Pretty feet

Code 3 for the stabbing.

It is high drama. The drunk victim with a stab wound to her left thigh is arguing with everyone about going to the hospital. A physical argument, sort of a non-fight, breaks out among her friends and family or cousins, or at least that’s who I think they are. Totally ghetto. She’s yelling something about her kids. Cops aren’t interested in stopping it. We wait. It passes. The fire lieutenant – bless him – acts nice and somehow talks her into getting into the ambulance.

“Thanks, man! Close the doors!” I yell at the lieutenant as soon as she gets in, lest she changes her mind again, and we take off.

“Can I take your left shoe and sock off?” I’m being selective to placate her, trying not to set her off, having cut some of her clothes – but not all of them – off already to make sure there aren’t more wounds.

“Yes.”

“Did you clean your feet?” I ask half-seriously.

“My feet are pretty!”

Sure enough, her foot is not only nicely done, she’s even got baby powder on to cut down the sweating. I am happy. In fact, it is sad that I am happy about her having a clean foot. Finally, someone around here with a clean foot. Things are so bad I almost never take anyone’s socks off, even if I strip him or her butt-ass naked. Ah, the little things in life. So happy. A bright spot in my day. There is hope yet. All is well for a few minutes.

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