Working

The old man stood on his porch on a tree lined street in a town in Arizona and madly fired off a round from the 30.6 rifle he cradled in his arms.
Within minutes, South Tucson and Tucson Police surrounded his little white stucco house,
and believing that a group of snipers was inside, filled the house, and the old black man, with a number of high impact projectiles.
During the "battle" two Policemen, Sargents, Andy Garcia and Roy Garcia were hit by stray bullets.
Andy's wound caused an ugly scar, he was transported by ambulance to Tucson Medical Center.
Sargent Roy Garcia of the South Tucson PD., was hit in the spine, and paralyzed from the neck down.
The old man now lay on his back, cold and stiff on the pavement in front of his lawn, killed in the opening salvos of gunfire.
Al quesada and I were manning the Paramedic unit that night and were asked to verify the man's death.
"He's about as dead as he could be." Al remarked drily, after a brief visual exam.
"Poor son of a bitch," I muttered.
One of the cops looked down through veiled eyes, hand resting comfortably on the blue steel revolver on his hip, "Call a Meds unit for this worthless, former, piece of shit, fellas, let's go home."
I'd been with the Dept for five, I'd experienced a lot of death and disaster, but this  scene left a very bad taste in my mouth.
Chief Roquillo had watched the entire scene unfolding, his dark, handsome face impassive throughout.
After the ambulance removed the body his eyes were moist, "Christ, what a waste of human life." he said.
He looked at the Paramedic Unit, then at Al and I.
"Take it back to the corral, Men." He said.
Al backed the vehicle out of the driveway, pointed the wheels to the north, and gunned the engine.
Some of the crowd that had gathered looked in our direction.
I heard someone say, "Look at all the blood!" as he pointed towards the sidewalk.
We drove slowly back to the Station in the light of a full moon, the black asphalt street wet and reflective from rain.
A barefoot Mexican kid trotted paralell to our rig, splashing up glassy puddles as he ran, shouting and waving, "HEY Rescue! Hey Al, Hey Mike!"
Al clicked on the siren for a second as he waved at the urchin, who beamed back gratefully, his shiny, black hair streaming rain drops.
We'd been running calls all night.
A cold film of sweat covered my face, my uniform was blood-streaked and damp.
Al pulled the truck to the curb, an ancient, black crone laid on the sidewalk, struggling to rise.
Her white hair was in disarray as she lay propped on one skinny arm.
Al walked over to her and spoke gently, "Are you alright, Grandmother?"
I felt like I was in a dream.
From a small adobe hut in the blackness across the street, mariachi music brassily poured out into the night, mixed with muffled yelps and cries.
The old lady snarled, "Get away, leave me alone or I call the police!"
Next to the house emitting the strange sounds was an old market, made useless by a recent fire.
The rain brought out the smell of burned and blackened timbers, a sickly, smokey, dead odor.
The crone rose unsteadily, desperately clutching a wet paper bag which threatened to dissolve, exposing the green wine bottle within.
Al looked bemused as he returned to the rig and drove on.
He was the kind of Fireman that was moved by death and exposure to the daily grind of existence for so many of the poor in this little barrio in Arizona.
Thunder exploded in the distance, my window was down, the rain drenched my face, it felt good.
Al turned the corner and we approached the Station.
A small, foamy, brown river churned in front of the driveway as we backed in.
Al shut down the engine and I snapped off the radios as he climbed from the rig.
"Let's have some coffee, Mike," he suggested softly.
He walked around the shiny, red unit, opened my door lightly and rested a hand on my shoulder, "Come on, Partner."
I rubbed my eyes wearily, I felt old.
"Go ahead, Al, I'll be right in."
I couldn't get the eyes of the dead, old man out of my thoughts.
As I'd kneeled over him and looked into his staring, sightless eyes, I'd felt something, something that I couldn't verbalize.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
I was sweating profusely, techincally, I was diaphoretic.
I gazed through the windshield at the stall door, my thoughts drifting.

"Mike, wake up! Wake up! We have a call!"
I had dozed off in the cab, still belted in.
"I'm awake, Al." I groaned.
"Are you alright, Mike?" He looked concerned.
I shook my head, drops of perspiration flew from my face, "I'm fine, Al, let's roll."
I grabbed the Meds Radio microphone, "What have we got?"
I looked over at Al as he shifted the vehicle and rolled out into the still rainy night, "Structure fire, " he answered, "Wood Bros Hardware."
I keyed the mike, "Meds, this is Rescue four zero, we're out of service responding to a structure fire at 2229 east two ninth street."
"Check, rescue four zero, let us know when you're back."
"Ten four, Meds control" I replaced the mic and looked in the direction we were headed.
Even in the rain and grey, overcast sky , thick black clouds of smoke were visible.
"We're going to earn our pay tonight, Al." I commented, drily.
Al nodded.
Adrenalin was flooding my system, and I began focusing on what I'd be doing next.
Over the years I'd developed some techniques for dealing with fireground situations, most of the techniques involved ways of physically controlling the results of stress that assaulted the body and mind, while working inside of a building that has become a blazing inferno.

Within a few minutes I would be, once again, putting those techniques to the ultimate test.