Code 3 for bleeding. It’s midnight.
It gets reduced to code 2 as it comes back as a cut finger.
The guy’s walking toward us holding his finger and a towel, followed by a woman who’s probably his wife.
“Sir, here, sit on the tailboard.”
For some reason, he starts pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, hysterical. Alas, he’s drunk.
“I can’t! I’m bleeding!”
Huh? What the fuck does that mean?
“I gotta go to the hospital! Take me to the hospital!”
“Sit down. Now.”
Thankfully he does.
“No! It’s bleeding!”
“And how am I supposed to fix that if I don’t see it?”
So he cut his index finger while cutting some meat. I couldn’t possibly care less about why this drunk man is cutting meat at midnight, so don’t ask me why. There is a slightly-more-than-superficial half-inch laceration to the finger. It’s still slowly streaming blood because very few ordinary citizens know to press hard on bleeding wounds.
I crank down on his finger and bandage it. Voila, no more blood.
“You know, your wife can take you to the hospital if you want to go.”
“No! I want the ambulance! We don’t have a car.”
I save my breath; it’s not worth it.