|
911 Transcript By Mary O. R. Paddock ____________________ “911. What’s the
nature of your emergency?” A whisper, a murmur, a whimper, a squeak and
silence. Michael, the 911 dispatcher, was not having the
best of nights. He’d bounced a check at the gas station, was fighting with his
wife, gotten the paramedics lost during his first hour on duty, been yelled at
by his boss, and had a headache. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get that. Please
repeat.” The whisper increased, but only enough to make
his headache worse. He sighed, though not audibly, having mastered
this very necessary skill during the first month on the job. “I’m going to
have to ask you repeat yourself again, Ma’am.” Hope to God, I’ve got that right, he thought,
remembering the last time he mistook a man for a woman over the phone. The boss
yelled at him for that too. The woman (he hoped), who sounded possibly
elderly, settled for a stage whisper. “Ma’am? A possum?” “Yes. It’s a possum and it’s eatin’ my
garbage…” He tried to keep the irritation out of his
voice, tried to stay professional. Ma’am. You’ve dialed 911. You know that
right?” “Yes.” “So Ma’am, a possum eating your garbage is
something Animal Control handles. Not 911. We deal in emergencies.” “Oh. It is an emergency.” Her
whisper grew louder, slightly indignant. Michael didn’t try an inaudible sigh at this
point, he just let fly with a loud noisy breath. He lit a cigarette and
concluded he was quitting this job at the end of the shift. Yes, he was. If his wife didn’t like it this time around,
she could get off her fat derriere and get a job herself. He’d had it.
So he put his feet up on his desk and let the
conversation run to a natural conclusion. She was very likely just lonely and
Michael was just burned out. They needed each other in a co-dependent sort of
way. It would be fodder for a good story later, if nothing else. “How lady? How is vermin eating your garbage
an emergency? Is he sick?” “Nooo. At least, I don’t think so…”
Some scuffling on the other end of the line as she apparently went to look.
“No. It doesn’t look sick. But it will be worse than that soon.” “Worse?” Wasn’t just being born a possum
bad enough? “How?” “It’s eatin’… deeeeemons.” She
squeaked out the last word. “Excuse m—what?” “I said, it’s eatin’… demons.”
She was speaking in a near normal volume. Her voice was childishly high,
like she might giggle, drop the phone and run off to play any minute. She was
either elderly or five years old. He was pretty sure she wasn’t five. “Demons.” “Yes.” Holy Batshit Batman! A full moon. It had to be. “And umm…. How did demons get in your
garbage?” He blew out a trail of smoke, trying for a smoke ring and failing.
He erased the attempt in mid-air and prepared to try again. “I put them there, of course. How does
anything get into the trash?” “I see. And were these demons in your
refrigerator first?” He sniggered. That was a good one. He’d have to be sure
and tell the guys he said that. He sucked on his cigarette, held the smoke in
his mouth. “No. They were in my husband.” Michael choked, smoke spewing from his nose and
mouth; he cleared his throat, trying not to jump to conclusions. He jumped
anyway. Finally, he croaked out, “In your husband? Ma’am where is your
husband now?” He rubbed at the prickling hair on his forearms. The guy was probably asleep in the next room.
Maybe he was one of those old men who snored loudly, watched TV all day, walked
around with pee-stains on his pants, and ignored his wife. She could still just
be lonely… “Oh in heaven, I’m sure. After all, the
demons are in the trash now where they belong.” Michael sat up. His feet fell to the floor with
a thump. “Okay. Ma’am. Just exactly what is the possum eating? And I don’t
mean the demons. I mean exactly what
is he eating?” “Oh. I think he’s eating a spleen right
now. He looks to be done with the intestines.
It’s the heart I’m worried about though. That’s where they live,
you know.” “Ohhh…. My…. God….” “I told you it was an emergency.” “I’ll have someone out there in a few
minutes. Don’t move, okay?” “Oh. So you can save the possum then? It’s
not too late?” Michael wrapped his hand around his head,
trying to stop the Grand National winner of galloping headaches from blurring
his vision while he dialed up the police station and the ambulance barn on
different lines. “That’s nice of you. We wouldn’t want
those demons to get out again, would we?” “No Ma’am. We wouldn’t want that at
all.” “I’m glad I called.” Michael didn’t say anything, he just dialed. ____________________ |
(c) Defenestration Magazine, 2004