The night shift was a special shift to work for the New Orleans EMS division. Getting on the night shift was a respite from the supervisors, most of the general public, and most of all the news cameras. I had worked the day shift for a year and a half, and most of the outstanding calls I worked ended up with footage on television.

As a medic the last thing you want to do, if you are smart, is appear on television or in the newspaper doing ANYTHING. Cops think differently, and usually wind up on the news captured on video beating citizens senseless or crashing their cars into school buses. The detectives and arresting officers loved the television time, and most often made themselves out to be fools.

We would shy away from the cameras. The last thing you wanted was to be on the witness stand, vehemently defending actions that saved lives, only to have the prosecuting attorney turn on a video of the news that had you screaming at the traffic and wrestling overdose victims into the unit using the stretcher as leverage.

But my friend Placide, well, he fell victim to two things one day. The first was a lack of funds from the previous paycheck. The second was the relentless begging from a supervisor to PLEASE PLEASE work an overtime shift. By the end of his night shifts over the weekend Placide was easy pickings for the supervisor in charge. First, he well knew of Placide's lack of funds, having been in the same bar two weeks ago. Second, Placide saw the rising sun, and like most night shift medics his eyelids fell as the sun rose. So it was in this comatose state Placide agreed to the extra shift.

Unfortunately, he didn't hear a key piece of news. The shift was in the DAYTIME. Well, this did not bode well on many fronts. After calling the station a day later to find out what truck he would be in, which district he would have to alleviate, well, the supervisor informed him it would be in the 6th District, uptown New Orleans. Then the hammer fell. DAY SHIFT. 6am to 6pm, or whenever the dispatchers were finished with you.

Placide's heart fell as his eyelids grew wide. It was awful news. He quickly tried to get out of it. But the supervisors and administrators had already planned for this crawfishing from many a medic prior. The mandate was if you cancelled on an overtime shift you would NEVER GET ANOTHER. Well, that was bad, Many details were available to EMS in those days. Concerts, VP and President visits, high school football games, Tulane games (for a time), Mardi Gras parades, etc....So the specter of no overtime ever again loomed like a financial ghost over Placide's checkbook.

So Placide decided just to go, be done with it. As he got to the station house worse news awaited, however. Placide was going to be paired with Louis M., a notorious Paragod.

Paragods were medics that thought they were surgeons, general practitioners, electricians, and anything else the situation called for as far as specialties in general life. They were quick to inform the general populace, as well as his or her partner and any family and friends of patients around, that without his or her life-saving skills and extensive knowledge, people would DIE IMMEDIATELY.

There was a quick and easy way to identify Paragods and rookies. EMT's carry certain equipment on their belt to expedite emergency situations. Sharp scissors to get clothes away from wounds, flashlights, forcepts, tape, band-aids, general essentials for basic wound care and such.

But some medics took it to the extreme. You could purchase all types of "emergency care" equipment from some distributors, and Paragods and rookies alike spent many a dollar on unnecessary medic accessories.

So Paragods and rookies alike could be identified by their belts. The more equipment, the more that stuck out from their midsection. Like the rings of Saturn, these pieces of equipment would form an impenetrable circle around the medic.

Louis was one beltful of trouble. He was known as "Ricky Rescue" for his excited devotion to attempting any and all forms of public service. He helped stranded motorists, he tightened screws on doors on the way out of people's homes before transporting them, and all sorts of other helpful actions.

Unfortunately that did not always translate into a best practice in real life. And for Placide, on that day, it would prove job-threatening.

So of course as Placide gets in the unit, right at 6am, there's an "emergency call" for a seizure patient that washed most of his medication down with 40 ounces of beer. Placide drives to the call, they save the hapless wretch, then drive to the hospital. Then the sweet sweet words from the dispatcher at the end of the call. "6206, you're clear for your district." Ahhhh, freedom to drive around, find some food, or find a place to just sit quietly, sleep, waiting for the next medical distress in your area. Placide immediately thought of sleep. And now a passenger in the unit, Placide curled up in a ball, head on the side window, and promply fell into a deep sleep.

And sleep he did. I haven't met anyone that can sleep as Placide sleeps. He takes it seriously, he doesn't make mistakes. He sleeps. Hard. He hears nothing. And after working offshore, in ambulances, on busy freeways, or whatever else he has done in life, he can tune out ambient noise or any other distraction to sleep the sleep of the dead.

The one thing medics learn to do is sleep with one ear open so they can monitor the radio if their unit number is called. Placide had mastered this. He would not stir, move, or breathe irregularly at the hint of any noise; except the call from the radio for his unit number. And his only. He could sleep through any other. It was like a super-power, especially at night.

In fact, one partner told me that one night Placide had turned his radio down to a barely audible whisper, then promptly fell asleep. The partner also fell asleep, but not being as talented in this arena as Placide he would  toss and turn, and in a moment of panic felt he had missed a call on the radio. So he turned up the volume of his radio a bit. Then a call came out for another unit.

According to the story, Placide, without awaking, reached over and turned the volume down on HIS PARTNER'S radio, as naturally as if it had been strapped to his belt. Amazing.

Well, sleeping in the unit wasn't smiled on from administration, so the general rule was if you were to sleep, go find a hiding spot so the general public didn't see you snoozing while some orphanage burned to the ground. Not a good photo op, the administration would say. 

So when Placide fell asleep, he naturally assumed his partner would find a place to hide. It was a natural instinct for anyone working night shift. But not Louis. This was not part of his DNA.

En route to some public location Louis encountered a dump truck that had spilled it's load of dirt into the middle of a 3-lane busy road, S. Claiborne Avenue at Washington St. The police had been summoned, but as no officer had been shot at the scene, they would be a while. So Louis decided to park the unit EXACTLY 100 feet from the dumped dirt to divert traffic and avoid an accident.

Truthfully, most vehicles and drivers in New Orleans that ran into a pile of dirt at a high speed would suffer little to no injuries. It would probably sober up the driver and improve the value of the car. But Louis saw a chance to perform an additional duty. He turned a 40,000 ambulance into a lighted traffic cone.

Placide, of course, saw none of this. He was busy sleeping, ear cocked only to hear his unit number, and drooling on the passenger window. The sun was especially bright, a cruel addition to this daytime shift. So his eyes were closed tight and his brain was in OFF mode.

Some newspaper reporter was on his way to work, and saw the ambulance in the middle of the road. Lights on emergency vehicles draw reporters like moths to a candle. More like flies to a carcass. And you can't swat these guys away. So the reporter pulls up on the median, or "neutral ground" in New Orleans, and walks up to Louis and asks what is going on.

Placide missed all the embellishments of the story as Louis relayed it, being asleep and all, so he also missed the reporter's setup of a camera to record the event. He adjusted the angle to take a picture of the medics in the front seat, and you could see the dirt in the road through the reflection of a side mirror.

The result of this organized portrait was a dead-on photo of Placide's head pasted to the passenger seat, drool hanging from his lip, asleep. Front page, Metro Section the next day.

So the rest of the day Louis makes no mention of this, and Placide is oblivious to the fact that nothing newsworthy has happened all day. Being a night-shift guy, he doesn't read the daily paper. By the time you waked up the news is over, it is old. So his next day off is relatively quiet.

However, appearing at work the following night, he is summoned by the top administrator of the deparment. This woman loved to smoke, and smoked like a fire in the 9th ward. When she got upset, spittle would fly in all directions. So the unwarry Placide is taken to her office and presented with the daily paper.

Evidence, facts, theories, speculations, and lies were all aligned against our noble protagonist, and he had to endure a shower of spittle falling from a cloud of tobacco smoke. The ensuing ass-chewing was loud, profane, and energetic. This made absolutely no dent in Placide, who was busy working out a sleep schedule that would accommodate the 7th district. Seeing no impact from her frantic dialogue, the administrator tried harder, louder, and stronger. Finally Placide was released with stern yet useless warnings.

To be honest, his coworkers (including me) didn't make it easier by pasting copies of the front page to every locker, bathroom stall, and ambulance windshield in the division. The bottle of spittle-B-gone we had manufactured and put on the administrator's desk also contributed to a few profanities I am sure.

So now, a comfortable 2 continents away from the lowly victim, I can apologize for antagonizing the "disciplinary action" without fear of retaliation. At least until one of those Aeroflot jets starts circling my home, receiving instructions from some Ukrainian traffic controller......