Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FOUR

Being a paramedic has its advantages, especially when you're outnumbered in a bar fight. Aside from my nose and a broken rib, the bulk of my injuries amount to cuts and bruises. Nothing I can't fix at home. If I had a TV, I'd be watching some after-hours show, preferably a cheesy old horror movie; thin on plot, but highly stylized and creative. Instead, that night, I sit on my balcony as I contemplate the ocean with a bottle of tequila and a cigarette for company.

Get help, that seems to be the recurrent theme in my life lately. The way I see it, that's exactly how I got to be like this in the first place.

Help, I did that in my civilian life, then as an airman, and now as a first responder. That's all I've ever done is help. I protected my country, served my community, and kept others safe. "These things we do, that others may live" is the motto of the pararescue jumpers or PJs.

I always thought things would turn out differently for me: a nice job with a six-figure salary, a comfortable house, a cool car, my own airplane, and a gorgeous wife. But like John Lennon says, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

My father once told me that it's not enough for a man to be lucky; that a guy has to know when that streak is on for him. Otherwise, how else can he take advantage of it? But more importantly, a man should be thankful when touched by providence.

Luck, I think, looking at Antonio Montenegro's card. I never believed in luck, not until I experienced combat. Then I realized how fickle life can be. I don't care what Einstein said about God not playing dice; If he exists, he's addicted to craps.

With all this shit on the brain, I drink myself into a stupor. When I wake up to the sound of the ocean, I'm still sitting on the balcony. The sun is about to rise. The butt of my cigarette hangs from my mouth, and its ash has burned a hole in my "Ramones" T-shirt. I'm still holding on to the empty tequila bottle, and the business card has miraculously remained between my fingers. So is this what providence looks like?

"Hello?"

"Is this Antonio Montenegro?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

I realize I never introduced myself. "I'm Eric Caine, the guy you met at the bar yesterday. The one with the smoking issues."

"Oh shit! How you doing, man? Are you OK?"

"Sure, I'm fine," I say, as I hold my aching side. "Hey listen, I'm calling to thank you for what you did for me yesterday at the police station. I mean, you didn't have to-"

"That was fucking intense, dude! I've never seen anything like that! Are you a Navy SEAL or something?"

"I'm a paramedic. Listen-"

"You're kidding me, right? That's what those guys needed after you polished the floor with them. No, seriously, did you learn that shit in the army?"

"How do you know I'm ex-military?"

"I overheard one of the cops say you were a veteran."

"Listen, Antonio-"

"Call me Tony," he says.

"Tony, I just wanted to thank you for what you did last night. That was really nice of you, but you shouldn't have, really. I hope I didn't cause you any problems."

"Nah, no worries, man. I did it more for me than anything else. It wasn't a big deal. We Venezuelans have to stick together, right?"

As cheesy as the phrase sounds, I can't argue with that philosophy. "Well, it means a lot to me, and I'd love if I could at least buy you dinner to thank you."