The Fax. (part one)
I sit, again, cramped in the front of the ambulance. A red light at the large intersection steadily pulsates its constant amber glow at the impatient, eager, road-raged drivers. Engines idle and clutches burn as cars position themselves at the thick, white pedestrian crosswalk on the street. Tethered like fighter jets on the deck of an aircraft carrier, they are cocked and ready to race to the next bright, red light, to start the process all over again.
I squirm in the uncomfortable seat of the ambulance and watch every one of God's little creatures scurry about in the radiating heat of the glowing sun. My left knee aches. Not hurting, but constantly reminding me that ten hours cramped in this box is going to be a chore, both for me, and my joints. I try to outstretch and hope it pops, relieving me of the mildly uncomfortable feeling of a sore joint. No luck.
The solid white, two-inch man on the crosswalk light disappears. Replacing the pleasant action figure is a bright red, flashing hand. The pedestrians, only a quarter of the way across the street, are in absolutely no hurry. The majority of them have no idea what those benign figures on the pole mean, they just watch the crowd they are with and do what they do.
As the slumped, disgruntled, silhouettes of humans shuffle across the street, my ambulance slowly eases into an appropriate lane on my favorite street in Denver. The street that runs all the way across the city, east to west. The street where on one corner you might be witness to a suit-clad politician carrying a briefcase to the capital and then, not but a block away, an unconscious homeless man, incontinent of all bodily fluids, resting peacefully on the concrete next to a tipped over garbage can.
Colfax Avenue. The fax. Where with one simple trip along a latitudinal traverse you can quickly witness how beautiful life can be, or how beautifully cruel it actually is.
We are heading to our post. And instead of taking the more direct, efficient route, we chose to slowly motor up this avenue. Windows rolled down and eyes wide open, we begin our trek through the kaleidoscope of life.
The gold dome of the capital is to my right. The beautifully manicured lawn slopes downward towards the row of yellow school buses. Children climb the concrete steps, not interested in what all the poster-board signs say and why those people are shouting. Suits scuttle around the grounds and each follows one another like lemmings on a field trip.
The rows of lights ahead are all red. This is the only street where one hopes to get caught at a red light. Because at each block, something new is sure to astound.
We sit. Crossing the street in front of us, heading towards the bus bench in front of the McDonalds, are figures clad in every outfit imaginable. Some wear coats and hats and have bundled themselves up on this warm spring day. Some barely wear any clothes at all. Tattooed backs and chests clothe them as their baggy pants hang precariously from their lower buttock, of course their boxers visible to the entire world.
Like zombies, they all shuffle across the street. I wait for the moment for one of them to turn and look at me with their empty eyes, grunting and slobbering as they rigidly walk to the ambulance with outstretched arms.
Green light.
We continue east. To my left is a line wrapping around the block. Pre-teens, with painted faces, stand on the sidewalk shuffling their newest pairs of skater shoes. Black shirts and black pants. Black hair and piercings. The motley crew has been standing on the soiled sidewalk for hours hoping to catch a glimpse of one of their favorite members of the band. Insane Clown Posse seems to really like this venue. And not but a block away, greasy-haired men exit a concrete building with black plastic sacks. The porn magazines they just bought secretly secured under their arms. They melt back into the scenery and are gone in the blink of an eye.
To my right, Volvos and Saabs enter the congested parking lot of the local liquor store. High heels and jeans click on the stained pavement as women from the other side of town fill their trunks with expensive bottles of wine and scotch for their dinner party that night. On the corner, with an outstretched hand, sits the alcoholic hoping to get enough change so he can too enter the same store and exit with a bottle of Night Train.
Red light.
A cop sits in his running car, the windows down as he fills out paperwork from the arrest of the drug dealer in the 7-11 parking lot. Congregating behind the car wash are the remainder of his crew, waiting for the moment that white squad car pulls out of the parking lot so they can continue their business.
A stain runs from the bus stop bench to the curb. Connecting the dots, I see a homeless man curled up under the wooden bus stop bench. Urine soaked pants are obviously the source of the already evaporated urine on the sidewalk. His buddies continue to slur at one another and work as hard as they can to get as drunk as possible.
Green light.
The street opens up. A hole in the wall chicken joint, Arbys, another 7-11, and bar after bar line both sides of the street. At this intersection, children play with one another as they cross the street. The church's basketball court is packed and skins versus shirts are running back and forth, full court. The chain net rattles as the jump shot bounces of the doubled-casted iron rim onto the metal backboard. Teens do their hair and talk on their phones as the world passes by them.
Moving from hole-in-the-wall bars and fast-food joints, I now witness more restaurants and pubs. Places that, with their neon beer signs, entice all who pass to come in and try the new fare. Catchy names and valets are now becoming more and more.
I squirm in the uncomfortable seat of the ambulance and watch every one of God's little creatures scurry about in the radiating heat of the glowing sun. My left knee aches. Not hurting, but constantly reminding me that ten hours cramped in this box is going to be a chore, both for me, and my joints. I try to outstretch and hope it pops, relieving me of the mildly uncomfortable feeling of a sore joint. No luck.
The solid white, two-inch man on the crosswalk light disappears. Replacing the pleasant action figure is a bright red, flashing hand. The pedestrians, only a quarter of the way across the street, are in absolutely no hurry. The majority of them have no idea what those benign figures on the pole mean, they just watch the crowd they are with and do what they do.
As the slumped, disgruntled, silhouettes of humans shuffle across the street, my ambulance slowly eases into an appropriate lane on my favorite street in Denver. The street that runs all the way across the city, east to west. The street where on one corner you might be witness to a suit-clad politician carrying a briefcase to the capital and then, not but a block away, an unconscious homeless man, incontinent of all bodily fluids, resting peacefully on the concrete next to a tipped over garbage can.
Colfax Avenue. The fax. Where with one simple trip along a latitudinal traverse you can quickly witness how beautiful life can be, or how beautifully cruel it actually is.
We are heading to our post. And instead of taking the more direct, efficient route, we chose to slowly motor up this avenue. Windows rolled down and eyes wide open, we begin our trek through the kaleidoscope of life.
The gold dome of the capital is to my right. The beautifully manicured lawn slopes downward towards the row of yellow school buses. Children climb the concrete steps, not interested in what all the poster-board signs say and why those people are shouting. Suits scuttle around the grounds and each follows one another like lemmings on a field trip.
The rows of lights ahead are all red. This is the only street where one hopes to get caught at a red light. Because at each block, something new is sure to astound.
We sit. Crossing the street in front of us, heading towards the bus bench in front of the McDonalds, are figures clad in every outfit imaginable. Some wear coats and hats and have bundled themselves up on this warm spring day. Some barely wear any clothes at all. Tattooed backs and chests clothe them as their baggy pants hang precariously from their lower buttock, of course their boxers visible to the entire world.
Like zombies, they all shuffle across the street. I wait for the moment for one of them to turn and look at me with their empty eyes, grunting and slobbering as they rigidly walk to the ambulance with outstretched arms.
Green light.
We continue east. To my left is a line wrapping around the block. Pre-teens, with painted faces, stand on the sidewalk shuffling their newest pairs of skater shoes. Black shirts and black pants. Black hair and piercings. The motley crew has been standing on the soiled sidewalk for hours hoping to catch a glimpse of one of their favorite members of the band. Insane Clown Posse seems to really like this venue. And not but a block away, greasy-haired men exit a concrete building with black plastic sacks. The porn magazines they just bought secretly secured under their arms. They melt back into the scenery and are gone in the blink of an eye.
To my right, Volvos and Saabs enter the congested parking lot of the local liquor store. High heels and jeans click on the stained pavement as women from the other side of town fill their trunks with expensive bottles of wine and scotch for their dinner party that night. On the corner, with an outstretched hand, sits the alcoholic hoping to get enough change so he can too enter the same store and exit with a bottle of Night Train.
Red light.
A cop sits in his running car, the windows down as he fills out paperwork from the arrest of the drug dealer in the 7-11 parking lot. Congregating behind the car wash are the remainder of his crew, waiting for the moment that white squad car pulls out of the parking lot so they can continue their business.
A stain runs from the bus stop bench to the curb. Connecting the dots, I see a homeless man curled up under the wooden bus stop bench. Urine soaked pants are obviously the source of the already evaporated urine on the sidewalk. His buddies continue to slur at one another and work as hard as they can to get as drunk as possible.
Green light.
The street opens up. A hole in the wall chicken joint, Arbys, another 7-11, and bar after bar line both sides of the street. At this intersection, children play with one another as they cross the street. The church's basketball court is packed and skins versus shirts are running back and forth, full court. The chain net rattles as the jump shot bounces of the doubled-casted iron rim onto the metal backboard. Teens do their hair and talk on their phones as the world passes by them.
Moving from hole-in-the-wall bars and fast-food joints, I now witness more restaurants and pubs. Places that, with their neon beer signs, entice all who pass to come in and try the new fare. Catchy names and valets are now becoming more and more.
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D (EMT)
~Raven