Esbenshade: Jay Barlow Collection, #2

By John Alvah Barnes Jr and Naomi Lynn Barnes

      

Leaving the fast-paced life of Kirkwood Medical Center for what they hoped would be a quieter one to raise their family, Jay Barlow, his wife, Debbie, and their two young children settle in the small, bucolic community of Esbenshade.

 

But the ideal life they had envisioned together turns upside down when Jay, now a paramedic, begins aiding more and more patients suffering and dying from the same condition, with no logical cause or reason. He becomes determined to find an answer with the help of his partner, colleagues, and friends.

 

But as his search begins to challenge his marriage and his relationship with his partner, Sam, his resolve leads him to the discovery of a far darker and deadlier threat to his adopted community and his family than any of them had feared possible.

 

Inspired by a true story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alvah Arts
• Release date: Jul 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735094779

John Alvah Barnes Jr

John Alvah Barnes, Jr. is a singer-songwriter who has performed as a solo singer-guitarist, front man for various rock bands, and lead singer for smaller groups. He is a certified Bio-medical Electronic Technician and experienced in emergency medicine, working as a first responder (EMT). After becoming disabled, he spent several years as a docent at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. His first three novels are based on his later careers.ROADWORK, his fourth novel, is based on his first and ongoing career as a musician, but centers on the love story resulting from meeting his wife of 44 years.Naomi Lynn Barnes was an educator for over 40 years. In addition to teaching, she managed education programs for medical education agencies, including the Philadelphia Network of Cardinal Health, and medical societies including The American College of Physicians. She has also been a consultant in continuing education and personnel management for various businesses and organizations.Behind the scenes, she has always been a musician’s wife, which is the focus of her first novel, ROADWORK.

Book preview

My partner, Sam, gave a sort of surprised gasp as she was shoved into my chest, pinning me against the side of the ambulance. She was a small woman, barely five feet tall, and weighing no more than about a hundred pounds, but the force exerted by our suddenly combative patient was more than enough to send my six-foot frame reeling. I managed to get hold of Sam’s shoulders as she was shoved backwards and move my head to the side so that I took the impact of her head in my shoulder and not in my face, but we were momentarily winded, both from the physical pounding and the surprise.

The ambulance bounced over a pothole and was rocked by a blast of wind from the turbulent night outside as we both dove for the stretcher simultaneously, trying to gain a purchase on our patient. He was writhing around on the stretcher twisting his body first one way and then the other while uttering a string of obscenities, most of them mainly unintelligible. Sam, who had returned to her original position, was having a difficult time trying to hold his head, and she suddenly gave up trying to use her hands. She stood, putting a knee against each ear and held his head locked between her legs while she pushed down on the patient’s chest with all her weight. It worked well enough for me to get the nylon straps back across his legs. I had never seen anyone free his legs from beneath the straps before, and I marveled at how quickly he had accomplished the task.

You little bitch! Leggo my fuckin’ head!

Relax, Frank. If you plant your ass on that stretcher, I’ll let you go, she said commandingly, if somewhat breathlessly.

Remind me never to pick a fight with you, I said as I set about reattaching the leads to the electrodes on his chest, so that we could keep an eye on his ECG reading.

I may be little, but I can get mean if I have to, she said, flashing me a brief, impish smile. I didn’t see her smile for long, for she was suddenly pitched head first before my eyes. I realized, as I scrambled to catch her, that although my partner was small, she had a definite leverage advantage, and it had taken tremendous strength to pitch her forward.

I managed to get a hand on the small of Sam’s back as she did a forward somersault toward the foot of the stretcher, breaking her fall somewhat before she slammed into the stretcher frame at the patient’s feet. I then made a full flying tackle into the chest of our belligerent guest. The wind went out of him like air escaping from a bellows, and I felt Sam land across his legs beside me as the ambulance was rocked by another blast of wind.

You okay? I asked her somewhat breathlessly.

I think so, she rasped in return.

Can you get the straps across his abdomen?

You betcha! she said, her strength rapidly returning. She was having a tough time with the straps because the ambulance had hit a rough patch of road and began bucking back and forth and bouncing up and down.

Our Pennsylvania highway tax dollars at work, I said dryly.

Get da fuck off me! Our patient was beginning to stir again.

I’d like to do that Frank, but I need to know that you’re going to calm down, I told him, trying to keep my voice calm, with measured success. To my left I felt Sam tightening the straps across his abdomen.

I said get da fuck off me! I was suddenly lifted and flung to the side.

Jesus! I heard Sam mutter under her breath as I hit the side of the ambulance, whacking my head against a cabinet door. I was lucky my head didn’t hit the glass. I looked up to see our patient desperately fumbling with the straps across his abdomen, as he continued to mumble to no one in particular.

Ya aint gonna do no sperimentin’ wi’ me. I aint goin’ unner no knife. Goddamned bastards!

Sam was on him again before I could get my feet back under me to help her. She was trying to subdue his arms. She had taken hold of his left arm, pulling it down with everything she had. I was clinging to the handrails attached to the ceiling, trying to work around to his right side to grab that arm when I saw his hand close on the handle of the portable defibrillator/monitor we had him hooked to.

Sam! Look... was as far as I got. The monitor came whipping off the sideboard where it had been sitting and caught Sam squarely in the side of the head. She went out like a light, slumping down beside the stretcher. I immediately found myself full of rage, the intensity of which I had never experienced toward a patient before.

In the back of my mind I knew he wasn't in control of himself, that he didn’t really know what he was doing, but all I could see was my partner being struck down while she was trying to do her job and it made me mad. I struck the man hard across the face with my open hand. It shocked him enough to remove the look of madness that had been in his eyes a moment before, but instantly the look returned, so I hit him again with the other hand. I was about to hit him a third time when I felt Sam’s hands against my raised arm.

Jay, what are you doing?! The alarm in the shouted question suddenly brought me back to reality. Sam didn’t waste any more time with questions as she quickly grabbed the patient’s left arm again, trying desperately to hang on. He had worked the abdominal straps loose and was beginning to sit up on the stretcher, and Sam was rising with him. He was trying to shake her off with the left arm while he pushed at her with the right.

I quickly moved around, positioning myself to the right of the patient just behind him, and grabbed for his right arm. For the moment it looked like we were finally getting things under control. He was still sitting up, but Sam had his left arm and I had his right and he didn’t seem to be able to break loose. Then his eyes rolled up until all we saw were the whites, and he collapsed on the stretcher. Sam grabbed for the blood pressure cuff that has been flung across the ambulance as I searched for a pulse, and I scrambled to put the monitor back in place and reattach the electrodes.

Pressure’s ninety over fifty, Sam informed me. I got the monitor going again.

He’s bradycardic, I said to her unnecessarily, which meant his heartbeat was less than sixty, in this case about fifty beats per minute.

We need to secure the airway, Sam said as she reached for our equipment bag and handed me the intubation kit since I was nearest the patient’s head. I unzipped the cloth bag and removed the handle of the laryngoscope and selected the flat Miller laryngoscope blade and a 7.5 mm tube. I positioned myself with a knee against each forward stretcher wheel, and I placed my left hand on the patient’s forehead, pulling back to open the mouth as I positioned the blade in the pharynx. I pulled up on the handle and luckily managed to find the trachea on the first shot, pushing the end of the tube down to where it would assure a patent airway. By the time I had the tube secured, Sam had medical command on the cellular phone, and she handed me the receiver while she set about starting an IV.

The doctor on duty at Esbenshade Hospital, where we both worked, was Emily Evans. Emily directed me as I worked to keep our patient alive long enough to get him to her. I quickly gave her a report on what we had so far.

How long til you get here, Jay? Emily wanted to know.

Just a second, Emily, I said as I realized I’d lost track of where we were with all of the activity. I turned and moved up to the glass in the little door that separated the cab from the back of the ambulance and slid it aside.

Ritchie, how long?

Five minutes, our driver informed me. Are you two okay back there? It sounded like a rumble.

Yeah, we’re fine. Just step on it, will you?

I’m goin’ as fast as I can, he assured me. I slid the glass back and picked up the phone.

About five minutes, Emily.

Let’s hold on the atropine for right now, Jay.

Okay. See you in five. I replaced the receiver in its cradle and picked up the IV tubing and a solution bag which I ‘spiked’, meaning that I pierced the fitting on the bottom of the bag with the top of the IV line, and stood to hang the bag from one of the IV hooks that were mounted in the ceiling. I almost had it when the ambulance lurched, and I had to catch myself with a hand on the ceiling rail. I managed to regain my balance and finish hanging the bag. When I looked down, I saw that Sam had the needle in the back of the patient’s hand and was taping it to hold it in place. I grabbed the bulb of the pressure cuff and inflated it again, putting my stethoscope against the artery.

Eighty over fifty, I informed her.

This is gonna be a long ride.

You mean it hasn’t been already?

It was about 10:30 PM; our shift was due to end at 11:00. The interior lights were on, but the darkness outside still caused the reflection from the revolving emergency lights to flash on most of the interior surfaces. We had been on the Route 11 bypass, but as we came down the exit ramp toward town, we heard the familiar ‘woop, woop, woop’ of the siren, followed by a blast of the air horn. The ambulance shuddered and rocked lightly as we hit a pothole coming off the ramp.

The call had been for an emotional disorder on the east side of town, out in the farmland that seemed to look more desolate and distressed each time we went there. The whole area seemed to be slowly dyingit seemed to have a gray pallor even when the sun was out.

The patient’s mother had come home from work to find Frank sitting on the back porch with a shotgun, staring out into the woods and crying. In a panic she had called the police, who after some very careful maneuvering, had taken the gun from him. The man continued crying, however, sobbing about one seemingly unrelated subject after another. Not knowing what else to do, they had called us to take him to Esbenshade Community Hospital for observation and to await transport to the state mental institution.

My partner was good at talking to people in mental distress, and she seemed to be getting through to the guy. We hadn’t strapped him tightly to the stretcher because we were afraid it would further upset him. He seemed quite docile and controllable, and indeed he had been right up until Sam had begun questioning him about his family. They had been sitting there chatting quietly, when she simply asked him if anyone in his family had medical problems. The next thing we knew, all hell had broken loose.

Pulse is erratic, Jay. I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was really concerned, but she was always concerned about her patients, sometimes to the point where it drove her crazy. I took a look at the monitor and could tell that it was having a difficult time discerning the pulse rate, which was indicative of an erratic pulse. The rate it was indicating was fifty.

We should be there in a minute, I assured her.

Call Emily back, she said, shaking her head. I’d been partnered with Sam long enough to know to listen to her instincts. I picked up the phone again and dialed. Emily picked up on the first ring. She must have been waiting for the callback.

Pressure’s dropping, pulse is erratic and dropping, I informed her.

Push a half milligram of atropine, she instructed.

Sam already had the atropine out and was attaching it to its special syringe. I took the syringe from her and squirted the medication directly into a port on the patient’s endotracheal tube. Sam and I were both watching the monitor, and we both saw the patient immediately go into tachycardia. His heart rhythm had gone too far in the opposite direction.

Oh, shit! Sam said, voicing both our sentiments.

We felt the bump and light sway of the ambulance as we pulled into the hospital drive that led to the emergency entrance. As we pulled up outside, someone opened the ambulance doors and a blast of arctic air invaded the ambulance. ER personnel were already standing by to help with the stretcher and they unhooked it from its stays and lifted it to the ground, while Sam carried the IV bag and I carried the monitor. Emily was beside the patient before we even got to the doors, asking me for a report as we wheeled him into the trauma room.

We need the cart over here, Emily ordered. She didn’t raise her voice at all, but her confident tone left no doubt as to who was in charge, and the crash cart, with its defibrillator on top, was quickly wheeled into place as she cut what was left of the patient’s shirt off.

She took the paddles from their holders on the sides of the defibrillator and positioned them on the chest to get a 'quick look'. We could see that his heart was in V-tach.

No pulse, Sam informed her after palpating the carotid artery.

Let’s shock him, Emily said. Two hundred joules. I reached over and adjusted the dial on the defibrillator. Clear! Everyone took a step back as I hit the charge button and the machine whined up to power. Emily then hit the discharge buttons on each paddle simultaneously, and we watched the patient’s back arch and his hands jump as the electricity was released into his body. We could see no change on the monitor.

Three hundred, Emily said. I readjusted the machine and the process was repeated. Still there was no change. Three sixty. Still no change. The patient was turning an ever-deepening shade of grayish-blue before our eyes, and his skin had a pasty look to it. Nobody commented, but I thought it didn’t look good.

Emily palpated the carotid artery, then opened his pants and palpated the femoral artery just above the hip. No pulse. Begin CPR, Emily directed. Sam attached a bag-valve mask to the end of the patient’s tube and began squeezing it, and we watched his chest rise as the air was pushed in. I began doing chest compressions as Sam ventilated him.

We kept this up for several minutes, and then Emily administered epinephrine and shocked him again. Still there was no change. She administered lidocaine as we continued with the CPR. Still there was no change.

Another paramedic, Della Robertson, was just coming on duty to relieve me, so she took over the chest compressions as I got tired. We weren’t going to lose a young man without putting up a hell of a fight, but the monitor was now showing no ECG activity at all. After a while, I took over compressions again, but after ten minutes we still saw no improvement. Finally, Emily stepped back, her face reflecting a mixture of controlled frustration and resignation, and said quietly, That’s it, he’s gone. Note the time.

––––––––

Sam was sitting outside the ER on a concrete wall that followed the drive to the entrance. It was nearing 1:00 AM. We had put in a bit of overtime working the code and finishing up our paperwork, though neither of us minded. We knew after having attained the adrenaline level we had so late in our shift, it would be quite a while before either of us would be able to sleep.

The wind had died down, and I welcomed the cold, hoping it would help to clear my head and calm my nerves. As I approached her, I saw in the glow of the small lamps bordering the drive that her face held a look of fatigue with an underlying intensity that was magnified by the steam made by her breath. It was halfway through November and it felt like it. We had heard talk of snow already.

I knew, more or less, what was coming. I had known we were going to go through an emotional purge from the moment Emily had pronounced the patient. Sam was not one to harbor feelings for very long; she liked to get them right out in the open where they could be dealt with. In a way, I was glad my partner had to go through this process. By bringing it out and addressing it, she forced me to deal with it too, something I would not have done well on my own. I tended to let the feelings fester until they began to eat away at me.

I had brought us each a cup of coffee and sat down beside her, lighting up one of the few cigarettes I smoked daily.

That really is a disgusting habit, she said immediately.

I got up, walked a few steps away and sat down again. Christ, you sound like my wife. I only smoke a pack a week.

It’s still a disgusting habit, she said, sounding confrontational.

Are you okay? I asked.

I wish to hell people would stop asking me that, she snapped, as she turned to look at me.

Sorry, I said, shrugging my shoulders. It was the first thing that came to mind. Please allow me to rephrase the question. How’s your ass?

She had started to take a sip of her coffee and laughed, just a little, enough to spray some out of either side of the cup.

It’s sore. Now look, you made me steam up my glasses. The small wire frames that she wore were covered with fog. I couldn’t help but laugh a little myself. There was no denying the fact that my partner was cute, with her short, dark brown hair and delicate features. She had green-amber eyes, with irises that had small, vertical, yellow-white lines above and below her pupils that made them look like a cat’s eyes.

Her looks had not escaped my wife. Debbie was an ER nurse, and though she worked days, she saw Sam fairly regularly. Debbie was not particularly jealous, and she certainly understood that the partnership was strictly professional, but I was still treated to the occasional off-hand remark. Life is complicated sometimes.

Dammit, Jay, we shouldn’t have lost that guy! Now we were getting down to it.

Come on, Sam, you know as well as I do that this shit happens, I said, exhaling a small cloud as I turned my head away from her direction.

Twenty-seven years old. I can’t help but wonder if there’s something else we could have done, she pondered.

Don’t do that! I said adamantly as I turned back to face her. You know if you start that, we’ll both go nuts. We did everything we could do; no one could have done any better.

She sighed before she answered. I know. I can’t help but wonder what was wrong with him though.

Decker will do the autopsy tomorrow. Don Decker was the hospital’s pathologist. Actually, he was the only pathologist in the county, so he doubled as coroner.

Yeah, Don will look into his body and give his best determination, but what was inside the guy’s mind? What makes a person go off the deep end like that? I could see this patient had bothered her more than most from the pleading look in her eyes. She was searching for an explanation that I couldn’t give her.

People have been making careers out of trying to answer questions like that for a long time. Who knows? Maybe his mother didn’t breast feed him or maybe she did. Maybe his parents potty trained him too fast.

You know as well as I do the answers aren’t that easy.

I looked at her for a moment in silence. And answers are what you’re looking for.

Hell, yes. Are you going to tell me you don’t care about the answers?

Of course, I do, but I don’t think the answers are at the center of my universe anymore.

She looked at me with a strange look on her face I hadn't seen before. She didn’t say anything for a moment, as if she were weighing her thoughts. When she spoke, it was in a very soft voice. Did you have to hit him?

I felt as if a terrible weight were crushing my chest. This question had been in the back of my mind since it happened. I had been avoiding this discussion. I was supposed to be a professional. I wasn’t supposed to lose my cool. I suddenly felt as if I was suffocating. I had to move, to breathe, so I got up and walked a few paces away and stared at the parking lot, saying nothing. I couldn’t speak.

I felt Sam’s hand on my shoulder. I’m sorry, Jay, that was way out of line. Her voice was even softer than before.

I couldn’t look at her for the moment. I spoke to the air. I thought he had hurt you.

He did.

I mean really hurt you...knocked you out...given you a concussion or worse. I was angry.

I noticed. She paused for a moment and took a breath, looking up into the cold November night sky. I guess I’d get angry too if someone hurt my partner.

I didn’t mean to lose control. I still hadn’t turned to face her. She stood up and came around to face me.

I never should have brought it up. I’m just frustrated that we lost him, and...I’m sorry. I looked down at her face and saw it had softened in a way I hadn’t seen before. She reached over and took my hand and squeezed it. Thank you for worrying about me.

I felt self-conscious and took my hand back. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired, I said abruptly.

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. Yeah, me too. See you tomorrow?

The fact she phrased it as a question struck me as funny and I smiled in spite of myself. See you.

My 1977 Pontiac Lemans blew small smoke rings from the tailpipe as I pulled into the driveway of our three-story, flagstone dream home. It was over a hundred years old and had the dramatic yet quaint charm that you only find in old houses. There was a large porch in the front and back, and downstairs were huge casement windows that gave the interior a light and airy look. The third-floor windows were all dormers set into large gables on the roof.

The wrought-iron fence in front was momentarily caught in the headlights, and I realized for the hundredth time that it was in dire need of a paint job. The right tires dipped into the ever-widening hole in the asphalt I kept meaning to fix. Where the hell did the time go?

I parked, got out of the car and put my key in the lock of the side door that led into the kitchen. I stood there for nearly five minutes trying to get the lock that I had been meaning to replace to turn. Dammit, how did Debbie do it?

I finally gave up and went around to the front door to try my luck there. The gate between the front yard and the driveway squeaked mercilessly as I opened and closed it and began to make my way up the walk to the steps leading up to the front porch. The porch light was out, and I moved gingerly trying to be as quiet as I could. There was a large English boxwood on either side of the porch steps, and I walked with my hands out in front of me until I came into contact with the closest one.

I had ascended nearly to the porch itself when I stepped on a baseball bat that my son had left on the top step. The bat went rolling off the steps into the night, as I went crashing onto the porch on my face. I said something appropriate as I broke the contact between the porch and my cheek, expressing my frustration with my son and his unwillingness to put his things away. I had managed to get to my feet and was just about to put my key in the lock, when the door opened, and Debbie was standing there in her robe with one of my coats over it. I could see her well enough in the light coming from a small night-light in the foyer to see that she was not smiling.

I have said that my partner was cute; so was my wife. There were some physical similarities: Debbie was a petite woman, though not quite as small as Sam; Debbie had short, dark brown hair, but while Sam’s hair was curly, Debbie wore her hair in a pixie style. She had threatened to change the style several times during the course of our ten-year marriage, but I had always managed to talk her out of it because I dearly loved it as it was. It was one of the first things that had attracted me to her. In addition to her looks, my wife was one of the most intelligent people I have ever known, and her intellect is as much of a turn-on to me as her body.

She looked somewhat exasperated at the moment, and I noticed there was steam coming from her nose as she breathed.

Hi, I said. Having trouble sleeping?

Oh, no. Why don’t you do some more crashing and cursing; it relaxes me.

I kissed her lightly and made my way inside. It’s freezing in here! Don’t tell me the furnace is out again.

Okay, I won’t tell you. You’ll just have to figure it out for yourself. Debbie could have a very sarcastic sense of humor; it was another thing I loved about her, but there was no twinkle in her deep blue eyes right now. She had not had a good evening.

I took her in my arms and held her for a moment. Rough night, huh? She squeezed me back. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed right now."

Did you try calling Marshall Oil about the heater? I asked as gently as I could.

Of course, I tried calling Marshall. Those assholes gave me the usual run-around about how busy they are, and they’ll try to get to us tomorrow, and please be patient. Be patient until when, until we all freeze to death? I held her tighter and stroked her hair.

How about if we go to bed and warm each other up? I asked quietly.

Promises, promises. You know you’re too tired.

She had had a rough evening. Too tired to hold you for a while?

I suppose that would be nice. I took her hand and led her upstairs vowing to myself that things would look better in the morning.

––––––––

Fortunately, the heater was fixed by the time Debbie returned home from work that afternoon. I was at the kitchen table helping Melissa, our nine-year-old daughter, with her homework. The first thing Debbie did was wrap her arms tightly around my neck before she’d even taken off her coat. I stood, turning, and held her, not saying anything, but feeling her body against me.

Mom, I don’t understand this long division. What are you supposed to do with the remainder? Melissa asked her. I had been trying to explain it to her for half an hour.

I’ll help you in a minute, honey, she told her daughter. She pulled back slightly, took my head between her hands and kissed me. I’m sorry I was in such a bitchy mood last night. Forgive me?

Well, you certainly seem to be feeling better now. I guess I’ll think about it, I said mischievously.

Mom.....Mooooom, Melissa was demanding attention.

You’ll guess you'll think about it?! A little grin was just beginning to touch the sides of her mouth. I’ll make it worth your while...

Moooom. The girl was persistent.

Melissa, in a minute, honey.

That’s certainly the best offer I’ve had today. I teased her and her face changed to an expression of mock affront.

It had better be the only offer you’ve had today.

Moooooom! Melissa was starting to whine, and I could feel Debbie stiffen slightly.

Melissa, in a minute, she said quietly, but sternly. Melissa got quiet and sat pouting.

So ,what was wrong with the heater? she asked.

According to Stan, the nozzle was clogged.

The what?

As I understand it, the nozzle is the injector that sprays the oil into the firing chamber of the heater, and it got clogged up.

They just serviced the heater last month, she said.

Stan thinks maybe they changed the grade of the oil or we a got a bad tank full.

Well, as long as he fixed it. The little grin returned. What do you say we go upstairs and discuss things.

I sighed heavily; I couldn’t help it. I wish we had the time, but unfortunately I’m late for work as it is.

Oh, sure. Go running off to your little girlfriend, she said teasingly, but there was a barely perceptible undercurrent of tension. The pressures of raising two kids, keeping a house and trying to meet auto and mortgage payments, while more often than not working schedules that allowed us very little time together were beginning to put a strain on our marriage. A year or two before I never would have believed this was possible. Not Debbie and I; we were solid as granite. Dare I say it? Dare I even think that maybe the American dream was not all it was cracked up to be?

Come on Deb. Don’t start that again. Sam is my partner.

I know, I know. In the brave new world people will all have to learn to work together. I’ve heard the speech before. Just promise me some time this weekend? She looked vulnerable and beautiful and it was all I could do to tear myself away, but I had to go to work. I kissed her on the cheek.

It’s a date. I’ll see you in a little while.

She smiled at me resignedly. I’ll see you in my dreams.

––––––––

The ER was packed when I got to work. The fact that it was Friday night was not particularly significant; you never knew when it was going to be busy. Between the hours of midnight and eight in the morning, it was usually slow, but I had seen the place go from dead empty to standing room only in the space of five minutes on many occasions.

I had called ahead to tell Frankie Roscoe, the paramedic I was relieving, that I was running a few minutes late. Frankie was waiting when I walked into the EMS office where the medics and EMTs filled out paperwork or just hung out while waiting for calls or until needed in the ER.

Frankie was one of the best paramedics I had known. Like so many of the people I had met in EMS, he had grown up with a fascination for emergency services. He rode as a firefighter when he wasn’t working as a paramedic. He was a strong, stocky guy of medium height, and he had an ego as big as all outdoors that nobody begrudged him because in his case, it was warranted. Frankie had a reputation for being wild and sometimes a troublemaker, but when the pressure was on he was always as cool as ice, and when I had the occasion to work with him he always impressed me with his inventiveness in the field.

Well, I see the late shift is finally here, he ribbed me.

I’m sorry, Frankie. I was having a bit of a domestic crisis, I explained.

"I keep trying to tell you married guys there are advantages to being undomesticated. Fortunately, no woman has been able to put a ring through my nose to lead me around on