Page 11 of In Sheets of Rain

The guy came over. He was an ambo, like me. Not a paramedic. But one grade higher than my entry level. His name was Neal and he seemed like a good guy when I’d run into him occasionally.

“Were you dive bombed?” he asked as he came alongside the rear of the truck.

I climbed up and stashed my stolen goods. We wouldn’t make it back onto station again for a long while, and we’d lost our last two pillows to Resus patients.

“Nah,” I said, turning to face him. “They were roosting on the roof beams.”

“Do ducks roost?”

“These ones did.”

He laughed. “I went to a house once and was greeted by one of those miniature ponies in the hallway. Had to battle my way past a pissed off dwarf-horse to get to my patient.”

“Life in the big city,” I said laughing.

“Hey!” Neal said. “What are you and Sean doing on Friday? Wanna double date with the wife and me?”

I smiled and nodded eagerly. Details were swapped. A time was set.

A new friend made in the city.

* * *

The movie was pathetic, but the conversation afterwards was worth it. Tayla was Team Vampire. Cathy was Team Werewolf. I liked the police chief.

That one got a few laughs.

We ate ice creams and drank coffees, my body clock out of whack but loving the stimulants. My hips weren’t too worried that the ice cream was padding them further.

I tried not to be.

We sang songs in the car back to Cathy’s. Told dirty jokes and rolled around laughing on the settee. Drank more coffee and ate more full-fat things.

Cathy had met a fireman from across the road at Pitt Street and told us naughty things that were better left behind closed doors. Tayla scolded her because the fireman was married.

“Life’s too short to date ugly dudes,” Cathy said.

We all laughed again and talked about crazy jobs. R24s and R13s as if they didn’t matter. As if they weren’t real people.

Part of me knew I was doing it, but there was laughter and jokes and it was late at night and tomorrow I could go for a walk and work off the Black Forest chocolate cake and think better thoughts.

Or not think at all.

Cathy lit up a cigarette. Tayla abstained. I took a drag, remembering high school and bike sheds and sneaky smokes that didn’t feel deadly way back then.

“Life’s too short to be a goodie two-shoes,” Cathy told Tayla.

Tayla replied, “It’s your funeral.” And I stubbed out the last of my cigarette.

“Make sure you cry when I’m gone,” Cathy told us, seriously.

Tayla snorted.

“Kylee,” Cathy whined. “You’ll cry, won’t you?”

I didn’t tell them that I was already crying for all the dead.