The Ballad of Josh and the Tragedy of Drew's Apartment Inferno

So this is the true story of the ballad of Josh. So, Josh was smoking the shishah when he tried to move the coal on the hookah. Somehow, using the sophisticated tong movement system, Josh dropped the coal onto the rug. Now, fast forward by about 30 seconds. Josh walks into Drew's bedroom and says, "Drew, I dropped the coal onto the floor." Drew's response is, sensibly enough, "Did you pick it up?"

Josh sadly shakes his head. He then explains what had happened in the preceding thirty seconds.

"Well, it fell on the floor, and before I could do anything it set the rug on fire. So I tried to step on the fire like on the TV, then it spread to the couch which was then totally on fire because I spilled my maitai on it earlier too. So, then I tried to pee the fire out....

...............

..........but I forgot to undo my zipper and just wet myself. Sooooooo.....you need to give me a new pair of pants."

At this point, the fire alarm goes off in the hallway as Drew just stares in abject shock.

True story. I was there. Actually, I wasn't. But Drew was. And he has pictures.

12 Hours in Memoriam

A gray morning.
I can taste the fog in the air.
Hints of grease, oil, and rubber filter through,
The engine turns bringing life to my rig.
My home for the next 12 hours.

Ascelpius's snakes bite me on the hip,
Roused to wakefullness, I grab my pager.
Half awake and rolling off of the gurney,
I make sure my partner in the crew cab copied.
Curse the patient for ruining my nap.

Fifty One Fifty, 72 Hour Vacation, Psych
My partner preps the room,
I get the turn over from the nurse
Pills, stable, doped, quiet, easy call
Wave off the security guard by the door.

The woman's eyes are open, but she doesn't see or care.
She gets out of bed, clutching a worn bible,
She slowly walks to the gurney and lies down.
I pull the gurney forward, I feel like the Ferryman.
Looking back, her unseeing eyes are locked on mine.

She dies by her own hands after her supervised vacation.

Cleaned rig, fast food lunch, new call.
Terminal patient going home to die. Hospice.
She wakes up when we get there, her family surround the bed.
She can't talk anymore. We're gentle and slow for the drive.
We put her on her deathbed. The family thanks us for doing our job.

Before I left, she grabbed my hand as hard as she could. She almost smiled.

Almost time to go home, last sniff, Last Call.
Machines almost drown out the gasps and moans.
I see him start to slip; I watch his heart start to stop.
I scream for my partner to get a medic and the AED.
Bones crack and scrape as I do his heart's job.

The paramedics give him the meds he needs. He has a fighting chance. I finish up the paperwork for the call.

Up late. No one else is awake. Another day. Some live, some don't.
If you remember why you do it, you try for every last one of them.
Eventually they blend together. It almost seems like one long,
Unending call. Still, some stay. Some faces stand out.
Enough to fill a shift, enough to fill a hundred.

I'll do it all again tomorrow. Not for my pride anymore. Not for glory. For them.

- C R Coda