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NYC Cop Marc Morales: In NYC H1N1
After a full shift that damn horse patrol, I decided to walk to keep traffic flowing on legs numb from the police station in the Blues Bar & Grill, on Second Avenue.
Not only was the full set, but noisy as hell. It smelled a burnt chicken wings.
Not having much to do this glorious (at the top of the 70), Friday-afternoon, Saleem told the waiter that I run a tab. I was in my third beer hunter when a large man who was being loud and unpleasant in the end of the bar suddenly collapsed.
Pandemonium broke. Then silence enveloped the joint. The two men playing pool and a waitress knelt to help the two hundred and fifty pounds.
In fact, the place has a minute of silence in New York but not for long.
A woman's shrill voice rang off: "The swine flu!"
"Swine flu shot!" Echoed the congregation as a church choir.
Panicked. Even the kids who were helping the poor soul ran out the door. You should have seen running in all different directions, running around like cockroaches when the light turns. Of course, this made me angrily, remembering my training at the Academy of ethics, depraved indifference thought flashed through my mind. could be even reckless homicide, I concluded.
Not me, man the right to abandon a defenseless human being.
Never treated "swine flu" before and I know that kills people, but even knowing this I went down and tried to revive the big guy. His pulse was strong. Beat strong and booming. When he opened his shirt I saw Medal worn by diabetics.
Without wasting a second I shouted at Saleem to pour a glass of orange juice. I pried open the jaws of man is not an easy task because the 250-pound gorilla had locked his jaws tighter than a bear trap. I put my cell phone between your teeth and then I poured some of that liquid Tropicana yellow throats.
"Fix another glass, Saleem!" I screamed. "Fast charge with the sugar-right. And call 911! "
The second glass was pretty easy, just like pouring oil into a funnel. It is a sad case when you really agree with the "Submarine." Or rather, not OJ Simpson OJ boarding, I noticed, but the shipment of orange juice.
As the bright stars at night, the eyelids the man shook and shook, opening and closing, and as he sat, spat the damn cell phone. He looked confused. Of course, there left teeth marks on the metal part of my cell phone, and I marveled that he had not jumped a tooth, the doll! So strong was his bite could hardly open the cover of the gadget.
By the time paramedics arrived and the big man on a closely spaced, white shirt stained yellow, the lips and gums bruised, but fine.
The high paramedic immediately recognized the man and said:
"Oh, him!" The man is charged allatime and that feggets denn her med-ee-kayshion. Although born and raised in New York City - Chinatown – I never can get used in that Brooklyn accent.
"What is this swine flu," I asked the Brooklyn-Language-Mangler paramedics.
"Oh, yes, da Ting is to travel: from Mexico to Don Diego. Couldda come to New Yoik, and – Queens heah me. "
"You mean San Diego," I said, to see if I had calibrated its meaning well.
"Das wattaised."
"Thank God," I said and was muttering to myself, "cursed plague still out there in the mountains, the Bronx and Queens are foreign territories me. Manhattan is my beat, and to be more precise: East of Tiffany's.
"Hey, Marc," I hear you call Saleem. "Good job, man. The next time I'll give you two in the house. "
Saleem kill my man.
Saleem is the only waiter in New York that makes the drink and liquor will not give one in the house only if your card shows that it has shot down five drinks. The joint owner loves him. Saleem can never figure how to mix best drinks in town because it has no idea of its flavor.
I'm off duty, so do not pick up OT pay for my good Samaritan helping working age Twinkle-Toes, but I feel good about being a police officer in New York-East Tiffany's, my rhythm.
So, let me go in the 1st McAnn Avenue, to cultivate the garden of Ireland, if you know what I mean, where all the waiters, waiters and waitresses, busboys, and until all drink. At the time they start singing "Danny Boy", and the star of persons moving to the glen canyon, I take as my departure runway.
I wonder when Campus will take us to the swine flu hots?
About the Author
Retired. Former investment banker, Columbia University-educated, Vietnam Vet (67-68).
For the writing techniques I use, see Mary Duffy’s e-book: Sentence Openers.
To read my book reviews of the Classics visit my blog: Writing To Live
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