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.

[JLY]

Sylvia,
This is a well written story with a lot of detail. An initial thought for the opening line

The ambulance slices the thin night air of {inconsequential}[nondescript]
streets.

I enjoyed how you provided the reader with the images of the people that inhabited the streets.

The only nit I have is that you repeatedly refer to your main character as the frail man. You used the word frail 6 times. I think after you have characterized this man as being frail, it may no longer be necessary to continually use the word frail.

You have provided us with some descriptive words: sick, lanquidly to establish the condition of the man, so frail is pretty much a given after you initial use of that adjective.

Night Ride

The ambulance slices the thin night air of {inconsequential}[nondescript] 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.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

One more bend in the road and we're in the Emergency Unit. The stretcher slides neatly out. Cool morning wind doesn't care about the {frail}[feeble] man wrapped in a light coverlet. Male nurses 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}[fragile] 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 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.

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.

[Ephiny]

Hi Sylvia

I really thought this story, though sad, was beautifully written. I'm not very good at critiquing prose..so probably can't offer you any suggestions but just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed reading this. I think you told your story and its message subtly and poignantly. I can relate to it too, seeing how vulnerable people are often treated in hospitals..and I am sure, many of us can also, recalling times when someone we were desperately worried about, appeared to be treated without the concern or respect that we would wish. You described the scene perfectly, interlinking your present observations with memories, and especially, memories of the ill man, reminding us that he is not merely a patient. Descriptions such as "unfriendly" chair and "hostile" door sum up the atmosphere and the experience as it feels for the narrator. Your last lines are perfect..the worried person, just too exhausted and worn out by the experience and maybe too disillusioned, for further reflection. Really beautifully written, and I hope too that it is not based on personal experience...

Hugs!

Lucie

[Psyche]

Hi Lucie!

I'm so pleased you dropped by to read my story. Your opinions are always highly appreciated.

Exactly, I find it unbearable to watch vulnerable people (of all types & ages) being treated like 'objects'. So many institutions, including hospitals, carry on as if the mentally affected, young or aged, don't understand ANYTHING. Not true!

IMO, these people's minds capture things that 'normals' don't. We can learn a lot from them, beginning with truthfulness, as in the story about the small boy & the naked emperor... :-)
When they do tell lies, it's mostly in self-defence, because they intuit that they won't be understood if they state things honestly.

I'm happy that you enjoyed the read, Lucie. I hope to make the revision very soon. And yes, it is based on personal experience... ;-(
But life goes on, and writing about it is cathartic and, sometimes, useful to others..
Hugs, Sylvia ***

Hi Sylvia

I really thought this story, though sad, was beautifully written. I'm not very good at critiquing prose..so probably can't offer you any suggestions but just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed reading this. I think you told your story and its message subtly and poignantly. I can relate to it too, seeing how vulnerable people are often treated in hospitals..

and I am sure, many of us can also, recalling times when someone we were desperately worried about, appeared to be treated without the concern or respect that we would wish.

You described the scene perfectly, interlinking your present observations with memories, and especially, memories of the ill man, reminding us that he is not merely a patient. Descriptions such as "unfriendly" chair and "hostile" door sum up the atmosphere and the experience as it feels for the narrator. Your last lines are perfect..the worried person, just too exhausted and worn out by the experience and maybe too disillusioned, for further reflection. Really beautifully written,

and I hope too that it is not based on personal experience...

Hugs!

Lucie