These people, nice as they are, don’t care about the little drama that has me driving in the front seat of the ambulance, escorting a man who’s slowly committing suicide.
The man I so desperately want to be proud of, is looking for the noose in the bottom of the bottle.
So instead of watching him play football with my son this Saturday, I watch him being strapped to a stretcher.
These people can’t afford to care. Not if they want to do this job. I appreciate them not caring. It’s a job that needs doing.
And so I understand.
I understand playing the radio during work.
I understand the calypso.
The inappropriately upbeat, sunny rhythm that is the background for the call over the radio.
A woman found on the floor, unresponsive, heart patient, the address repeated twice.
The music, the blue skies, the sunshine, the palm trees lining the road —Why would they change for the woman in the front of the ambulance, willing back the tears?
Or for the woman, with heart problems, found lying on the floor? I wonder who found her? Was it a child of hers? Did they see the blood on the floor from the fall? Was there a suppressed flash of panic as her name was called, her head was cradled, followed by the words “call an ambulance” the panic seeping out and into that last word?
Were they like me?
How often does that scene repeat itself, between the green palm trees, under the blue sky?
How many tears willed back?
How many little dramas set to a music that makes you want to swing your hips?
I hate calypso.