“What’s your name?”
“F*** you!”
“Is that your first or last name?”
“My name none of your business!”
“I thought it was f*** you.”
“It’s Mickael Gorbachev!”
“Gorbachev is dead.”
“So am I.”
And so it went. We were called to one of the many hi-rises in the city to take an intoxicated man to the hospital. Three police cruisers and one of our chiefs cars were in front of the building when we arrived. An elderly Russian immigrant, up to his teeth in Stoli sat on a bench outside cursing and pointing at the grim faced officers. Chief Desmaris walked out of the lobby.
“This guy has been screwing with the elevators for an hour.” he said. “He’s got the place in an uproar.”
It was three in the morning.
“Let’s go,” I said to the drunken man.
“F*** you! I want lawyer!”
“I’m Johnny Cochrain. Let’s go.”
“Johnny Cochrain dead!” he said, but followed me to the truck anyway.
The ghosts of Gorbachev and Johnny Cochrain rode to the hospital in the back of Rescue 1. It was a short ride. Gorbachev had settled down by the time we got there. We actually shared some laughs enroute. I tried to tell him that the folks at the hospital won’t tolerate any drunken behavior, he didn’t listen.
The party was over when I walked him into the ER and gave my report.
“Uncooperative, unknown male, intoxicated.” I said to Marie and Alieda at triage. They had seen enough. As I walked back to the rescue three security guards were descending on Gorbachev, restraints ready.
“Is that your first or last name?”LOL. You’ve got to have a sense of humor with all the things people do.I’ll have to tell you sometime about the call from PD for TP. It was just too funny.