was all that he talked about. It was either flying or nothing for him. That is how serious he was to pursue his dream. Now, how was he going to fulfill this dream? Private lessons were out of the question because private lessons were way too expensive. Rabbit’s options narrowed to ing the military as a means to the end. Rabbit was a smart guy. His school work was straight A’s. His Grade Point Average was 4.0. He realized that his options would be more favorable pursuing the military options. Rabbit would try to secure an appointment to West Point. Do you realize how fucking impossible it is getting an appointment to one of the Military

Academies? It is virtuously impossible. A candidate must be nominated from either a U.S Representative, Senator, Vice-President or appointed by the President. Sound tough? It’s beyond tough. Believe that. The impossibility factor didn’t deter Rabbit one little bit. I will tell you how he got his appointment to West Point, but first let me explain why West Point was Rabbit’s means to the end. In Rabbit’s time, the United States Air Force did not have their Academy built yet in Colorado Springs. The pathway to be a pilot in the Air Force at that point in time was to go to West Point. Approximately twenty-five percent of those Cadets in West Point transitioned to the Air Force after their graduation. Now Rabbit had his means to fulfill his dream. He would begin his journey down the rabbit hole, so to speak. He has got to get that appointment to West Point. It will be a tough road but not entirely impossible. Rabbit had an Aunt that was a personal secretary to a prominent lawyer. This prominent lawyer was a campaign donor and great friend to an elected Senator. Maybe Rabbit could convince his Aunt to ask that lawyer to put in a good word to that Senator and get a nomination to West Point from that Senator. Hey, it was worth a shot. There was more than one application to West Point taken from this Senator. There were maybe four people considered and they would be ranked one through four for the one and only appointment. All the stars lined up and the dominos fell in the right direction. Rabbit got his appointment to West Point. Now all he had to do is the mental and physical rigors of the military, be successful with flight school and graduate. Only special people can accomplish all of this. Piece of cake! Rabbit’s adventure in West Point wasn’t all wine and roses. There are many challenges incurred with the military phase alone. When you add academic requirements and pile on flight school, one could classify this whole scope as a full plate of demanding tests to . Rabbit persevered the academics and the physical military rigors. I’ll consolidate the next four years at West Point as a success. Rabbit met all the requirements with military and flight school demands. OK, he graduated. After graduation from West Point, he went into the Air Force. To top that off, he was invited to the grand opening of the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. Rabbit told me that the grand opening was a gala event complete with champagne dreams and caviar wishes. Well, maybe not quite the Lifestyles of

the Rich and Famous but it was a top shelf party all the same. Reporting for duty sir. It was off to California for Rabbit. The landscape west of Colorado Springs was spectacular. During his drive he decided to camp out in the desert. The night sky was star studded. This was beautiful outer worldly shit. Rabbit didn’t have a tent but he would be a man and rough it and sleep outside. Unfortunately, this wasn’t Kansas Toto. What Rabbit didn’t know was it actually gets really cold at night in the desert. So much for this Lawrence of Arabia shit. Fuck that, Rabbit got a motel room and slept in a real bed. Another amazing site on the way to California was Lake Tahoe where Rabbit stopped and asked the prices for building lots. These lots went for twenty-five thousand dollars. Imagine what one could get for one of those lots at today’s prices! Rabbit didn’t buy any of those Lake Tahoe lots. He was possessed with flying. Screw Lake Tahoe. You should have bought at least one of those lots, Rabbit, but I understand.

When Rabbit got back on the road, he came across a little fresh fruit stand. There he bought the freshest, juiciest, best tasting peaches in the world. Rabbit feasted on those peaches until he hit the California border. The Border Patrol took his peaches. Agriculture couldn’t be transported over state lines. Welcome to sunny fucking California. Rabbit was fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time. He was chosen to train on jets. This was a huge step for any new aviator. He did have a few bumps in the road with jet flight training. I won’t even try to explain the details of the biggest snafu with Rabbit’s flight training. I am totally ignorant when it comes to flight training. All I can say is that it had something to do with the landing sequence. His flight instructor told him that if he didn’t master this landing sequence, he would wash out of flight school. This was a show stopper for Rabbit. He has come this far. His childhood dreams could disappear in a flash. Holy shit, would his dreams be torpedoed by a routine landing sequence? The answer is a resounding, “No fucking way!” Rabbit put his gray matter in overdrive. He rigged up a landing procedure simulator in his dormitory room. He practiced and practiced until his hands were blistered from all of the simulations. The landing procedure was not going to stop Rabbit from being a jet fighter pilot.

When it came time to display the landing procedure with the flight instructor, Rabbit’s flight instructor was amazed at the speed and efficiency of Rabbit’s landing procedure. His flight instructor asked Rabbit how in the world did he learn this procedure overnight. Rabbit just replied, “Practice.” This just gives you a flavor of Rabbit’s tenacity. Needless to say, now the United States Air Force had a brand spanking new jet pilot. Rabbit has arrived.

There are just a couple more Rabbit flying stories I’d like to mention. The married flyers were held back from flight school with the advanced training and that is where Rabbit really learned how to fly. This included formation flying where he tended to piss off his flight instructor. The flight instructor would increase speed when Rabbit tried to get into formation so it wasn’t entirely Rabbits fault. Rabbit learned a big lesson in advanced training though. When flying fighter jets, the wing fuel tanks must be swapped when one of the fuel tanks level decreases to one-half. Rabbit was flying a bump and run exercise. This procedure is a landing, but not a landing. The pilot takes the plane down to the landing strip, bumps down the wheels and then speeds up and takes off again. The weather took a huge turn for the worse. The flight command suspended bump and runs but Rabbit had been cleared for his bump and run. Although Rabbit was cleared for the maneuver, he thought better of it and landed instead. Karma was full speed ahead. Post check with the mechanic revealed that his leftwing fuel tank was empty. Rabbit forgot to switch fuel tanks. It was a very fortunate that he decided to scrub the bump and run and just land his jet. Rabbit always ed that lesson and used that learning experience throughout his entire work career. I wonder if he ever competed against the Iceman? Rabbit spent a good part of his time in the military flying with the Strategic Air Command. That’s a whole other collection of adventures. Rabbit also was a successful businessman with a major petroleum company. His combined knowledge was immense. I always enjoyed working with Rabbit. He is one of my best buds and a really smart guy.

Chapter 28

Are You Sure She is Pregnant?

Strangely enough, I have asked myself the question, “Are you sure she is pregnant” more than once during my time working in the Emergency Room. The first time I asked myself that question, it was on second shift on not a very busy evening. A young lady came into the Emergency Room complaining that she must have a kidney stone. This young lady I will call Minnie. She was suffering from back pain. This young lady was a single mother of two children. Her two children were fifteen years apart. Although the fact that she had two children doesn’t pertain to the pain she was suffering from, the fact that she already had two children does have a bearing on this story. I don’t know if Minnie experienced a kidney stone previously but she was adamant that her pain and discomfort was caused by some kidney related symptoms. It doesn’t really matter what her problem was but her pain was real and the staff was going to get to the cause of her problem in a timely manner. Upon further tests and examinations, the Emergency Room Doctor was convinced that Minnie’s kidneys were not the cause of her pain and discomfort. Minnie was in labor. Minnie then dismissed the labor diagnosis idea quite vehemently. This is where the “There is no way that I am pregnant” statement defies all credibility. Minnie already had two children. She realized how those two children were conceived. She obviously knows the process of conception. None of us could understand her reluctance to believe that she was about to give birth to her third child. I will say that she didn’t show any of the visual signs of pregnancy. If she gained weight from this baby, one could not tell. Minnie was adamant that the cause of her pain was a kidney stone. She was in pain and that was real. I believed that of all the pain and suffering that I saw in my years of working in a hospital, giving birth was ranked the number one pain. Minnie told us that she never experienced the usual symptoms of a typical

pregnancy. She said that she had no morning sickness or any crazy cravings and she still had her monthly menstrual cycle. What? As I previously mentioned, she didn’t “look” pregnant. The hospital staff convinced Minnie that she needed to be itted to the hospital nonetheless. Minnie was successfully itted to the hospital, wheeled up to the maternity ward and a few hours later gave birth to a six-pound six-ounce baby boy. All I can say is that was surely one hell of a kidney stone! Minnie finally had to acquiesce that her pains were not really a six-pound six-ounce kidney stone. She gave birth to her third child. Mother and baby were fine. My second experience with an unsuspected pregnancy in the Emergency Room was much more dramatic and eventually got quite vocal. My partner and I were requested to intervene with the family to help keep the peace. In this particular incident, I felt compelled, for my own information and sanity, to ask my friend on the nursing staff, “Are you sure she is pregnant?” At first glance, the family involved seemed like a normal everyday family. This was a young Hispanic family. There was a Mother, Father, young Daughter and a younger son. The Daughter was fourteen years old. She was a petite little teenager. I would have guessed her height at five-foot 1 inch and she tipped the scales at maybe one hundred pounds. She was really a cute little kid and I will emphasize the word kid. She was fourteen years old for Christ sake! The young daughter I will call Maria. Maria was complaining about abdominal pains. Routine tests were performed on Maria. You guessed it. Maria was pregnant. This is where I asked my nurse friend “Are you sure she is pregnant?” Maria was fourteen years old for Christ sake! The uncomfortable part for my partner and me was about to manifest itself. The Emergency Room Doctor had to inform Maria’s parents the results of the clinical tests. It has been my experience especially when dealing with a touchy situation like this, emotions run sky high and must be dealt with in a very delicate manner. We knew that the results of the diagnosis with Maria was not going to be received very well by her parents. I am positive that Maria’s parents never in a million years would have believed that their daughter was with child. The Emergency Room Doctor requested that my partner and I stand by while he delivered the news to Maria’s parents just in case the situation gets emotional. Just as expected, Maria’s father didn’t believe the Doctor and it indeed got

emotional. He insisted the Doctor was wrong in his diagnosis. I believe his exact words were, “There is no fucking way my daughter is pregnant! She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.” Maria’s mother said nothing as her mouth hung down to the floor. In addition, the Doctor informed the parents that Maria’s uncomfortable pain was that Maria was now in labor. Maria needed to go to the delivery room because she was experiencing advanced labor. Maria’s father got very loud and needed to calm down. My partner and I were able to maintain order while Maria got itted to the hospital. Maria gave birth to a little boy the next day. I am sure when Maria’s father found out the father of Maria’s baby, it would not be a pleasant display either. I still can’t believe that little fourteen-year-old girl was pregnant and had a little bambino. She looked like a little kid. That was surely one for the books.

Chapter 29

Naked Crazy Men

Talk about the best of times and the worst of times. The best of times was greatly appreciated if and when I was lucky enough to experience a good time. Now for one of the worst of times. The following example is probably some of the worst of times when dealing with conflict at the hospital. Here is my explanation, so stick with me here. There are times when men are naked. There are times when men are crazy. At no time should men be both naked and crazy at the same time. Some of my experiences working at the hospital have unfortunately been involved with men both naked and crazy at the same time. Jesus H. Christ in an unclad state, talk about the worst of times. I always felt like there were way too many challenges in dealing with naked crazy men, especially when the conflict turned physical. It seemed like the first consideration was, how fucking crazy was this idiot? The next consideration was that we had to deal with this crazy idiot in his birthday suit. I know what you are thinking. The obvious question is, where the fuck does one plan to grab this naked crazy person? that this naked crazy man is aggressive and doesn’t care where he rains his fury. He was usually swinging his fists with reckless abandon. My first experience with naked crazy dealt with a naked crazy man totally juiced up with Phencyclidine (P). This where that third element is introduced. It’s difficult enough with naked crazy but add mind altering drugs, that is where it exceeds insane. Our first priority was to protect our hospital personnel, then try not to hurt the patient and ourselves in the process. This gets very difficult when the naked crazy man’s objective is to inflict maximum physical damage on whoever tries to stop his mindless outrage. Mr. P naked crazy man finally relented his nonsense after a long and tiring battle with three of us. He did not get hurt. We did not get hurt. Most of all, none of the other hospital personnel got hurt in this particular foray. Naked crazy man

however, was very slippery. The second and last encounter with a naked crazy man will be my last mention of men who are both naked and crazy. Wait, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth just thinking about naked crazy men so I promise that this will be my last story about naked crazy men. I was on duty with two of the largest guys on our force. This is significant, as I will reveal later. We received a STAT call to the Emergency Room. The ambulance was bringing in a very combative patient. Ho hum, what else is new? We usually received a few of these types of calls every week, so this was nothing out of the ordinary. We reported to the Emergency Room before the ambulance arrived. The charge nurse relayed a message to us that the ambulance was bringing in this combative guy and the ambulance attendance reported that this moron was a hulk of a man. We met the ambulance at the emergency entrance. Out of the back of the ambulance appeared this hulk of a human being. He reminded me of a heavy weight boxer. He was very muscular and yes, he was naked and crazy. He charged at us like a bull in a bull fighting ring. I was so glad that I had my two large partners with me. Mr. hulk charged and I did an immediate ole’. He ran right by me and hit the concrete wall. This stunned him and all three of the good guys pounced on this naked crazy hulk. Mr. hulk was sweating profusely and trying to hold him was like trying to capture a greased pig. Luckily the charge nurse had called the Police Department. The PD showed up and had to taser this hulk to subdue him. I was relieved because wrestling this sweaty hulk was not a whole lot of fun. Oh shit, I just threw up a little in my mouth again.

Chapter 30

I Don’t This Ride

This chapter is dedicated to a particular time when I was working at the hospital that I cannot for the life of me, recall. You may ask how can I write about a time I cannot ? Actually, I don’t fucking know but I’ll try. I do before the ride to the hospital and after returning from the hospital. It’s the ten or so hours in between that I don’t recall in any way, shape or form. Those details I will fill in with recollections from those who were with me at the time this memory loss occurred. Sound totally weird and scary? It was totally weird and scary then and it still gives me the creeps now. This memory loss happening started one snowy winter evening. This snow storm was a typical snow storm initially but the accumulation finally dropped over two feet of snow. The snow was not a big deal as the city was diligent in clearing the roads. The fact that there was a lot of snow is germane to this story. This escapade started out as a very innocent, delightful evening. My family planned dinner and a party for my brother. It was my brother’s birthday. He was new in town and didn’t know many folks, so I invited a few friends over to celebrate his birthday with us. The blanket of new falling snow was beautiful outside while we all were toasty and comfortable inside. Dinner was scrumptious. The birthday party was ready to begin. The birthday party started out with birthday cake, coffee and presents for my brother to open. Does this sound like an idyllic family evening? Does this get you into the happy, happy, joy, joy mood? Would you believe nothing, but nothing could interrupt this warm, lovely family time? Am I asking too many questions? Very soon our beautiful evening would be torpedoed by an emergency phone call from the hospital. I was actually NOT on call for emergency duty this evening. One of my coworkers was on call but he requested the hospital call in little old me. My coworker was a little unsure of the procedure to supply emergency power to the

hospital. Apparently the snow storm had taken out the commercial power source and the emergency generators would not start automatically. I do the why before my blackout but it gets better, trust me. I bundled up and was ready to drive into the hospital. Since my brother was the last person to arrive at my house and his car was the last car in the driveway, he volunteered to drive me into the hospital. I insisted that he stay at my home to open his birthday presents but he wouldn’t hear of it. I told my brother that I would take his offer to drive me to the hospital. My brother owned this little VW Beetle. Since the VW Beetle had the engine in the rear of the vehicle, it had very good traction in the snow. that it was snowing a lot outside? The fact that his car was last in the driveway and was good in the snow were the contributing factors in my decision to let him drive me to the hospital. The snow accumulation this evening added to the previous snow we had the week before. There was a lot of snow and the snow plows just pushed the new snow higher to the existing piles. Stick with me because all of these details contribute to the reason for my memory loss. Just the loss of commercial power and large snow banks on the sides of the roads. I lived at the top of a mountain so it was going to be a challenge to drive to the hospital through the snow. We backed down the driveway and were on our way. We didn’t slip and slide too much. My brother’s car was doing great. At the bottom of the mountain, we drove to the next intersection where there was a stoplight. The loss of commercial power rendered this stoplight useless, dead as a doornail, kaput. As we were traveling slowly through this non-working stoplight intersection, I my brother downshifting into second gear. Now this is where my memory goes night-night and I am relating this story from other witnesses’ recollections. We were crawling through the intersection because the snow banks on the sides of the road were so high that visibility was nonexistent. We didn’t see that fucking pick-up truck barreling through the intersection at a high rate of speed and doing the T-Bone thing to us directly on the side where I was sitting in the enger’s seat, in a VW Beetle to boot. Crash, crunch, bang, zoom, to the moon Alice. I must say that the human body is an extraordinary organism. In cases where extreme trauma enters the picture, the brain shuts down. This shut down was obvious because I lost ten plus fucking hours of my life! I’ll never get those

hours back, but it was probably the best that could have happened given the situation. My conscience brain functions said no way Jose and shut me down. I had no pain and I wasn’t consciously aware of any of my surroundings. The impact from the crash ejected me from the automobile. My brother’s car had lap belts but neither of us used them. I ended up landing in one of those six-foot high snow banks. Someone was looking out for me because, I probably would have landed on the hard pavement and not something soft like a snowbank. My brother was stuck in his car. When I say stuck, I literally mean stuck. After he downshifted into second gear and when we were hit by this other vehicle, his right arm between the wrist and the elbow was impaled on the broken-in-half gearshift. Picture that impaled arm on the broken gearshift for a minute or two. This accident was very nasty.

My brother told me later that he was trying to locate me in his car. I was absent from the enger’s seat and he wasn’t able to move because his right arm was rendered useless. I don’t have to say why his right arm was useless, you know why. I however, was walking down the middle of the street in the opposite direction of the way to the hospital. At that exact point in time, one of radiology students, Patti was driving home after working her shift at the hospital. I knew her well because I coached her on my softball team. I will have to enter a side note here. She was twenty years old and gorgeous. I didn’t have to that part and it means absolutely nothing to this story but I thought it was worth mentioning. I pleaded with Patti to make a U-Turn and get me to the hospital. The hospital had no commercial power and the emergency generators wouldn’t start. I need to get there. I must have been convincing enough. She said, “Get in.” While I was bumming a ride from Patti, the Emergency EMT personnel along with others were looking for me. My brother told them that he wasn’t alone in the vehicle and I must be laying somewhere either dead or close to it. I was successful in eluding the EMT’s and everyone else due to my student friend Patti giving me a ride to the hospital. I don’t know how long the search party looked for me. I was knocked coo-coo, ? They eventually gave up their search for me. I must have been an elusive little shit. Patti dropped me off I’m assuming at either the main entrance or the Emergency

Room. I don’t know and who cares? It doesn’t matter, I got into the hospital. I went to the generator room and started the generators and transferred the power source to the emergency generator feed. Again, I don’t know how I did this, but I did this. I must have been on auto-pilot or something.

My co-worker found me later on wandering the halls in an area not even close to the Emergency Generator Room. He said that I asked him where was the Emergency Generator Room and I needed to get there to fix shit. He said that all is well and I needed to report to the Emergency Room. I said, “OK, where the hell is the Emergency Room?” I had been working at the hospital for about seven years and was well aware where the Emergency Room was located. Coocoo, coo-coo. He realized my inability to focus on anything and said, “I’ll show you.” Then he grabbed me by the elbow and led me to the Emergency Room. By that time the ambulance transporting my brother arrived and the details of our motor vehicle accident were revealed. My brother finally located me. He was relieved to say the least. Here is where my memory loss experience gets a little embarrassing. My coworker explained to the Emergency Room personnel that I wasn’t functioning on all eight cylinders. He noticed the numerous bumps and bruises on my head and body. He pointed this out to the Charge Nurse and said that he didn’t have any idea how I got the bumps and bruises. He thought that maybe I fell down the stairs or something. Subsequently, I was signed in to the Emergency Room to get checked out. I knew everyone on duty in the ER and Radiology. Thank goodness everyone knew me because I was later told of my stupid, idiotic demands and directions to personnel that were trying to help me. Let me get to the embarrassing stuff. I’ve put it off long enough. Please that I was knocked coo-coo and was not aware of my actions at the time so I don’t take any responsibility for my behavior. I was not mean or combative or anything like that. I guess that I was just being me. I must have been really concerned that my feet were not clean. If my shoes were removed everyone would out because of, how can I say this delicately, ah, foot odor. I was deathly afraid that my feet smelled. My brother told me that I pleaded with everyone I came into with, to not remove my shoes under any circumstances. I’m talking nurses, doctors, radiology technicians, lab

personnel, security, housekeepers, other patients, you name it, I told them to please do not remove my shoes. In addition, I must have asked anyone I saw, “I need to get to the generator room, the hospital is in trouble!” I followed that with, “So where am I and what happened?” Now the following is the most bizarre comment I blurted out over and over again. “Did I walk to school here or can I carry my lunch too?” What the flying fuck does that last question mean? I don’t know what underlying figment of my imagination deep in the bowels of my human psyche dragged that last statement out. Talk about being completely out of my mind! I finally regained my sanity after ten or so hours after the accident. I had been treated and released from the hospital. I was sitting at home with my wife and my brother while nursing a cup of coffee. I looking around, recognizing my surroundings and who I was with. My memory was back. I looked at the clock and was puzzled with the obvious time lapse. I looked at my brother and said, “Look at the time. What the fuck just happened?” He replied, “For the one thousandth time, I will tell you and I hope it sticks this time.” He told me the entire story including all the details of my motor mouth at the hospital. I was incredulous with the details of the accident, my motor mouth and the hours of time I lost. The following day we went to find my brother’s car. We found it or what was left of it. That was when a chilling, creepy feeling arose in my throat. We were lucky to be alive.

Chapter 31

Spit Stories

Did you ever wonder what it would feel like if someone would spit in your face? I can tell you from first-hand experience that having someone spit in your face is not a delightful experience. It is vile, disgusting and one of the most revolting things a person could experience. I believe that every member of our Security Force has been on the receiving end of expectorate flung from the mouths of folks that we had to restrain and even some folks we were not restraining. It really didn’t matter. I firmly believe that sometimes just the uniform worn by a Police Officer or a Security Guard can trigger an automatic dislike or disrespect in a person toward that officer. I’ve seen and experienced that extreme dislike toward a uniformed officer. In addition, we took painstaking precautions against germs. We always washed our hands at least fifty to a hundred times a night and wore latex gloves when handling patients to avoid direct with blood and saliva. My partner Don and I were working one Saturday night. It was well past closing time for the bars. We were on alert for tipplers to come into the Emergency Room and display their idiotic macho bravado. Being on dipshits alert was standard procedure for us after the bars closed up because there was always some asshole drunkard willing to be, what’s the right word, oh yeah, an asshole. Sure enough, a patient stumbled in with police escort and we were honored with this fucking dipshit that had way too much to drink. He was arrested for public intoxication and a blood alcohol level was required. He was tipsy and slurring his words and we could tell that he had a bad attitude right from the start.

The police left him in our custody and this drunk schmuck started right off by first giving the triage nurse and then the itting clerk a difficult time. My partner and I were standing by just waiting for the conflict we knew

was about to transpire. It was a given. The triage nurse and itting clerk showed amazing patience in dealing with this putz. This drunk finally got signed in for treatment and we escorted him to the drunk tank room. At first, this guy didn’t really give us too much of a problem. It was a little challenging getting him into hospital garb but it wasn’t too bad. I gave my partner the high sign that this idiot wasn’t going to give us much of a problem. That all changed when the phlebotomist arrived to draw his blood. He did not want a needle stuck into him. We all explained that this was required because the police ordered a blood alcohol level test. There was no fucking way was he getting a needle stuck into him. Talk about Jeopardy, “I’ll take dumb asses in our ER for a thousand Alex.” I have seen the biggest, strongest, macho men be reduced to a quivering bowl of jelly when confronted with a needle. Talk about being a huge weenie. This guy was just that. He had tons of false bravado but was reduced to a big baby at the sight of a needle. Boo-hoo, man up, you shithead! that he consumed a large amount of alcohol and he displayed a ton of male aggressive pride. Now it was time for the A-Team to intervene. I tried to reason with Mr. I hate needles. When so much alcohol, combined with male testosterone is involved, reason gets thrown out of the window. What the fuck? Can’t we all just get along? Why do you have to be such a punk? Why did you drink so much alcohol? Do you know that you will regret this behavior? Am I just banging my head against the wall? Ah, fuck it, I’m out of questions. Now we had to restrain and hold this guy so his blood could be drawn. Wonderful, just what I needed this night. Let’s just say that we knew this was not going to be fun. We did get some needed assistance from the nursing staff. We put him in four-point restraint but this was not enough to stop him from thrashing around and making it impossible to draw blood. We had to hold this putz’s arm tight in place. We did just that as the phlebotomist began to stick in the needle. Our patient was well restrained. We got this. He couldn’t move. Success, so we thought. Just as my partner opened his mouth to tell me something, Mr. Asshole ejected the most disgusting, phlegmiest hawker, spit projectile that I had ever seen exit a mouth, right smack dab into my partners open mouth. Having my partners mouth being used as a spittoon was, let’s say, not cricket. I can’t even

describe how gross this disgusting act looked. My partner gagged and was dry heaving. I don’t know how my partner didn’t vomit. Everyone present was gagging. My partner however, spit this disgusting loogie in which he was the recipient, right back into Mr. Asshole’s face. I guess that was sweet revenge to spit that loogie back at Mr. Asshole, but I don’t know how sweet that loogie must have tasted to Don. Immediately after my partner expelled that hawker back to Mr. Asshole, one of the nurses gave Don a toothbrush, toothpaste and a bottle of mouthwash. I think Don brushed and gargled the entire tube of toothpaste and bottle of mouthwash empty. I can’t even imagine how nasty that tasted! By the way, we did get Mr. Asshole’s blood and he was over twice the legal blood alcohol level limit. Are you as grossed out as I am right now? Is the bile rising in the back of your throat? Do you want to hear more spit stories? No, you say? Tough shit, I have one more spit story I will tell you and this one involves me being on the receiving end. I was having a great evening. I had two giant partners on duty with me and all was well in the hospital environment. This was a beautiful evening outside with temperatures in the mid-seventies. When the weather is this nice, outside rounds are a priority. We had no parking problems. No one was parked illegally and believe it or not, none of our wooden parking lot levers were broken off. There were no winos hanging around the property. No problems here. So far this was a banner evening. The emergency phone rang. The ambulance was bringing in a combative patient and requested Security to stand by. My two giant partners and I responded to the Emergency Room and waited for the ambulance to arrive. So much for the perfect evening. The ambulance arrived. The rear doors of the ambulance flew open with the EMT’s barely hanging on to the patient. This turned out to be the worst of my expectations. This patient was built like a linebacker. He was naked and crazy. His skin glistened. He was slippery and slimy. Jesus H. Christ in a previously perfectly idyllic evening, this situation we were now presented with, was totally fucked! My two giant partners were able to grab Mr. Slippery, Slimy by the arms and

proceeded to escort him to a treatment room. While Mr. Slippery, Slimy was being escorted to his treatment room, he looked at me and said, “What the fuck are you looking at?” I didn’t have the time or patience to give this guy an English lesson to explain to him about not ending a sentence with a preposition. I just simply replied, “Absolutely nothing.”

Two things in which I am sure, Mr. Slippery, Slimy probably was sleeping in class during Middle School English and he certainly was not thrilled with my answer. He then sucked in a massive amount of phlegm and then expelled this huge, magic loogie in my direction. I was clever. I was already on red alert. I’ve seen the warning signs of imminent saliva expectorate. I was as elusive as the rubber band man. I was able to dodge this loogie, but not completely. The loogie didn’t hit me in the face but splatted off of my shoulder. My two giant partners tightened their grip on Mr. Slippery, Slimy and rushed him into room reserved for Slippery, Slimy scumbags. The three of were able to get Mr. Slippery, Slimy into four-point restraint. That is when I decided to assess the slippery, slimy loogie damage. It was pretty gross. By the time I got to assess the damage, this loogie had dribbled down the front of my shirt and was starting to soak through by uniform shirt to my undershirt. I went into the restroom and pulled off my uniform shirt and undershirt. My wonderful nurse friends were Johnny on the spot with alcohol wipes and helped me clean and sterilize my shirts. Thank goodness for the nurses. They are the best. Not so much for Mr. Slippery, Slimy. He wasn’t the best. He was the worst. Spitting on someone is the worst. It is vile and disgusting. Spit stories are disgusting. I think I’ll just move on to the next chapter.

Chapter 32

Moon Over My Hospital, Not Miami

The moon, occasionally distinguished as Luna, is a wonderful astronomical body that orbits the earth. The moon is the Earth’s only permanent natural satellite. It is the fifth-largest satellite in the Solar System, and the largest among planetary satellites relative to the size of the planet that it orbits. The Moon is 238,900 miles away from Earth. Like the Earth, the Moon boasts a crust, mantle and core. Deep inside its interior, the Moon may have a solid iron core surrounded by a softer, somewhat molten liquid iron outer core. Daytime on one side of the Moon lasts about 13 ½ days followed by 13 ½ nights of darkness. When sunlight hits the Moon’s surface, the temperature can reach 260 degrees Fahrenheit. When the sun goes down on the moon, the temperature can dip to minus 280 degrees Fahrenheit. Armstrong and Aldrin reached the Moon on July 20, 1969, with NASA’s Apollo 11. I watched that Moon landing live on my black and white television in my small rented flat when I was in College. I was always fascinated with the Moon, space, space stations and anything connected with space travel. I’m getting to the point of the chapter, so stick with me. There are many other fun facts about the Moon but all those facts can be read elsewhere. Be patient because, although the Moon and space travel are fascinating subjects, it has absolutely nothing to do with Moon Over My Hospital, Not Miami. I just thought I would interject some little facts when I talk about the Moon so you understand the difference between the real Moon and the Moon’s that I had the experience to view.

The Moons that I am referring to in Moon Over My Hospital, Not Miami, are butts, buttocks, bottoms, bums, rears, duffs, cabooses, derrieres, keisters and dozens of other names for the good old ass end. I think I have seen an example

of every variety and genus of the backside of males and females. I’ve seen small butts, large butts, nice butts, not so nice butts, perfectly shaped butts and misshaped butts. The old saying, “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all” certainly doesn’t pertain to the butts that I have seen in my days working at the hospital. I will tell you a couple behind the scenes, so to speak, stories of Moon Over My Hospital, Not Miami. The first episode deals with an amazingly attractive woman who came into the Emergency Room one fine evening. I will call her Ms. Apple Ass. I tagged her with this name right after seeing her for the first time due to her perfect backside as viewed from behind in her tight-fitting jeans. Ms. Apple Ass was complaining about being sick, having a cold, having the flu, or whatever. I guess that she wasn’t exactly feeling too chipper at the moment. She wanted a magic shot of something, anything to make her feel instantly better because she hated being sick. OK, fair enough. Ms. Apple Ass is sick, we are a healthcare institution. We have Doctors, Nurses and tons of people. I think we can help her out. Which way did she come in? Just joking. The problem we ran into was that Ms. Apple Ass was very, very impatient. She argued with anyone she came into with. She was pissed off at the Triage Nurse. She was pissed off at the itting Clerk. She was pissed off at the Nurses and when she got loud and pissed off at the Doctor, I was called in to try and calm her down a bit. Now that Ms. Apple Ass was extremely beautiful with long brown hair cascading down her shoulders and back. She was about five foot six inches tall, with a gorgeous face and figure to boot. Someone has to try to calm her down. It’s a tough job, but I’ll do my best. I was instantly sympathetic with her because this beautiful creature didn’t need to be sick. She needed to display her natural beauty without coughing and sneezing and feeling like a truck just hit her. Like I said, I was sympathetic. What do I know? I was a sucker for a pretty face. I tried to calm her down. I did my best with my weak attempt at trying to be her friend and trying to be understanding and being sympathetic with her not feeling so good. I wasn’t having too much luck. Her anger and impatience level were starting to peak. I pleaded for her to show some patience and wait for the blood test results and the Doctor to see her. I was sure that the medical staff could either give or prescribe something to make her feel a whole lot better. Ms. Apple Ass was like a yo-yo. She said, “I’m sorry. I understand.” Then she raised her voice and said,

“All I want is a fucking shot!” She was all over the spectrum of emotions. I figured that this gorgeous creature was used to getting her own way and if she didn’t, then came the crocodile tears and the poor, poor me attitude. I was enchanted with her beauty but I was getting tired of her ranting and raving for something to make her feel better. I pleaded, “Please let the staff determine the best cure, it won’t be much longer.” She replied as the tears rolled down her cheeks, “I’m not asking much. I just want a God Damn shot and I want it right here!” With that, she stood up unzipped the tightest jeans you have ever seen, dropped her jeans and panties, bent over and slapped her naked right butt cheek. She yelled, “I want that shot right fucking here!!!” Oh shit, what the fuck do I do now? Here I am staring at the most perfect rear end that I have ever seen, in full viewing pleasure, on one of the most stunning beauties that I have ever encountered in my young life. I did what any redblooded male would do if put into this same situation. I ran like hell out of the room and yelled, “Nurse!” My nurse friend came into the room as I exited stage left. I don’t know what kind of facial expression she saw on my face but it must have been an extremely funny one. After the nurse got Ms. Apple Ass to put her pants back on, my nurse friend found me in the breakroom shaking and choking down a cup of coffee. She couldn’t contain her mirth. She was laughing till the tears ran down her face. I was totally fucking embarrassed. She must have thought that I was a real weenie and sad to say, she wasn’t far off. I totally geeked out. I’ll it, I was shaken but I never forgot what I saw. That moment was a memory burn. Ms. Apple Ass was treated and discharged but before she left, she asked my nurse friend if she could see the Security Guard that was chatting with her. My nurse friend must have been a sadist and wanted to pile more embarrassment on me, so she came and got me. I went into Ms. Apple Ass’s treatment room but I insisted that my nurse friend accompany me. My nurse friend had this creepy shit-eating grin on her face. I tried to be as professional as I could but me running out of her room like a weenie still lingered in my brain. Ms. Apple Ass said to me, “I am so sorry for my behavior. I am so sorry I embarrassed you. I feel terrible that I did what I did.” Well, fuck a duck. This chick had some real class. I wasn’t entirely speechless so I just said, “That’s OK. I knew you were not feeling well, but you

did surprise me and that’s already forgotten.” Who am I kidding? Ms. Apple Ass then ran over to me and gave me the biggest hug and she kissed my cheek. She said, “I owe you a kiss on the lips but not right now. I don’t want you to get what I have. Again, I’m so sorry.” Wow, what a complete and total change in her demeanor. Her attitude did a complete one-eighty. I felt good. There are good people in this world. Ms. Apple Ass, thank you and I’ll never forget you and your gorgeous bum. So that was one Moon Over My Hospital, Not Miami story. By the way, I never got my kiss on the lips from Ms. Apple Ass, but that’s all right. She still owes me that. I do have one more story that I will tell. This next story started out in the Emergency Room but eventually ended up taking place outside of the entrance to the Emergency Room. This event happened on one chilly night and outside hospital rounds were not a priority. It was cold outside and we wanted to stay inside. One of our regular dipshits staggered in to get treatment. He was obviously hammered. I’ll call him Young Drunk. It was difficult for him to stand up straight. Like I said, Young Drunk was a regular and we were completely aware of his past antics and bullshit with us. What I didn’t understand about this particular fellow was that he was fairly young. I would say Young Drunk was in his mid-twenties. He was well on his way to being the king of the town drunks. It was a sad situation. One could not reason with this kid. He had been in and out of multiple rehab facilities and really had no future. Young Drunk graduated to being a mendicant. This poor kid was lost beyond recovery. Too bad. Nonetheless, he once again visited the hospital and staggered into the Emergency Room. This time he wasn’t all that drunk and started out by giving all the hospital personnel problems. He was one of these relentless guys that just got under your skin. I felt sorry for him but we had our job to do. Almost immediately the Doctor gave us the order to escort Young Drunk off of the property. Young Drunk initially didn’t give us any trouble. He knew us, we knew him. My partner, Don asked him to vacate the property. Of course, his first reaction was a hearty, “Fuck You.” Then I asked Young Drunk to please leave the property. His second reaction was an even heartier, “Fuck You.” I said, “I’m going to ask you a third time, please leave the hospital property.”

This time Young Drunk didn’t say anything but just stood in place and wavered back and forth. My partner and I didn’t know what Young Drunk’s next move would be. Were we going to have to physically remove him or would he just stagger off into the sunset all by his lonesome? Young Drunk said, “All right fuckers, I’m leaving.” My partner said, “Good. Make it snappy, it’s cold outside.” It was perhaps two blocks for him to be totally off of hospital property. Young Drunk started his long trek by turning his back to us, dropping his pants and giving us a moon shot. I wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t as good a moon shot as Ms. Apple Ass but it was a moon shot nonetheless. Young Drunk pulled up his pants and walked another maybe twenty-five paces. He gave us another moon shot. Young Drunk continued his twenty-five paces then moon shot until he finally crossed the road off of hospital property. My partner and I followed Young Drunk until he was safely off of the property. Actually, it was comical. Now here is one for the books. After Young Drunk crossed the road, he shouted to us, “FUCK YOU!!! Here is what I think of you guys and the hospital too!” He then dropped his drawers stooped over, shot us the moon and I believe he tried to gas at us. The only problem was that he didn’t gas. I think he tried to push so hard that gas wasn’t an option. Instead of ing gas, a massive flood of excrement flew out of his anus. The man had shat his pants bigtime. There was crap everywhere, on the sidewalk, in his underwear, in his pants, it was everywhere. It was a literal shit storm. That was enough for me. I couldn’t help but gag and turn away. That was the last time I ever saw Young Drunk. I don’t know if it was a result of the shit storm embarrassment or he just went off somewhere else to slowly kill himself. His shit storm moon shot was memorable though. You have got to it that.

Chapter 33

Muffler Eater

I am sure that everyone, sometime in their lives has done something that they are not entirely proud of doing. This story contains something I did that was necessary at the time but I am not proud to say that I did what I did. This unfortunate incident started out very innocently as a get together, a party if you will. I invited to my home some neighbors, friends, family and folks I worked with at the hospital. This party was to be a delicious seafood smorgasbord/clambake. A few of us guys dug a barbeque pit. We filled it with a bed of charcoal followed with a bed of seaweed, then a bed of clams followed with another bed of seaweed. We added three layers of seaweed and clams finally ending with a layer of lobsters and shrimp. Sound yummy? It was very yummy. This get together started on a Friday evening when a few of us guys dug the pit, started the charcoal fire and after the fire was red hot, we added the layers of seafood contents. This process wasn’t accomplished in a short period of time. This was a delicate, time consuming operation. There were master chefs at work here. Four guys including me volunteered to watch the barbeque pit till the wee hours of the morning. There had to be some sort of an incentive to stay up so late with this bunch of nuts other than tend a scrumptious seafood barbeque feast for everyone. We had the perfect solution. We bought a keg of beer. In the immortal words of Shemp Howard, “Now that was an incentive what is an incentive!” This starlit, warm summer night, the swirling aroma from the barbeque pit and of course liquid refreshment with good friends made this night a night to . We had the perfect night where lasting memories are recalled for many years to come. Fortunately, there are good, sweet memories and unfortunately there are bad, unpleasant memories. The luckless result is that there are no filters that can be

applied to only the good memories and reject the bad memories. They all come rushing back at one time or another. I think about this particular memory every once and a while and before I can order a hasty retreat to this memory, I once again feel the good and the bad of this particular weekend. We sipped our beer and tended the fire till the wee hours of the morning. Then we all went to bed to get some rest for the impending shindig. With a good shower and a good strong wake up coffee, we were ready for the festivities. The party started around noon with the kids playing in our pool. We also made an obstacle course; had picnic games and we gave prizes to the kids. The food was served about two in the afternoon. What a spread we had prepared for the group! The seafood was delicious, as expected. We were having a banner day. Our party morphed into an adult party after all the kids went night- night. We all were having a great time. After the first keg ran out, another keg was tapped and the second keg was flowing. There was music, dancing and great conversations abound. Now here is the little snafu I ran into. One of my neighbors invited his boss and wife. I’ll call them Mr. and Mrs. Boss. I didn’t mind at all that my neighbor invited Mr. and Mrs. Boss. The more the merrier. The neighborhood where I lived was the best ever. I trusted my neighbors. I won’t get too far off track but let me give you an example of the trust we had for one another. This example involves my neighbor. The same who invited his boss to my party.

Usually once a week or every two weeks the neighborhood boys would get together to play cards. This was a friendly card game called Setback. The white guys were served Black Label beer and the black guys were served the same beer but we changed the black label on the bottle to White Label, you know, jokingly to make everything balance. That’s how we rolled. We never saw race, ethnicity, religion, or sexual preference. I believe that we had every one of the aforementioned examples in our neighborhood. That’s all good, but I yet to give you the best example. One of the guys that my neighbor invited to our card games was initially his friend. His friend, Carl was a middle twenties guy that seemed like he fit right in with our group. He quickly became our friend. After we knew him and got comfortable with him and his quick-witted sense of humor, he revealed his true self one evening. All the usual suspects were present for this card game. All of a

sudden, there was a knock on the door. My neighbor’s friend and now our friend Carl, showed up to play cards with us, this complete mixed bag of neighborhood nuts. We sure got an unsuspected surprise when Carl came through the door. Carl was not Carl anymore. Carl was Carla. Carla, a female or so it surely looked. Carl transformed into Carla. We were stunned and for the first time in a long time, we were speechless. Carl (Carla) looked pretty good as a female. His voice was the same but everything else had changed. He had long hair. I assumed that was a wig. He was well made up. He totally looked like a girl. He had boobs! What he said next was a tribute to all of us in this group. He said with all sincerity, “You guys are the most open-minded guys that I have ever met. I knew that you wouldn’t think less of me if I revealed my true self. I knew you all would understand.” Of course, me who is never without speech replied, “Jesus Christ Carla, are you still drinking beer or do we have to open a bottle of wine for you?” That resulted in a hearty laugh from everyone. This just gives you an example of the love and trust we had for each other. We had a memorable card game that night. Now back to my party with Mr. and Mrs. Boss attending. The party was going full speed ahead. We decided to cook hot dogs and hamburgers around ten at night. There was still beer in the keg but we all got hungry. I had a frozen lake trout in my freezer that we also decided to cook. We consumed a lot of food and drink. There were also some games that some folks were playing. One of the games being played was some sort of a game of chance that Mr. Boss had introduced. This game of chance started out innocently enough but turned more serious when Mr. Boss suggested, “Let’s make this game a little more interesting.” Now Mr. Boss wanted to introduce the friendly wager element. One of the women agreed to a friendly wager. I had been watching this game and didn’t like where this was going. Mr. Boss had been really cocky and put up his Rolex watch against this woman’s twenty dollars. That was more than a friendly wager. I figured this guy out right from the start. I knew how to beat his game. I had seen this game before. I whispered to this woman and told her how to out maneuver this putz. Let’s beat him at his own game. We both agreed that she would put up her twenty dollars against this guy’s Rolex

just to teach him a lesson. When she beat him at his own game, then we would call off the bet and said that they never shook on it so it wasn’t a valid bet. We just wanted to humble Mr. Boss big time. Well, the expected result happened. We beat Mr. Boss at his own game. We had a good laugh but Mr. Boss didn’t think getting outsmarted was very funny. As a matter of fact, he got kind of pissed. How could a couple of rubes like us manage to trip him up? This game was supposed to be for fun. No money was going to be involved and certainly no Rolex watch was going to switch owners. Mr. Boss had egg on his face. He was embarrassed. He didn’t refuse defeat, he embraced defeat. He insisted that he lost his Rolex watch fair and square. What the hell? A Rolex was worth a lot of shekels. My woman friend was not going to take his Rolex. Mr. Boss would not hear it. He strongly insisted that his watch was a goner. Again, my woman friend said no way will she take his watch. This is where Mrs. Boss stepped in to intervene. Mrs. Boss was a very attractive, delightful lady. She was trying to talk some sense into her husband. She kept saying, “Just forget it. It’s not a bet. We are all friends here.” I think Mr. Boss may have had an alcohol element working also. He replied, “I’m a man. I made a bet. I lost and the watch is hers.” He was really acting like a putz. Mrs. Boss was not entirely happy with Mr. Boss. Here is where this escalated to ugly. Mr. Boss started to yell and scream at Mrs. Boss. Mrs. Boss said that she was leaving. Mr. Boss said that Mrs. Boss would leave when he left. Mrs. Boss started out of my basement door when this asshole Mr. Boss shoved her so hard that it sprung my screen door. Before anyone could grab Mrs. Boss, she crashed through the door, tripped and fell. She then banged her head on my picnic table. Mrs. Boss went down for the count. She was knocked out cold. She sported a very a nasty bump on her head. What the fuck? What did I just witness here? I think this was a case of domestic abuse so should I call the police? My main concern was Mrs. Boss. I just wanted to make sure that she wasn’t hurt and she had her wits about her. After all, she was just knocked out.

We all made sure that Mrs. Boss was all right. Thank goodness for that. Mr. Boss didn’t seem to care too much about his wife. What an asshole! After Mrs. Boss was tended to, I not so politely asked Mr. Boss to leave. I believe I said, “That’s it! Get the fuck off of my property wife beater!” He replied a loud, “Fuck You.”

As Mr. Boss exited through the door that he threw his wife through, he managed to kick his wife in her side as she was shaking her head trying to clear the cobwebs from her skull. For the second time, I couldn’t believe what I just witnessed. Poor Mrs. Boss just got kicked by Mr. Boss while she was still down. Talk about a low life person. He needed a taste of his own medicine. I was about to oblige him just that. I then yelled, “I said get the fuck off my property! You’re not moving fast enough!” He again replied that I should engage in intercourse with myself. I snapped. With what I had witnessed; I was loaded for bear. I sprinted after Mr. Boss. I stopped him in my driveway and taunted him into a fight. He took the first swing. He missed. I took the next swing and that was all it took. My one punch landed squarely on his chin. It was a classic knockout punch. I knocked him off of his feet and he rolled under my truck. I however wasn’t finished with him. He rained two shots on his wife so I was determined to get in my second shot. I grabbed his shirt and dragged him out from underneath my truck. I cocked my fist but was unable to deliver the second shot. My brother grabbed my arm and said, “Don’t hit him again. You’ll kill him. He has no idea where he is.” My brother was right. Mr. Boss was out cold. I looked at Mr. Boss and instantly regretted taking this to a higher level. He surely deserved an ass kicking and he surely got it. Mr. Boss was taken home by my neighbor and Mrs. Boss was taken to a different location. Another one of my neighbor’s gave Mr. Boss the nickname, Muffler Eater. I still feel guilty and disgusted at the level of my rage.

Chapter 34

Who Has My Teeth?

There are many times where a situation presents itself that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. I wonder why, why, and it still makes no sense. The following is one of those times where I just had to shake my head and wonder what the fuck is so mis-aligned in the logical world where something like this can happen. My partner Don and I were working a weekend graveyard shift. It had been a slow night and it felt like it would not be too busy. This was a typical night where the only battle we would face would be the battle to keep our eyelids open. These nights actually were more challenging because when the Emergency Room was busy, the night seemed to much quicker. We settled in for the battle of lethargic, somnolent, inactivity. I was ready to examine the insides of my eyelids when the ambulance brought in a young, maybe nineteen-year-old patient. The patient was brought into one of the treatment rooms. At first, it didn’t appear to be much of a trauma case. The patient’s face and especially his mouth was very bloody. I’ll call him Mr. Teeth. The facts that we discovered were the following. This patient was indeed nineteen years old. I nailed that one. Score! You can almost sense the boredom we experienced when it was a slow night. We used to guess the ages of the patients being brought in for treatment. Mr. Teeth was apparently in some sort of a fight/brawl. We learned that this fact wasn’t entirely correct. Mr. Teeth was sucker punched so I guess it wasn’t that much of a fight/brawl. The second fact of this Mr. Teeth was that he was drinking at a one of the local bars. What? How could this be? This patient wasn’t twenty-one years old. This never happens does it? Wake up from dreamland, this happens more than you could imagine. So, this kid was underage drinking at a bar and was smacked in the chops. The

terrible thing that happened other than not knowing this sucker punch was coming, was that after this sucker punch landed, his top six teeth were knocked out. Now I’m going to get technical again so stick with me. The six teeth that were knocked out were the right and left maxillary central incisors (two front teeth), the right and left maxillary lateral incisors (the two teeth next to the two front teeth), and the right and left maxillary cuspids (two top fang teeth). This poor kid was a mess. That’s a lot of choppers to lose. This injury must have hurt like hell. Serious pain killers could not be istered because it couldn’t be determined how much this kid had to drink. He would have to tough it out with some Tylenol. I’m not sure Mr. Teeth even knew where he was or how serious his injury was. His injury wasn’t life threatening but he had a lot of missing teeth. I’d call that serious. I’m not even sure that this kid knew his teeth were missing. All I could think was here is this young man, nineteen years old and for the rest of his life, he would have to deal with all of those teeth missing. That in itself, sadly depressed me a great deal. I felt so sorry for this kid. Yes, I know he shouldn’t have been in a bar. He shouldn’t have been drinking, but getting sucker punched and losing six front teeth? Well, that just wasn’t cricket! Poor chap. I felt real empathy for this kid even though he didn’t realize the extent of his injury at this point of time in his life. I thought this kid was out of options. He would have to face the fact that he would have to wait until his mouth heals then be fitted for some sort of a bridge of false teeth. One option we didn’t figure, just strolled into the Emergency Room as casual as you please.

This new option came in the form of another guy that was drinking in the same bar and saw the whole incident unfold in front of him. I don’t think that he even knew Mr. Teeth. We later found out that he actually didn’t know Mr. Teeth. He just happened to witness the sucker punch fight. He had two reasons to follow the ambulance into the hospital. The first was to tell the police what happened and he wanted to know if the kid was all right. The second and most important reason was that he had picked up Mr. Teeth’s teeth off of the barroom floor. Holy Shit, you picked up his teeth? He said, “Yes, I don’t know if it matters, but

I thought he might need his teeth. I said, “Where are they?” He replied, “Right here.” He pulled out his flip top box of Marlboro’s and right next to half a pack of cancer sticks were Mr. Teeth’s six missing teeth. I put on a latex glove and this Good Samaritan poured out six teeth from his cigarette box into my hand. This was not exactly a sterile situation here. Along with the teeth were little pieces of tobacco. I just shook my head and delivered my discovery to the charge nurse. She was incredulous that this kid’s teeth were found by some random bar fly and this random bar fly delivered the teeth to the hospital, tobacco pieces and all. I asked the nurse if this changed anything. This is the new option that I eluded to earlier. Could his teeth be put back? Holy shit, I’ve never seen this one before. She said, “Perhaps his teeth can be saved. I’ll call the Oral Surgeon. He can make that determination.” Call an Oral Surgeon at three o’clock in the morning, on a Sunday morning to boot? I never thought that could be an option. The Oral Surgeon was called. I’ll call him Dr. Oral. I was amazed at the punctuality of Dr. Oral. He reported to the hospital in a blink of an eye. That made sense because I later found out that if a knocked-out tooth replacement was possible then time was of the essence. This procedure was a procedure I really wanted to watch first hand. I asked Dr. Oral if I could witness his handywork. He replied in the affirmative. This Surgeon was amazing and all business. He informed Mr. Teeth of all of the facts. This procedure would not be entirely pleasant. This procedure would mean that there would be a lot of metal in his mouth. The healing time would be extensive. Even after all of those wonderful positive aspects, the percentage of the teeth taking hold and surviving would be fifty-fifty at best. Mr. Teeth agreed to have the Dr. Oral try and save his teeth. I was happy for two reasons. First, maybe this kid wouldn’t have to go all his life with false teeth and second, I would have the opportunity to watch this amazing procedure. This procedure was a new one that I have never witnessed before. OK, so here we go. Let’s do this! Mr. Teeth opened wide and let Dr. Oral begin his procedure. Before any teeth were implanted, a mass of metal was inserted into Mr. Teeth’s mouth. I’m talking about a mass, an iron age of wires protruding out of this kid’s mouth. Dr. Oral was twisting and turning this huge mass of metal wires around existing teeth in his mouth, I guess to stabilize the implants. I don’t know. I was afraid to

ask Dr. Oral. I didn’t want to bother him by being nosy. I just wanted to watch. Dr. Oral took maybe an hour and a half to accomplish his magic. Mr. Teeth had all of his teeth. Mr. Teeth also had all of this wire in his mouth. I can only describe it as it looked like a set of braces after all was said and done. His poor mouth and gums had to be unbelievably sore. Mr. Teeth was a tough kid. He weathered getting his teeth knock out and getting his teeth put back within a few hours. Mr. Teeth re-visited us maybe a year later. He smiled at us and displayed a full set of choppers. Thank you, Dr. Oral. You did a fucking amazing job! Mr. Teeth, you are lucky!

Chapter 35

Glass Versus Patient

I just want to make this statement right up front. When glass is involved, you lose! In all of my years of employment at the hospital, both in the clinical field and in the Security Department, one never wins a fight against glass. Glass is nasty, it is sharp, it cuts deep and again, you never win, you lose when glass enters into the equation. For those of you still living under a rock or in the Stone Age, glass is a hard, brittle substance, typically transparent or translucent, made by fusing sand with soda, lime, and sometimes other ingredients and cooling rapidly. It is used to make windows, drinking containers, and many other articles. So much for the definition of glass. Now for a little history lesson. Little is known about the first attempts to make glass. The history of glass-making dates back to at least 3,600 years ago in Mesopotamia. While making a huge fire on the beach, the sand melted beneath the fire and ran in a liquid stream that later cooled and hardened into glass. That is conjecture but it does make sense. Some claim they may have been producing copies of glass objects from Egypt. Glass in the Anglo-Saxon period was used in the manufacturing of a range of objects including vessels, beads, windows and was even used in jewelry. The point I’m trying to make is that glass has been around for a long time and even in the world we live in today, some idiot always tries to test who will come out on top when tangling with glass. I have many glass stories working in the Emergency Room but I will only tell two of those stories. All of the glass cases that I have seen produced some very serious outcomes. Well, you get the idea. These two stories are not humorous by any means. Glass injuries are not funny by any stretch of the imagination. My first experience involves a very sweet woman perhaps in her early thirties. She came rushing into the Emergency Room doors holding her left forearm

about midway between the elbow and the wrist. All she could muster was a weak “Help Me.” The Triage Nurse took one look at her wound, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her forearm. In that short amount of time, blood had leaked through the towel and was dripping on the floor. At that point, the Nurse grabbed another towel and removed the bloody towel to apply the new towel. Just before she applied the new towel, I saw a sight that I will never forget. There was, all I can describe, as a huge u-shaped “flap” of skin that hung down from her forearm. It was probably one of the nastiest cuts that I have ever seen. The cut was at least five inches long on both sides with maybe a two-inch gap at the bottom. This poor woman was getting close to ing out. This is why I love Nurses so much. The Nurse wrapped that nasty cut with a new towel and held it with two hands to try to stem the bleeding. That nurse was covered in blood but she didn’t waver. She held on to that towel and that woman’s forearm like grim death. She held on until the Doctor went to see the extent of the damage. Here is another case of medical amazement that I have seen many times previously. The Emergency Room Doctor wasn’t able to clearly determine the total damage so she called a Surgeon in to assess the damage. The Surgeon arrived and went to see the woman. After he viewed the damage, he said, “This looks a lot worse than it really is.” I will just give her a local anesthetic and sew her up. He then proceeded to do his magic on this woman.

Apparently, the medication given to her had the desired effect. She calmed down and from the looks of it, she didn’t feel a thing when the Surgeon sewed her up. He did a wonderful job sewing her up. She would have a scar but her arm would be in one piece. What we did find out was that this poor lady tripped over one of her kid’s toys and fell with outstretched arms against a window pane. The glass shattered and engaged its evil powers on this woman. Wow, what a huge flap of hanging skin! It was not pretty. Humans lose. Glass wins again. This other incident is a step back in time. By a step back, I am referring to the actual cause of the injury. So, here goes. This young fellow was brought into the Emergency Room by his, I guess, girlfriend. He was holding his arm and was bleeding profusely. You guessed it; glass was again involved. Step back in time

with me. This young lad was talking with his girlfriend on the telephone. This telephone was inside of a telephone booth. A telephone booth! Jesus H. Christ in a red cape, a telephone booth? This young lad’s anger was directed at his girlfriend. To satisfy his pent-up anger, he punched his fist through a pane of glass in the telephone booth. Bad idea chump! Apparently, this young lad didn’t know about the losing record humans had against glass. Maybe he would be the one to break, so to speak, the record and win against this puny pane of glass? WRONG!! You never win against glass asshole! Don’t try it, you’ll never win. Mr. Hot Temper eventually was sewn up and released. Now he is the owner of a brand-new glass scar. Punch a pane of glass. What a dipshit loser.

Chapter 36

I Discovered More Unquotable Quotes and Words Not in Webster’s

In my first book, I wrote a plethora of unquotable quotes and words not in Webster’s. They were gold. These notes were collected when I was on duty. I took copious notes because I knew that someday I would need all this input to plug into my book. I took these notes because the content was so bizarre and there was way too much material for me to . I know you may not believe some of these quotes, but I promise, I recorded these quotes word for word. I’ll just list them with an explanation of what I think they mean. Most of these quotes were uttered by highly intoxicated or crazy fucking individuals. Here goes nothing and I mean nothing. First, I’ll give you the words not in Webster’s first. They are gold. Tooken (took) Reincompensated (compensated) Unallowed (not allowed) Insufficient others (undesirables) Woken up (awaken) Acrate (accurate) Droven (drove or driven) Grandpuppy (I don’t know what the fuck this means) Flustrated (frustrated) Bandished (brandished)

Dorge (dodge) Betrayded (betrayed) Had enough of this shit? That’s not a quote. I’m asking. Had enough of this shit? My answer is too bad, I’m going to give you all of these nonsensical words. Verbabbly (verbally) Felonyjus (felonious) Cohurst (coerced) Disdat (this and that) Speckalation (speculation) Revenovated (renovated) Boatau (about to) Misconscrewed (misconstrued) Verbalness (talkative) Incakerated (incarcerated) Understandment (understanding) I’m tired of these definitions so this is the last but not least of words not in Webster’s. Fox Dreds (faux dreadlocks)

I will now present what I have collected in unquotable quotes. These quotes are word for word as I heard them. You may not believe these quotes that came from the mouths of patients, friends and visitors of patients, parents of patients, friends and visitors. You get it. The old expression, “From the mouths of babes” should be changed to “From the mouths of Boobs.” Read on and see if you agree

with me. , these are written word for word. Give it your best shot on figuring out these quotes. “I’m just glad she didn’t kill me when I left.” “Paper cut – cut a hole in the bottoms, stick it right there, it goes on.” “I refuse to have socialize with her.” “He disrespective me.” “She can kick rocks and do what she do.” “I did this for dispite.” “I don’t live at home, never during the day.” “I will give you the three W’s of life, Women, Weed, and Weather.” “I’m gonna go upside his cabbage.” “I feel unjustified.” “We have to savage our friendship.” “I’m crossing oceans for her and she won’t step in a puddle for me.” “I’m going to beg, pardon and plead.” “We done did it.” “Brilliance redefined, strength guaranteed and reliability unparalleled.” “She was acting historically.” Had enough of these? That’s not a quote either. I’m just asking again. Had enough of this shit? Again, my answer is too bad, I’m going to give you all of these nonsensical quotes. I had to suffer through them in my time, so let’s share the rest of these wonderful quotes together. “She’s deframing me because she stole my ideas.”

“It’s time to draw a line and color it in – somethin’.” “If a duck can pull a truck, hook it up.” “He’s an idiot, he just hummed and hawed.” “I’ll never borrow him money ever again.” “I couldn’t pay my rent because I was going through a huge detainer at the time.” “I’m fucked. Money and love don’t mix.” “Sorry, I don’t do thruples.” “Money has no name, no friend on it.” “She was standing over me straggeling me.” “This, that and a third.” “She was very discerned about that.” “She was very confectionate.” “I fucked up. My insurance overlapsed.” “My car is fucked. I had to replace my cataclysmic converter.” I’m done. I have no more quotes. You have to it that there are some beauty’s in that list of unquotable quotes. You have my permission to use, abuse, quote, cite any and all of these quotes. Or if you prefer, you can eighty-six any and all of them. Your pleasure.

Chapter 37

She Did Look Beautiful, I Swear

This experience happened when I was temporarily furloughed from the hospital. This is a memory burn. It’s a story that follows the fine line of weirdness chronicled with similar hospital stories. OK, so it didn’t technically happen at the hospital, but it is a story well worth mentioning. Geez! In order to supplement my family income while I was furloughed at the hospital, I took a part time job as a weekend auditor at a local motel. An auditor, you say? What the fuck do I know about auditing? What the hell does A really mean, (Cute Person Aboard)? Oh, shit no, this motel auditor job involves mathematics. I’m not a fucking ant. I’m certainly not a Certified Public ant or even a Cute Person Aboard. However, I did know mathematics. How tough could this job be? I was successful in bluffing my way through the interview process. I was masterful at tossing the bullshit. I got the job, now what? This was an auditor’s job like I said previously. This job required a daily audit of the full day’s business at the motel. Amazingly enough, I found this job to be fairly easy. Look at me. Now I (are) an auditor. Golly, gee look at me. I will say that sometimes I did get extremely stressed at making sure that the books were balanced. Sometimes I got so stressed, that a brown monument to surprise was looming in the pipeline, so to speak. In addition to the auditing duties as my shift began at promptly 11 PM, I would also have to check in any late overnight guests or folks that were just shacking up for the night. It usually got very embarrassing when I actually knew the people who were shacking up for the night. Caught ya suckers! Enjoy your night.

For fun, I used to keep track of the time it took the people that shacked up in the

motel room to check out. This was just stupid me ing the time. I was just ing time in order to fight boredom. I would mark the time the shack ups checked in, to checkout when they finished up with their tryst. I’ll bet that you are wondering about the record for the fastest shack up time? Are you really interested in what was the fastest shack up time? Well, I will reveal that fact to you after a while. I have to toss a little suspense into the equation here. It was easy for me to spot the shack ups and the hookers. I had worked in a hospital ? I saw a lot of the underbelly of society many times before. I was getting a whole new taste of it in this auditor’s job. Auditor my ass. Oddly enough, I immensely enjoyed this job. Go figure. It was always great when all the rooms sold out before I reported to work. That way I could turn on the no vacancy sign and the only job I had to do was the daily audit. This particular night I very clearly. It was one of those great nights. It would take me an hour or so to do the audit and then I was home free. I could do the audit, lay back and watch HBO and perhaps take a little nap, Zzzzz. I finished my audit in record time. I locked the door, bought a little snack from the vending machine, stretched out on the lobby couch and settled in to a movie on the boob tube. After about an hour into the movie, this good-looking babe knocked on the lobby door. I got up, went to the door and said, “I’m sorry. The no vacancy sign is on. We have no rooms. We are all sold out.” She replied, “I don’t want a room. I just need some change to buy some cigarettes.” Shit, this movie that she interrupted was a really good movie too. I wanted to deal with this situation as fast as possible and get back to my movie. I said to her while pointing to the adjacent restaurant, “Go over to the restaurant. They have plenty of change and they have a cigarette machine.” She promptly replied, “I just came from the restaurant. They don’t have any change. They told me to come over here to the motel. You would have change. You would take care of me.” Ah fuck me, I guess my reputation for being a nice guy caught up with me. Reluctantly, I unlocked the door and I told her to come on in. She was attractive and that was very plain to see. I asked her how much change she needed. She said that she needed two dollars’ worth. We also had a cigarette machine in the motel just down the hall from the front desk. I gave her the change she

requested. She asked if she could use the cigarette machine in the motel. I said yes. She shook her little bootie back and forth while walking in her black sixinch stiletto heels. She strolled to the cigarette machine down the hall to feed the machine and buy her cancer sticks. Click, click, click down the hall rang those black six-inch stiletto heels. I sat down behind the front desk and waited for to get her pack of cigarettes and leave me alone. I couldn’t see her but I could hear her feeding the cigarette machine. Clink, clink, clink, clink, change in the machine, pull the handle then the thud of the of the cigarette pack dispensing. Jesus H. Christ in a stimulant and potent parasympathomimetic alkaloid that is naturally produced in the nightshade family of plants. Get your God Damn pack of smokes and get the fuck out of my hair!

Finally, in those black six-inch stiletto heels, she wiggled past me to leave. She turned to me before she opened the exit door. She looked at me, she smiled, she winked at me and then she blew me a kiss. With a shake of her hair as she turned, she zipped through the door. I figured someone was getting lucky tonight. Just to make things clear, I was not the person that was going to get lucky tonight. I was cranky, tired, hungry and all I wanted to do was to kick back, feed my face and get back to my HBO. Ahhhh, now what did I miss in this movie? I can’t really the movies that I watched that night. The movies must have been only minorly interesting because I had a tough time keeping my eyes open. Oh shit, boredom and shitty movies were winning. I couldn’t fight it any longer. My eyelids were heavy. Night, night all, I succumbed to slumber. Here is where Zzzzz comes in. I was having such a kick ass dream. My dream was a combination of the B movie that put me to sleep in the first place and this mysterious woman in black six-inch stiletto heels turning slowly to throw me a kiss. As she turns, her hair spills over her face. I never really see her face clearly. God Damn it! My eyes move slowly down from her face, past her waist, and finally end up on those black six-inch stiletto heels. W T Fuck? Oh shit, here comes an example of sleep deprivation at its worst. If you missed my chapter on sleep deprivation, you will understand the depths of my mental images when too much work and too little

sleep occurs. Knock, knock, knock at the door. Knock, knock. What is that? I struggled to claw my way out of this sleep coma. I sat up and shook my head awake. Oh yeah, someone knocked on the door. I looked up at the door and I was amazed to see the cigarette machine girl again. Wait, am I still sleeping? Am I dreaming that I am awake and in reality, I’m still in that funky dream? I’m so God Damn confused. Sleep deprivation is such a bitch. She knocked on the door again. It’s real. It’s her again, the one with the black six-inch stiletto heels! I didn’t open the door. I was actually a little irritated with her. After all, she did wake me up. She smiled and said, “Hi, it’s me again.” I was able to manage a semi-gruff answer, “So, what do you want now? Do you want some more change? Did you run out of cigarettes?” She just smiled and replied, “As a matter of fact you are onehundred per-cent correct.” I need more change to buy more cigarettes.” This girl smoked a whole pack of cigarettes in about two hours? What the fuck? Was she some kind of a chimney or what? More cigarettes it is, I guess. I opened the door and repeated the same process as before. She got two dollars’ worth of change. I gave her the change she requested. Then, as before, she shook her little bootie back and forth in her black six-inch stiletto heels. She strolled to the cigarette machine down the hall to feed the machine and buy her cancer sticks. Click, click, click down the hall rang those black six-inch stiletto heels. Again, I sat behind the front desk. I couldn’t see her but I could hear her feeding the cigarette machine. Clink, clink, clink, clink, pull the handle, cigarettes drop, blah, blah, you get the picture. Click, click, click came the black six-inch stiletto heels back from the cigarette machine. She ed in front of me again. OK, let’s count this up. I saw her on two separate occasions this night with her black six-inch stiletto heels and all. She ed by me four times, twice going to the cigarette machine, twice coming back from the cigarette machine. On her last by me when she spoke, her voice suddenly dropped an octave lower when she spoke. Holy shit, what were all these cigarettes doing to her? Hold the phone! Am I seeing things? Do I detect a five o’clock shadow on her face? Fuck me and thirty-seven penguins, it was a five o’clock shadow for reals! This attractive woman with the black six-inch stiletto heels and the strange

woman in my sleep deprived dream, you know, the face I couldn’t see, was it really a man? What the hell is it with me and Transvestite stories? I will end this with one statement. She did look beautiful, I swear. I worked at the auditor’s job for about nine months until I was called back to work at the hospital. Other than the Transvestite episode, the auditor’s job and the whole motel experience was routine at best and the majority of time, was just one notch above agonizingly boring. Other memorable times at the motel were fleeting. One episode I will mention was that I just missed getting robbed at gunpoint at the motel by ten minutes. Whew! In addition, I do have one more motel story that is worth mentioning in the next chapter.

Chapter 38

Do I Have to Use Sign Language?

Sometimes unexpectedly, a deep-seated memory of mine would surface. This strange memory would trickle down from my sub conscience and slowly materialize in my brain to relive all over again. I know, that sounds spooky, but it’s not really that spooky. We all unusual things that we experience at some time or another. Some of those unusual things are good. Some of those unusual things are not so good. This last motel memory sits somewhere in the middle of good and not so good unusual things. Judge for yourself. My totally boring and mundane work week came to a conclusion on this delightful Saturday night. I would buckle down and try to bulldoze my way through the nightly audit. I didn’t stress too much this time about the nightly audit. I had other things on my mind. I knew that this wasn’t a very busy time of the year for overnight travelers. Because we would not be very busy at the motel this evening, I brought my sons along with me to keep me company. Usually, I didn’t have tons of time to spend with my sons so I really looked forward to nights like this. I referred to this motel campout as a dude campout for the boys. They wouldn’t be camping outside nor would they be camping in a tent. There would be no campfire so toasting marshmallows wouldn’t happen. It didn’t matter. Don’t be overly concerned about the boy’s safety. I made absolutely sure that the boys were completely safe. I would not rent out the closest room to the front desk. I would put the boys in that room. They would be close to me and I would check in on them throughout the night. The boys would be busy watching television until their eyelids drooped and they fell asleep. Sleep would be elusive for the boys due to the mass quantities of chocolate candy bars and cola consumed by both of them. This camping trip was really roughing it. I would periodically check in on them, either knocking on their door or calling the room. I also gave them the extension to call the front desk if they needed

anything. I just wanted to make sure they were safe and sound. Our camping trip would end in the morning when my relief person would report to work. Then I would take the boys out to breakfast at a local diner and consume mass quantities of eggs and bacon. It was a nice time to spend quality time with my sons. I am setting the stage about this experience because this experience involves a family with unique challenges. This does not involve my family, but a family nonetheless. This experience happened the same night of our “camping trip.” My audit was completed, my sons were tucked away in their room and I was all set to lean back and take it easy for the rest of the night. All I needed to do was to try to quell the rumblings in my stomach in anticipation of breakfast at the local greasy spoon diner. I may get an occasional customer needing a room for the night but that was unlikely due to the late hour. Wrong, God Damn it, a customer just banged on the door. Now what? I opened the door and let this fellow come into the lobby. He drove a hooptie filled with what appeared to be all of his possessions in the world. He was accompanied by his maybe eight-year-old son. I asked him, “Do you need a room for the night?” He didn’t answer and tilted his head to one side quizzically. I asked him once again, “Do you need a room for the night?” He shrugged his shoulders and made a writing motion with his hand. Oh, he wanted to communicate by writing. I gave him a pen and a piece of paper. He wrote, “I need a room for the night.” I wrote back, “OK, here are the room rates.” He shook his head no and scribbled down, “No way, that’s way too much!” I wrote, “I just work here. I don’t make the prices. These are the rates!” He wouldn’t believe me. We communicated or should I say we argued in on paper for a few more minutes. We were having an argument on paper. Was this one of the weirdest things that you have ever heard? It was astronomically weird from where I stood. Wait a minute, was I suffering another sleep deprivation weird assed dream? I was actually arguing with this customer on paper, in total silence. What the fuck? Thank goodness he chose to try and clear up this dilemma. He wrote, “I’m deaf and so is my son. We cannot hear a thing.” I nodded my head up and down. Now I get it, duh.

I wanted to help this guy out. I wrote another price of the room rate on the paper where we were having our current argument. I lowered the price as much as I could for this guy. We had a little wiggle room with certain discounts I could offer him. He shook his head yes. The rate that I proposed was acceptable to him. He paid for his room. He paid cash. I gave him his room key. He grabbed his ratty suitcase with one hand and with his other hand, he grabbed his son’s hand. He was off to his room. God Damn, that was definitely some weird shit. Now I can get some peace. I’ll be long gone with my boys in the morning, wolfing down breakfast before Mr. Argue on Paper checks out of the motel. I sat back at the front desk and perhaps I will examine the insides of my eyelids if the situation presents itself. Maybe a half hour later, I heard the knock on the glass front door again. Now what, another customer? This time it was a woman who knocked on the door. She drove up in a hooptie with what looked like the other half of Mr. Argue on Paper’s belongings. You guessed it; it was his spouse. She was as deaf as her husband. I did the best that I could by communicating with her on a piece of paper. It was like Deja vu all over again. Wait, I have a brilliant idea. I’ll take her to her husbands’ room. I have a key. I walked her up to the room her husband occupied. I walked up to the door. I knocked. No answer. I knocked a little louder. No answer. The third time I knocked, I banged on the door. Mrs. Argue on Paper tapped my shoulder. I didn’t turn my head. I just said, “What?” She tapped me once again. This time I turned and said a little louder, “What?” She just smiled and pointed to her ear and shook her head no. Jesus H. Christ in deaf as a bed post, what an idiot. She can’t hear. Her husband and son can’t hear and I have no brain. At least I have a key. I tried the key. I couldn’t open the door because of the safety lock and Mr. Argue on Paper wouldn’t hear me trying to break into his room. No such luck Sherlock. Talk about being on the horns of a dilemma. I motioned to Mrs. Argue on Paper to follow me to the front desk. I gave her a room as close as I could to her husband’s room. I paid for her room, with maximum discount rate applied of course. I just got a major dose of how absolutely lucky a man I was. I had a healthy

family with two perfectly normal sons. I was glad I paid for Mrs. Argue on Paper’s room. It was the least I could do for that family. Do I have to use sign language? The answer is yes, but I didn’t know the art of American sign language. This motel memory still sits somewhere in the middle of good and not so good unusual things. See, I can’t judge it either. I have kept you in suspense way too long, maybe not. Let me refresh your memory. Are you are wondering about the record for the fastest shack up time? Seriously, are you really interested? Well, like it or not, it’s time to reveal that fact. The fastest shack up time in record that I recorded was, drum roll please, forty-five minutes! I asked the guy, “How was it?” when he checked out after his forty-five-minute tryst. He just uttered with his hair all disheveled and his clothes all rumpled, “Totally worth it!”

Epilogue

This is a true story. I spent over sixteen years on the hospital team in two separate fields of study. I saw multitudes of activity, actually more than I would have believed possible. I do not regret a minute of my experiences at the hospital in my fields of study. I learned a mountain of life’s lessons at my institution and I wouldn’t trade a second of those lessons. I witnessed life and I witnessed death. I witnessed almost everything in-between life and death. I still say that if I had it all over to do again, I would be a ed Nurse. To those wonderful people, I give thanks and the highest accolades. They are the best! I have never met a nurse that I didn’t like. I worked in other fields of study other than when I was employed at the hospital. I learned in every field I undertook. I’m talking every field. Actually, a field was my first when you think about it. I was a farmer, no field pun intended. Then I followed by working in a gas station, a marina, a pizza parlor, a fast food restaurant, a research lab, in communications, a pizza parlor again, another research lab, a hospital, back to communications, a hospital again, a motel, back to the hospital, finally back to communications. Now I spend my time writing books. Go figure. What am I, some kind of a shmuck? Don’t answer that! Jesus H. Christ in gainful employment, stay put for once! I think I finally will stay put, at least for a little while.

The End, but a new beginning.

Now for something entirely different, read an excerpt from my next book. ……I was having this reoccurring nightmare. I was trying to run away from something I just knew was pure evil. I just couldn’t look back to see what was chasing me. I wouldn’t look back to see what was chasing me. The one thing that I did know, this wasn’t something that I wanted to catch up to me. I won’t look back, I just needed to escape. Come on feet, move! My legs were getting heavier with every agonizing step. I just couldn’t move these legs any faster. Pick up your feet! Come on, I am a runner that could run all day without getting tired. I run marathons. Why can’t I run any faster now? Was I running in mud? Move, God Damnit, it’s almost touching me. MOVE! IT’S HERE! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! I bolted upright. I was awake and covered with sweat. My arms were clawing at some invisible hell that I thought was in front me. There was nothing there, but it seemed so real. I found myself wrapped in a damp blanket of my own sour sweat. This damp blanket wasn’t my invisible hell, but just a ratty cloth product covered with my extreme exhaustion and intense fear. Where the hell was I? Wait, I knew that I was awake and still in my bed. At least I think I’m awake and still in my bed. That terrifying chase was just a bad dream, right? I am home in bed. Yes, I’m awake and home in bed. Wow, that was a close call. It almost caught up to me this time! As I began to unwrap myself from my sweat-soaked blanket, I suddenly had this extreme uneasy feeling slowly creeping up my spine. I became terrifyingly aware that I wasn’t alone. I didn’t want to look behind me, but now I had to see. I slowly turned my head and there I was, face to face with this pure evil chasing me in my dreams. I didn’t run fast enough. I didn’t escape. My worst nightmare was suddenly realized. What has been chasing me in all of those nightmares, that pure evil, has finally caught up with me and it is real!