.

Things on the streets can get a little discouraging. There is a lot of negativity out there, and if you allow it to it will swallow you whole. Now and then, a little trip to the museum keeps things in focus.

We are not alone. We have history. We have pride. We have a future.

I'm glad I found the National EMS Museum. I can't believe it took me this long. The blinders I have firmly attached to my perception of EMS and all the difficulties we face need to come off now and then, so I can see the big picture.

http://www.emsmuseum.org/

The City of Providence is on the verge of bankruptcy. Retirees and tax exempt property owners are being called upon to save the city from insolvency. A handful of retired fire department personnel-mostly chief officers and some police department members are part of a strange retirement package offered from the mid eighties to the early nineties giving them 6% cost of living increases. The top pensioner, a retired fire chief is pushing $200,000 a year in his pension check. He made $63,000 when he was working. These pension deals are the result of a corrupt city government and city employees looking to get whatever they could from that government with no regard for anybody but themselves.

It didn't have to be that way. The degradation of a person's ethics, and morality through years of immersion in criminal behavior from the leaders of their organization seeps in slowly, but takes over a person's dignity, and before they know it they have rationalized that their obscene pension was either earned, or deserved. Or, more likely than those two reasons, is something they got because if they didn't somebody else would.

Providence mayor Buddy Cianci was convicted of RICO crimes and spent five years in federal prison. He is out, and hosts the area's most popular talk radio program, The Buddy Cianci Show on 630 WPRO. RICO, WPRO, who cares. He was the longest serving mayor of a large city in the history of this country, and was instrumental in getting the 6 % COLA's implemented. His legacy is one of mistrust of all city government officers, caution in dealing with them, contempt for city hall and the general consensus among city workers that we are being played by people whose quest for power is greater than their desire to do what is right.

http://news.providencejournal.com/breaking-news/2012/02/providence-mayo-24.html

Good luck, Mayor Tavares

Meanwhile, on the front lines, Providence Firefighters stay focused, show up and get the job done. Fires go out, six rescues do the job of fifteen, stations and apparatus are maintained and we take care of each other. Local 799, The Providence Firefighters Union fights the good fight, and stands up for what is right through mounting criticism and accusations from a disgruntled public.

Thanks Former Mayor Cianci.

http://seanmcnultyphotography.smugmug.com/FirePhotography/2012-Fires/Providence-135-Almy-St-2nd/21321714_jSC4kM#!i=1698058105&k=dkMFn6J

Great job brothers and sisters! Don't let the bastards get you down!

“Engine 11 to Rescue 1, bring some sheets and the stair chair.” I keyed the mike and answered, “Rescue 1 recieved, on scene.” The apartment house used to be a one family place in what used to be a prestigious part of Providence. Peeling paint covered the ornate entryway which protected the carved oak doorway from the weather. We passed under the scrollwork, through the doorway toward our victim. Residents peered from the cracks of their partly opened and chained doors lining the hallway. The guys from Engine 11 had opened the windows inside forcing the putrid air down the stairs we were climbing. I pulled my t-shirt over my nose and mouth and entered apartment 6. Anna waited, lying in a pool of urine, her legs covered with feces. “I fell off the toilet she told me.” I asked her how long she had been on the floor. “Just a couple of days.” I checked for any bleeding or gross deformity before trying to move her. The clean white hospital sheet I placed over her was a sharp contrast to her underthings, years old and yellowish grey, whatever color the material once held washed away. We managed to get her onto the stair chair, a long a laborous ordeal inside an enviornment we found reprehensible yet Anna called home. The guys carried her into the fresh air toward the rescue as I took note of her living conditions. Refrigerator empty. Closets empty. Floors and walls covered in filth, rat and mice droppings swept to the corners, displaced cockroaches scurrying for cover, no room to hide in walls already full. Anna begged me not to take her away from her home. She told me she just needed to tidy up and get some rest. I felt like I betrayed her when I put on my report that she needed intervention, her living conditions unfit for humans.

The first traces of light appeared on the horizon as we drove through deep woods populated with a scattering of homes. The people who inhabited this part of Vermont were of three varieties, deeply rooted Vermont residents, with family lines dating back generations, millionaires and their families who bought land at inflated prices from those deeply rooted residents, or people like Bob and Crissy, owners of a parcel of land that had been built upon over the years and was now used as a mountain getaway.

"Which way, Bob?" asked Angus as a fork appeared in the road ahead of us.

"The road less taken," he said from behind us. "Bear right and follow that road for a mile or so. At the Old Stone Church veer to the left and go up the hill. At the crest of the hill you'll see a graveyard, my cabin is directly across from that, up about one-hundred and fifty yards.

"A church and a graveyard?" I said, turning my head toward the back of the ambulance, giving a grin and flashing a fang, "you just can't make this stuff up."

Angus gave me a wry look, then focused on his task.

Bob's vacation home was as I expected, small, organized and serene. It would serve as a perfect getaway from the rigors of city life, and the woes that come with a career as an urban firefighter. I've learned a thing or two during my centuries long walk among mortal men, a mind and body can take only so much grief and trauma until it either breaks, or the inhabitant of that mind finds the sense to get away, and leave it for a time, regroup, refresh and learn to live again, free of the baggage that accumulates. The same strategy is imperative for a vampire. Killing is necessary for those whose existence depends on other of their kind's life blood, and while that killing is rather satisfying at times, it still takes a toll on the sensibilities of a once civilized man. Some habits, and the spirit of human kindness are difficult to shake, even after death.

"Pull the rig in front of the barn," said Bob. Angus steered the old Cadillac over a gravel driveway and stopped where he was told. Crissy opened the rear door of the ambulance, walked toward the barn doors and lifted the latch, opening a black hole in the exterior of the building. Angus pulled our ride in, and we were home.

"It's a little dilapidated," said Bob, "but I hope it will do. I'm not used to accommodating vampires."

He led us toward a trap door, and lifted the heavy oak, which groaned as it opened, and exposed another black hole, this one disappearing into the earth.

"Your graves await," said Charlie.

"Know this," I addressed the assembled people, Charlie, the de-throned Fire Chief from Essex County, Bob, recently retired FDNY firefighter, Crissy, his eighteen year old daughter and my partner, Angus. "Sid will pursue us now, he has much to lose. His is a black heart, turned that way from a human one that began it's journey corrupted, then filled with poison fed by his birth parents, gypsies who would cut a man's throat for the coin in his purse. He is ruthless, and has much to lose. The vampires he sent to your home, Charlie, were two of his best, bloodthirsty and clever, third generation soldiers, you are lucky to be alive."

"My finger wasn't so lucky," said the chief, raising his left hand, bandage crimson with his blood.

""We'll need to get you to a hospital," said Bob, as Crissy held the old chief's good hand.

"We need a plan." said Angus. "And protection. Sid's web is vast. He controls not only creatures of the night, but a legion of followers who are yet to be made. They are able to hunt in daylight, and hold powers greater than a mortal, but not nearly as strong as ours. They will come, and come today.

"The sun is nearly upon us," I said, feeling the aches and pains in the body that once held a beating heart re-appear, as they did every day the sun rose.

"This whole thing is a little hard to swallow," said Bob, but saw the desperation in mine and Angus's eyes begin to grow. "What do you need??"

Angus and I exchanged thoughts and glances, and decided to push our luck, the decision borne from desperation rather than coherent thought.

"We need to feed," I said. eyeballing Charlies blood soaked hand hungrily.

"No fucking way," said Charlie, stepping back, away from Angus and me.

"I'll do it," said Chrissy.

"No fucking way," said Bob.

Angus's normally serene face began to turn, the frustration and despair showing through his features as time ticked and the sun began its relentless ascent.

"We can survive the day, but will wake weakened, frantic and unpredictable. It is difficult to control the hunger."

He cast his eyes down, ashamed of his admission, never being one to admit the beastly side of our nature freely. Crissy approached him, and extended her arm. Angus glanced at Bob, who looked at his daughter squarely, saw the determination set on her face, shook his head and acquiesced. Gently, Angus took her hand, thanked her with his eyes, closed his own, then licked the inside of Crissy's elbow. A vein rose, and he sank a fang in. I watched him, aware that he could overdo things and drain his new friend. My interventions were unnecessary, however, Angus, the perfect gentleman stopped after about a half pint had been extracted from Crissy, who looked dazed for a moment, then happy.

"That felt pretty good," she said dreamily, "am I a vampire now?" she giggled.

"That is not funny," said Bob, who broke the trance between his daughter and the vampire who had drunk her blood. "If she is harmed, you will be dead by nightfall!"

"She is better for it," said Angus, his mood improved considerably. A young girl's blood tells a tale of it's own, simply from the taste and texture. A vampire worth his salt can discern the feelings of the person whose blood force has entered his body, and for a brief moment shares a bond more intimate than sex.

"I'm dizzy," said Crissy. I'd like to help you, Malcolm but I don't think I can.

I looked at Bob, then his beautiful daughter, then felt the familiar hunger that needed to be fed.

"Oh for Christ's sake," said Bob, and held out his hand. "This better not hurt, and don't go getting all vampire freaky on me, I want nothing to do with any of this shit!"

I looked longingly at Crissy, and drank her father's blood. The taste was bitter.

We went to our graves then, Angus enjoying some morning wood, and me stuck with the bitter taste of a jealous, angry firefighter from New York coursing through my veins.

"Haven't seen him in a week."

"Is that unusual?"

"He stays to himself mostly, but there's usually some sign of life up there, footsteps, a TV, doors closing, you know."

Yeah, I know. Wish I didn't. Wish I had some Vicks for under my nose.

"How old is he?"

"Not too old, fifty maybe,"

Fifty. Not too old. Ha ha.

We entered the rear hallway, stairs led strait up to a landing and a door. There was a shamrock decal stuck there, greasy fingerprints around the doorknob.

"Is the smell normal?"

"He's not the cleanest tenant, but this is bad."

"Yeah, it is."

The landlord opened the door and the smell got worse. Kitchen, empty, some empty cans on a folding card table that served as his dinette, dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter, the refrigerator stood in the corner waiting for me to open it up. Nothing.

"Hello, anybody home?"

He was home alright, I could smell him. The trail led me to a door in the middle of three. Door number one, door number two or door number three. One of the doors had a string of neckties tied together, starting at the door handle and going over the top.

"Rescue 1 to Fire Alarm, start the police to this address."

"Roger Rescue 1, nature?"

"Possible suicide."

I pushed the middle door, it gave a little but would not open. So I pushed a little harder.

"Here he is."

It was a crime scene, but I needed to confirm the man was gone. I got the door open about a foot, squeezed through and watched a dead man's weight force the door shut. He had tied the last of the neckties around his neck, strung the rest over the top of the door, tied the last to the opposite side doorknob, kneeled in front of the door, inside his bedroom, facing the back of the door  and closed it.

Slowly?

Quickly?

Did he slam the door?

Did he lean into it?

I couldn't figure out the mechanics of it, and realized I was spending way too much time thinking about it. Everything inside him had let go, he was bloated, and stiff, and dead.

Pictures of a woman and some kids had been pinned to the back of the door. I squeezed back through the doorway, pushing the body with the door.

Thankfully you can look at pictures, but they can't look back.

"Does he have any friends or family?"

"He's lived here for a year, since he got out of prison. Nobody visits that I've seen."

Nobody.

Who's better? Me? You? I'm better, they're better, you're better, the better man wins! Better yet, let's make everybody better.

I've never been a competitive person. I like to win, and like it when my teams win, but I really don't get too unraveled when I or they don't. The Patriots are in the Super Bowl, and so are the Giants. I'm a Patriots fan, but if they don't win the big game life will go on, and I'll be on to the next thing.

I do have to admit, it was sweet when the Bruins won the Stanley Cup. I'll never forget one game when I was playing junior hockey. A little shit was flying down the boards toward the goal, and the big galoot defenseman was the only thing between him and our goalie. I may be big, but I definitely ain't fast, so I positioned myself in the right spot and made the kid go behind the net. I had a chance to crush him into the boards, but I outweighed him by fifty pounds and just harassed him with my stick instead. The little bastard snuck around the net and snuck one behind our goalie. And if that were not bad enough, he laughed.

Next shift same thing was happening, and he tried it again, and I crushed him this time. I didn't laugh when they carried him off the ice, and neither did he, but he definitely did not score. I may not be all that competitive, but a guy's got to do what he's got to do. Years later while watching Saving Private Ryan, in one of the movie's pivotal moments one of the soldiers shoots a German soldier who he had let go earlier in the movie. It was symbolic of the death of innocence in the movie, and I had a flashback to my own little experience. Art imitates life, I suppose.

Firefighters are a competitive bunch, and I went along with all of that for ten years but my heart was never really in it. I knew I was good, and that was enough. I cannot be great at everything, but I am pretty good a lot of stuff, and might be great at one or two things, but there will always be somebody who does something better than me. And I'm okay with that. I'm done crushing people into the boards, it just doesn't feel very good.

I've found my experiences in EMS more satisfying that firefighting, and maybe the lack of constant competition is a big reason for that. There is no need to prove I'm better, or stronger, or faster or smarter than anybody else. The only one who matters is the person I'm taking care of, and they just want somebody who cares, usually.

Of course, competing with myself is vitally important. I need to know I've done all I can to be the best I can be at what I do, because people's lives literally depend on it. Either I do it, or I don't.

It feels great to be one of the people who can do it, and not have to prove myself to the rest.

Monday's Musings

We tend to run faster when we have lost our way.

I've seen it, done it, and will probably do it again. Bad idea, this running faster thing. The faster I run, the more problems I run into, and the fewer problems I solve. A steady, productive pace is needed most times, even when another person's life is at stake.

One of the more intimidating challenges I've faced is being in charge of an ALS unit during a cardiac arrest. The first few times my natural inclination to go faster took over, and I was three steps ahead of myself rather than focusing on what I was doing. 

I've learned to slow down, take each task as one accomplishment that has a beginning and an end, then move on to the next one. I've also learned to trust people, and to delegate. Many hands make light work a wise man once said, and it is great advice.

Local author Michael Morse at The Coffee Grinder, 961 Namquid Dr

Tel: 401-463-3300 Sunday, January 29, 2012 from 12-2.

A different world exists ten minutes from your door. Find out what really happens in Providence from somebody who spent twenty years in the homes and on the streets of Rhode Island’s Capitol City!

Responding, by Michael Morse   $22.50

“Responding” is a fine, skillfully paced second book that offers more fascinating pieces of life in the city, of the tragedy and the brutality and the small rituals that order the time between calls at the firehouse.   Bob Kerr, Providence Journal

Rescuing Providence, by Michael Morse   $20.00

“Rescuing Providence, a new book by Providence firefighter Michael Morse, is an interesting look at the Providence they don’t put in the travel brochures, all told in a very readable, effective, descriptive style.” Bill Reynolds, Providence Journal

Two surviving members of the original Lynyrd Skynyrd and a new guy were on FUSE last night, talking
about the band, the impact of losing the original members in a plane crash in '77 and how they have managed to go on, keeping the spirit of the deceased alive while charting new territories. My favorite part was when one of them, his name isn't important to me now, though it was before I watched the show, went into great detail about how as individuals they are nothing, but when they get together, and each one does his part, and the back-up singers chime in, and the drums get beating, an the bass kicks in-well, feet get tapping and magic happens…

Smoke fills the arena, obscuring the scene. It lifts a little, the crowd roars and through the haze the band takes the stage. I've got a part in this, and I get things moving, a man is down, possibly injured, not breathing. I need some rhythm, and the drummer and bass player take the stage and start pumping. One beat a second, small pause, a ventilation and more beats. The roadies move in, taking the lifeless form with them, and into the van they go. The drummer keeps his steady beat, the wind section kicks in and with his usual flourish, the lead guitar player knocks out a face melting, adrenaline charged solo.

The band pauses, I feel for a pulse, watch the monitor, and kick the band back into their song. Our roadies get the van moving, we're headed to the next gig, but this isn't a practice session in the back of the van, this is the show, mistakes are not part of the program. In perfect synchrony we play on, the steady beat from the rhythm section keeping the lead guitar and myself focused, doing the tings that make it all come together in perfect harmony. Now, if we could only get the singer to cooperate.

A crowd waits, apparently we are the warm-up band, but that's okay, it's all about the music anyway, the beauty of the band is there can be no ego's, without each part performing their job, it all falls apart. We need the roadies to get us there, the drummer, bass and sax player to keep the beat, the guitars to add flourish, the back-up singers to keep the harmony, the security detail to keep the gang at bay and if we could just get the singer to come back we would have a hit record.

We enter the next arena, security parts the crowd, bright lights blind us, the singer has his own rhythm now, a pulse, strong and steady, and he's breathing on his own. He pops up on the stretcher, ready to rock.

God, I love Narcan.

I woke up, and the TV was still on. Lynyrd Skynyrd was long gone, but like any great rock band they stuck in my head, and let me dream about being a rock star.

Scientific Method Pertaining to Book Sales.

considering…

Not a lot of people buy books from people they don't know.

and …

I don't know a lot of people.

therefore…

I'm not selling many books.

When my first book was published, I thought I would be on Oprah, and everybody would absolutely HAVE to have Rescuing Providence. Then, I found out that 90% of books sold are written by about 25 authors, and I am not one of them. Most books published sell less than 500 copies. Rescuing Providence is well over 2000 at this moment, and the Kindle version is doing quite well. Therefore, after letting the air out of my head, I have concluded that for a Firefighter in Providence who doesn't know a lot of people, I ain't doing too bad!

Responding has been available for a little less than two months now, and has sold about 300 copies. Considering about 100 went to friends and family, (much appreciated!) and another 100 to aquaintances, either on-line or casual friends, (also much appreciated!)100 people who I don't even know bought my second book. That's 100 people who forked over $22.50 plus shipping and handling to read my story. Plus, all of the folks I don't know who bought, or read Rescuing Providence.

And I had the balls to be dissapointed.

More Scientific Method Pertaining to Book Sales.

considering…

There are millions of things to read for free.

and…

Somebody I do not know is reading something that I wrote, probably right now.

therefore…

I am a one lucky guy.

Thanks for reading.

Hope to see you Sunday.

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2012/01/good-coffee-good-books/