Ode to an EMT

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair...

In 1976, I talked my way into a summer job at The Clarke Cooke House, an elegant restaurant perched on a dock overlooking scenic Newport Harbor.

I was the DJ for The Candy Store, the upmarket eaterie’s then-basement disco.

There I was, at the tender age of 17, spinning discs for cocaine-crazed “summer folk” and wealthy tourists.

You might think a testosterone-fueled teenage DJ lighting-up a club would be catnip for cougars. Jail bait? Nope. Not then. Not me.

I’d suffered more than a decade of physical and emotional abuse at my mother’s hands. My older brothers’ showed me nothing but disdain and disinterest. Add the pressure of living up to my father’s stratospheric standards and my self-esteem was limbo low.

My survival strategy: fake it ‘til you make it.

With no backup and nothing to lose, I was fearless. I’d talk to anyone about anything for any reason. Jump in to jobs professing experience and cover-my-ass on the fly. Yes but…

I grew-up in an all-male household with no relatives in sight (or alive). I was educated in an all-boys school from first grade. My parents were atheists; no male - female Temple interaction. My neighborhood was female-free. The internet wasn’t a thing.

Clever as I was – too clever by half as the Brits say – I had no idea how to talk to a girl. Never mind get laid.

Equally, I wasn’t getting paid enough to afford to the nose candy that gave my workplace its name, that patriarchal patrons traded for sexual favors. If that’s the right word.

I’d spent that bicentennial summer playing music that got hot women hot, watched them from the booth, then packed-up my records, jumped into my Mazda and drove home down deserted roads.

Whatever horses I could find in the RX-4’s Wankel engine were not spared. I fired-up the Escort radar detector, switched on my CB radio and explored the fine line between courage and a death wish.

With Pirelli P3’s at all four corners, the rear-wheel-drive Japanese two-door was reasonably sure-footed. But nowhere near as capable in the corners as the Mini that passed me that fateful night.

Passed me? WTF?

Fog was rolling-in off the bay onto Route 77, growing thicker. You’d have to have serious balls and no small amount of skill to pass a fast-moving car in those conditions. Which he did, out of nowhere.

Needless to say, 17-year-old me chased him. As an experienced high-speed driver [sic], I stayed within eyesight of Mini man’s taillights. And then backed-off.

We were blasting towards a major left hand turn, shrouded in fog, guardrail and all. If he wasn’t a local… If he didn’t slow down…

The Mini hit the guardrail, bounced back across the road and slammed into a low slung stone wall. I immediately switched my CB to the emergency channel and summoned Little Compton’s volunteer emergency services.

I put on my hazards, pulled over, got out of my car and headed for the crumpled Mini.

Four guys piled out, safe and sound (as far as I knew), drunk as fuck. I don’t think one said “what a buzz!” but he may as well have, given their devil-make-care attitude.

When the ambulance showed up, I was surprised to discover one of my parent’s friends emerge from the vehicle.

Not just any friend. The thirty-something mother of the hottest girl in Little Compton. Hell, the hottest girl in Rhode Island. Which isn’t saying much, but still.

Let’s call her Susan was a wonderful woman. Whenever I was in her company, she showered me with affection and concern. She listened to my life as if it mattered. A beautiful woman in every sense.

I had no idea Susan was a part-time EMT. Given her caring attitude towards everyone she met, it made perfect sense.

Once again, I was impressed and, in some way, inspired. Happy that there was some good in the world.

I watched Susan check the driver and his passengers for injuries.

LC’s single cop arrived and had a word with the guys. They piled into the cop car for a ride to their friend’s house and… that was that. No sobriety test. No questions about racing on a public road.

Susan and I were left alone, at 2am, by the side of Route 77, in the fog.

“You OK Bobby?” she asked, moving for a closer look.

I nodded, speechless, lost in her sky blue eyes. She gave me that smile. The first time any female had done so.

And then she did it. She kissed me. On the lips. I’d kissed a girl at summer school, but it was nothing like that.

Susan laughed. And left. Leaving me with something I’d always wanted. Not sex. Approval. Of my manliness? I guess. But more than that. Of me.

There was no question that anything would develop from that kiss. I’ve never told anyone what happened that night – until this post.

Looking back, I believe Susan put me on the road to recovery. A long twisting road where I’ve experienced numerous accidents, near-misses, missed turns and bad crashes.

A road that I’m still on. That I may never complete. But one thing is for sure: one person in one moment can change one person’s life. Change? Save.

As I approach my 65th birthday, as I head out on my Ridiculous Random Motorcycle Tour, I’m determined to be that person. Both giving and receiving.

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