I Think He's Seen One Too Many Episodes of "ER"

It was just about 1 a.m. as we walked through the courtyard of the projects. Voices echoed among the brick apartment buildings.

You're a racist fuckin' nigger, you know that? A racist goddamned nigger!

I'm gonna kick your ass, you cracker motherfucker!

Go back to Africa! We don't need assholes like you around here!

Fuck you! This is my neighborhood as much as yours!

It was a stupid-sounding argument. The men doing the shouting weren't kidding around, though. We turned the corner to find one of them trying to rip the other one's head off. Somebody else was holding him back.

"We're going to come out here and find one of them in a pool of blood," I said. The EMTs smiled and grunted in response. They knew I wasn't entirely joking. This is exactly the kind of ridiculous confrontation that often precedes a shooting or stabbing.

For the first time in a month I was back on the night shift. This was my regular assignment for more than twenty years, but now I work midnights only occasionally. To be honest, I miss it. Things are a lot more chaotic late at night. The fight in the courtyard was hardly an unusual event.

One of the antagonists spotted us. "Here come the paramedics!" he shouted. "Good thing, too. They can find out if you have a heart."

"You're the one who's gonna need the fuckin' paramedics. After I fuck your ass up!"

We entered one of the buildings. Inside it was quiet. The air smelled of urine. We climbed to the third floor.

"The patient is in here," an enormous man said in a very loud voice. "He's a sixty-two-year-old male with a history of diabetes and chronic stomach problems. Blood sugar is ninety-four. The patient has been shaking."

My partner and I just looked at each other. Who was this guy? And why was he talking like a doctor from a television show?

The man stood there. We stood there, too. Finally I said, "So, do you want to show us where the patient is?"

"Oh," the man said, suddenly looking flustered. "Yeah. He's in here."

We followed him into a bedroom. There we found a frail-looking man sitting on a bed, looking perfectly healthy.

"Good morning," my partner said. "How do you feel today?"

"I feel fine."

"I understand you have diabetes. Do you feel like your sugar is low?"

"Nope."

"Do you feel dizzy?"

"Nope. I feel fine."

"Do you want to go to a hospital? Get checked out?"

"No, thanks."

My partner turned to the younger man. "This is your..."

"My grandfather."

"Your grandfather. Okay, well, he says he's not sick. What made you call today?"

"I called because, basically, his blood sugar was ninety-four. He was admitted recently for chronic stomach problems, and, basically, problems relating to that."

He was talking like a television doctor again. He seemed to like the word "basically."

"Ninety-four is a normal blood sugar," I said. "You realize that, don't you?"

"Well, um, yeah. But I'd like it to hit a hundred. Better safe than sorry."

For a moment we were stumped. The man had called an ambulance in the middle of the night for someone with a normal blood sugar who did not feel sick. What did he expect us to do?

My partner knelt down and checked the man's blood sugar again. Sure enough, it was still ninety-four.

"To be honest, your grandfather doesn't seem sick," my partner said. "He doesn't want to go to the hospital."

"Thanks for coming," the grandson said. Apparently, he didn't expect us to do anything at all. He'd called us to the apartment just to give us his report.

He started up again as we walked back through the apartment to the hallway. "The patient has been admitted to the Baptist Hospital with stomach probalems. Basically, he is followed by a nurse practitioner at the outpatient clinic. Do you have that number?"

There was that word again--"basically." I hated that he kept referring to his grandfather as "the patient."

"Let me go and get the telephone number of the clinic for you," he said.

"No, no," I told him. "That's okay. Really. It's the middle of the night, and your grandfather isn't even sick. We have no intention of calling the clinic."

"Well, okay, then." He locked the apartment door behind us.

Outside, the courtyard was quiet. The men who had been fighting earlier had returned to their apartments.

"So, um, basically, the patient isn't sick," one of the EMTs said. "And, um, basically, he has a loon for a grandson."

I laughed as I climbed back into the cab.