NIGHT RIDE Revision Options

[Psyche]

Night Ride

The ambulance slices thin night air through inconsequential streets. I sit in the back, beside the frail man. Oddly, I get the feeling that I’m in a camper: there’s the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

We pitch and bounce over cobblestones in peripheral avenues. I worry about the frail man: internal ruptures, bleeding, that sort of thing… maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops a thin leg over the edge of the stretcher. Bending forward, I lift it back, but the medic says: "It’s OK, let him be, he’s well strapped in." I glance at him doubtfully. The medic languidly places a cushion to protect his head.

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars. A few valiant prostitutes cluster nearby. The ambulance’s harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things… A startled night bird swoops up from a pile of rubbish, carrying nameless refuse in its beak. I shudder at the coarse scene. Other worlds, no less real than my own relatively sheltered one, pass in procession before my eyes.

I’d imagined the siren would have wailed constantly, but no, we make our soundless way through night time echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the frail man’s earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

He still has a high fever. Back home, we’d been putting loads of iced-cubed towels under his armpits and on his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn’t appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

One more bend in the road and we’re in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides out neatly. Cool morning wind doesn’t care about the frail man wrapped in a light coverlet. Medics give orders, personnel in green move fast; things are under control, it seems. He’s hurried through a door that snaps at me: Restricted Area!

I wait on a hard black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the frail man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from night university. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We’d rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we’d stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they’ll keep the frail man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. “Just keep putting ice-cubed towels on him, if the fever returns”, he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they’d given him. “Oh, nothing special”, remarks the doctor, “mainly we used ice”. “Oh…” I say dimly.

The ambulance drives us home; the frail man smiles faintly, perhaps remembering his welcome, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I’m too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

By Psyche

Sylvia Maclagan, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2007.
All rights reserved as an unpublished work.

[Guest_Cathy_*]

Hi Sylvia,

I made it back! lol It has been a bit slow in here lately. Hope it picks up soon!

A few thoughts... {omit}[add]. Take or toss as you see fit! *smiles*

Night Ride

The ambulance slices the thin night air {of}[through] inconsequential streets. I sit in the back, beside the sick man. Strangely enough, I get the feeling that I’m in a camper: there’s the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

I like the addition of the last two lines above. I've been in an ambulance... both as a patient and a rider... and I can understand why the mind would want to imagine it was somewhere else or riding in a camper.

Soon, we pitch and bounce over cobbled avenues. I worry about the frail man. Ruptured scar, that sort of thing… maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops one leg over the edge of the stretcher. I bend forward and lift it back, but the lady doctor says it’s OK, let him be, he’s well strapped in. I glance at her doubtfully. She languidly {puts}[places] a cushion to protect his head.

I might use a semi-colon after 'frail man' and a lower case 'r' on ruptured. Another line maybe... 'Bending forward, I lift it back but the doctor says, 'It's ok, he's well-strapped in.' Are there doctors in the ambulance? We just have EMT's and paramedics.

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars{.}[,] [a] few valiant prostitutes cluster {together} nearby. The ambulance’s harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things…

Isn't it odd the things we might think about while in an ambulance?

I’d imagined the siren would have wailed subtly, but no, we make our soundless way through nighttime echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the frail man’s earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

I don't think an ambulance wails subtly... what about...
'I'd imagined the siren would have wailed loudly, but no, we make our way soundlessly through nighttime echoes...

He still has a high fever. Back home, we’d been putting loads of towels with ice-cubes under his armpits and by his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn’t appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

Maybe 'ice-cubed towels' and 'on his groin'?

One more bend in the road and we’re in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides [out] neatly. {out.} Cool morning wind doesn’t care about the frail man wrapped in a light coverlet. Male nurses give orders, personnel in green mov[ing]{e} fast; things are under control, it seems. He’s hurried through a door that snaps at me: “Restricted Area”!

I wait on a hard black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the frail man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from Night University. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We’d rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we’d stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

The memories of an earlier time are a nice touch!

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they’ll keep the frail man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

Is there a reason why you've never given the man a name? It's almost as though the narrator has set him/herself apart from him.

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. “Just keep putting towels with ice on him, if the fever returns”, he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they’d given him. “Oh, nothing special”, remarks the doctor, “mainly we used ice”. “Oh…” I say dimly.

Maybe... 'If the fever returns just keep putting iced towels on him.' It's almost as though these people don't care about him. Maybe not a good hospital or they think he's too old to take time with. And sadly, there are places like that.

The ambulance drives the frail man home to his waiting, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I’m too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

A very sad story! I hope it's not a true one...

Of course, use or lose anything you wish.

Cathy

[Psyche]

Gee, Cathy, I've also just 'made it back'.... so sorry!!! Let's see now:

Hi Sylvia,

I made it back! lol It has been a bit slow in here lately. Hope it picks up soon!

A few thoughts... {omit}[add]. Take or toss as you see fit! *smiles*

Night Ride

The ambulance slices the thin night air {of}[through] inconsequential streets. I sit in the back, beside the sick man. Strangely enough, I get the feeling that I’m in a camper: there’s the burner, bottled water in a corner, emergency kit, seats for kids.

Yes, through is correct, thanks!

I like the addition of the last two lines above. I've been in an ambulance... both as a patient and a rider... and I can understand why the mind would want to imagine it was somewhere else or riding in a camper.

Yes, I really had that feeling... I put it down to my own exhaustion and probably denial of the hard facts. Hadn't slept for nights...

Soon, we pitch and bounce over cobbled avenues. I worry about the frail man. Ruptured scar, that sort of thing… maybe something inside him will snap. His head rolls sideways and he drops one leg over the edge of the stretcher. I bend forward and lift it back, but the lady doctor says it’s OK, let him be, he’s well strapped in. I glance at her doubtfully. She languidly {puts}[places] a cushion to protect his head.

Yes, right again!

I might use a semi-colon after 'frail man' and a lower case 'r' on ruptured. Another line maybe... 'Bending forward, I lift it back but the doctor says, 'It's ok, he's well-strapped in.' Are there doctors in the ambulance? We just have EMT's and paramedics.

Gee, Cathy, perhaps it was a paramedic... no idea! I'll study your suggestions when I revise, which I hope to do very soon...

Street lamps peer at me through small ambulance windows, playing with shifting shadows in the hushed interior. Now and then a lone policeman on a corner lifts an arm in respectful salute. I spot silhouettes of drunken men stumbling out of late night bars{.}[,] [a] few valiant prostitutes cluster {together} nearby. The ambulance’s harsh beams focus briefly on their wary, scarlet lips. I wonder about them, their lives, their kids maybe, their men, different things…

Isn't it odd the things we might think about while in an ambulance?

Yes, it's really odd, and I'll see about the suggestions, thanks!

I’d imagined the siren would have wailed subtly, but no, we make our soundless way through nighttime echoes, stopping at all the streetlights. Not an urgent case, I suppose, calculating in my mind the frail man’s earlier convulsions, the galloping fever, and his heart condition.

I don't think an ambulance wails subtly... what about...
'I'd imagined the siren would have wailed loudly, but no, we make our way soundlessly through nighttime echoes...

I don't know, Cathy, but here in this big city of Buenos Aires, ambulances actually do lower the sound of their sirens when it isn't necessary to waken the whole city. I've been in several that didn't use their sirens at all at night. I guess it depends on the urgency, also. They may even stop at red lights.

He still has a high fever. Back home, we’d been putting loads of towels with ice-cubes under his armpits and by his groin, following instructions over the phone. Now he looks at me through the eyes of a scared child. I smile at him and hold his hand. He doesn’t appear to know me, but he grasps my hand weakly, unmoving, calmer now.

Maybe 'ice-cubed towels' and 'on his groin'?

Yes, right again!

One more bend in the road and we’re in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides [out] neatly. {out.} Cool morning wind doesn’t care about the frail man wrapped in a light coverlet. Male nurses give orders, personnel in green mov[ing]{e} fast; things are under control, it seems. He’s hurried through a door that snaps at me: “Restricted Area”!

OK!!!

I wait on a hard black plastic chair. My mind wanders. For some reason, I remember the frail man waving his hand at me in greeting, as I used to descend the stairway from Night University. He was straight and strong then, handsome. His smile was contagious, bursting with energy. We’d rush off to a nearby stand-up grill to eat good Argentine steaks, washed down with glasses of Mendocino wine. Then we’d stroll out to walk around the city streets for a while, before heading home.

The memories of an earlier time are a nice touch!

Thank you, Cathy.

Now I sit on the unfriendly chair and wonder how long they’ll keep the frail man in the Unit. Nearly five hours stagger by; my head nods regularly.

Is there a reason why you've never given the man a name? It's almost as though the narrator has set him/herself apart from him.

Yes, I did it on purpose. High fevers, hallucinations, deliriums, dementia, etc. really do change a loved one into someone else. And that 'someone else' turns it into a highly heartbreaking experience, so I guess psychologists would call it my 'defense mechanism', OK?

The hostile door swings open. A doctor tells me that I can take him home now. “Just keep putting towels with ice on him, if the fever returns”, he says authoritatively. I dare to ask what treatment they’d given him. “Oh, nothing special”, remarks the doctor, “mainly we used ice”. “Oh…” I say dimly.

Maybe... 'If the fever returns just keep putting iced towels on him.' It's almost as though these people don't care about him. Maybe not a good hospital or they think he's too old to take time with. And sadly, there are places like that.

Yes, too many. Even expensive, private places.

The ambulance drives the frail man home to his waiting, secure bed. The return trip is slow, weaving through early morning, impatient traffic. The driver uses the siren intermittently.

I’m too tired to reflect on anything now, nor even to glance out the windows.

A very sad story! I hope it's not a true one...

[b]Yes, it's a true one, slightly fiction-ized, Cathy.

Of course, use or lose anything you wish.

Use or lose! I think I'll use more than lose...
Thank you!

Cathy[/b]