Memories

We do a transport from a group home, an uncomplicated chronic problem. The patient is friendly and cooperative, but as a matter of policy the group home sends a staff member to escort him. The staff member is only a few years older than me or my partner (we're a "young" car) and he laughs when he gets in the front seat of the rig.

"Yeah, man, last time I was in one of these I don't remember it!"

Of course I am curious.

"I was shot, man! Two times, I was fightin' for my life."

Wow, we say. Crazy. He laughs again, and agrees, and we go off to the hospital.

* * * *

We're sitting in the bay, doing paperwork, just about ready to go back in service, when the staff member comes out to smoke a cigarette. As he walks by he stops for a second.

"I know I don't remember when y'all took care of me, but I know I was in good hands, man. Y'all are heroes."

Thanks, we say. Thanks very much, and we hope not to ever have to help him again.

"Yeah, man, I hope I don't ever have to see y'all either. Hey, you know what they call you guys in the hood, right?"

Uh. No?

"Ghetto angels, man."