T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

That’s when I was hit by the fire truck.

I was in such a hurry that I hadn’t seen it flying up Jackson Boulevard.

A blast of its horn and squealing brakes were the last thing I heard before everything faded to black.

When I came to, I was lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance with my head bandaged. I sat up and the world tilted, and I puked on the floor. The pain on the left side of my skull was so intense that I gasped, and I touched at it gingerly, feeling it pound against my fingertips. My ear was still there, which was good, and my face felt like it was in one piece, but barely. Bits of memory came to me then-glancing up at the last minute, seeing the bright steel mirror of the fire truck and feeling it clang against my face as the rest of the enormous red vehicle roared past. I looked at the scene outside through the windows of the ambulance-firemen hustled around Lou Mitchell’s, leaky hoses snaked through the street, flashing lights rolled on top of the fire truck and police cars-and I was overcome by a wave of guilt. Like waking from a dream, I realized that I’d caused all of this because I’d been gripped by paranoia.

I knew it was a delusional result of fear and anxiety (thanks, health sciences class) that attacked a person with feelings of a perceived threat.

Maybe, I realized, the diner full of cops hadn’t been cops at all.

Maybe they were just normal folks having an early breakfast.

Maybe paranoia had transformed a concerned police officer sipping an innocent cup of coffee-one who could have helped me-into an imaginary enemy in blue.

I moved to the doors-they were locked from the outside-and saw the officer from Lou Mitchell’s headed wearily in my direction. He stopped and spoke to an EMT, pointing at the ambulance, and the EMT nodded. Now that I was seeing him with my delusion goggles off, he looked like a nice, normal guy, probably my dad’s age, probably even a dad himself. He removed his hat and scratched his gray head, still talking, then patted the EMT’s shoulder and continued toward the ambulance. I was so embarrassed to face him that I stood behind the doors practicing an explanation, then an apology, then a combination of the two. And then I heard something ring.

I peeked out and saw him flip open a phone.

He leaned against the ambulance door and answered it.

Tiny hairs on my neck stood up when I heard him lower his voice and say, “Tell Detective Smelt I got the girl.”

Detective Smelt.

The girl.

Me.

Something cold and furious flickered in my gut, moving me around the interior of the ambulance until I found what I needed and lifted it carefully. I lay on the gurney, pulled a sheet under my neck, and closed my eyes as he opened the door. He climbed in and stood over me, still on the phone. I cracked an eyelid and watched him twist the end of his mustache between thumb and forefinger, saying, “That’s right, five grand, in twenties. Don’t try to negotiate with me, moron, I’m the one who caught the prize. You tell Detective Smelt if she wants a discount, try the Dollar Store. If so, I’ll drop this little fishy in the Sanitary Canal where no one will ever find her.”

I squinted, watching him rock on his heels.

He was listening, smiling smugly.

He twisted the finger inside his nostril, inspected it, and put it to work in his ear.

“Way to go, pea brain, now you’re talking sense,” he said. “Right. One hour, at the Twin Anchors, Smelt’s home away from home. And dummy? Don’t forget. . twenties. Crisp ones.” He snapped the phone shut, chuckling, and said, “Hey, wake up!” When I didn’t move, he gave my leg a shake. “Wake up, firebug! You and me are going for a ride in the squad car.” I remained still, my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for him to move closer, and he leaned in, saying, “Open your eyes, whatever your name is. . Mary Jane. .”

“It’s Sara Jane, asshole!” I said, sitting up and swinging an oxygen tank the size of a bowling pin. I caught him hard just above the ear, the tank-on-skull making a gong noise. He stared at me with a stupid look on his face, his mustache twitched once, and then he crumpled like a Chinese lantern.

I was off the gurney and on my feet before he hit the floor.

I peeked out the door to make sure no one had seen or heard anything.

Everyone was moving-firemen dragging hose, cops barking into shoulder-talkies, gawkers craning their necks-with the Lincoln parked on the other side of Jackson Boulevard, beyond the cordoned-off area. There was no way I would make it through the crowd looking like I did, from the weird old sweats to the bloody bandaged head. My only chance was an extra EMT shirt hanging in plastic, white and starched, and a cap that read “Chicago Fire Department Emergency.” I put them on, each a size too large, and then bent down and felt the officer’s pulse (thanks, Red Cross Club), which was strong. I’d watched enough crime flicks to know that there’s nothing worse for a cop than being disarmed, and no one deserved that humiliation more than this devoted public servant, so I plucked his gun from its holster and was going for the door when I spotted a pen and clipboard with fresh paper. It took seconds to scribble a message and pin it to his shirt- I’m a dirty cop who charges five grand to kidnap teenagers. Oh hey, where’s my gun? — and then I stepped carefully from the ambulance. There’s a movie Doug showed recently from 1970 called Little Big Man that takes place in the American West in the 1880s. In a scene toward the end, as soldiers attack a Cheyenne village, an old Indian chief who believes himself to be invisible walks through the chaos, completely unnoticed.

That’s how I felt now.

Action swirled around me as step by careful step I moved toward the Lincoln.

Seemingly unseen, I lifted yellow tape and climbed into the car.

It was after I calmed Harry and slid the key into the ignition that I heard someone yell, “Hey!” and turned to another blue cop, this one younger and much more intense. His uniform was tucked tightly over his wiry body and he removed his reflector sunglasses while leaning forward, Terminator style, inspecting me and the car. I pulled the cap low over my bandaged head and reluctantly rolled down the window. He looked inside the Lincoln, looked all around it, and then his concrete face broke into a grin as he said, “What year is this bad boy? 1964?”

“You mean the car?” I said. “Um. . ’65.”

“Man, they just don’t make ’em like this anymore. Steel, chrome, and an engine powerful enough to fly a helicopter.” He crossed his arms and made a face. “Nowadays it’s all hybrid-this and electric-that. Sissy stuff. Gimme old-school, American-made every time. You know what I’m saying?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” I said, starting the car.

His face turned stony as he said, “Whoa-whoa-whoa, relax. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Uh. . away?”

He grinned again. “Not unless you demonstrate this old monster’s horsepower.”

“Horsepower?”

“You EMT folks. . always so damn cautious,” he said, shaking his head. “Come on, honey, peel out! Lay some rubber! Spin this thing!”

“Oh. Okay,” I said, squealing from the curb and shooting up Jackson Boulevard with the gas pedal on the floor. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, he was giving me a double thumbs-up. I blasted the horn in farewell and bumped through a red light, my heart beating with freedom. As I crossed the Chicago River, I rolled down the window and flung the cop’s gun into an eternity of brown water.

Most people consider delusions a bad thing and pop pills until they disappear.

In my case, paranoia saved my butt.