Working with a new guy today. He told me his name, but I forgot it after I fell asleep. It was like, 4 in the morning. Cut me some slack, okay? He has had no fewer than 6 cups of coffee in the past 2 hours. So I call him Joe.
Joe and I get called to a house for a middle-aged dude with abdominal pain.
Abdominal pain has got to be one of the lamest complaints ever. After all these years, and responding to “abdominal pain” thousands of times, I think that maybe three of them were legit. One very serious appendicitis, one with a triple-a, and one guy that had abdominal pain secondary to the large stab wound he forgot to mention to the call-taker. The rest of them could be handled by calling a friend for a ride.
We are met at the door by what must be the complainant’s wife. Impeccible home, and I catch a whiff of vanilla coming from behind her. The money she spent on surgery certainly wasn’t wasted, either.
“He is in the bathroom upstairs” she says as she turns to lead the way.
She turns back as we step in the door. “Oh, but you need to take your shoes off.”
Joe will have none of it. It is his call, so I let him take lead. “Ma’am, our boots are part of our uniform, and they are part of our personal protective equipment. We don’t take our boots off.”
“But I just had my carpets cleaned.”
“Well, we can either walk upstairs to him with our boots on, or he can walk out here to our stretcher.”
“Hrrumph” she says as she turns and leads the way.
He is sitting on the toilet in the master bath. His door needs a biohazard sticker. This dude came up about 25 feet short of the toilet, and now his entire floor is covered with, well, you know.
“See” Joe says, looking at the wife and pointing to the bathroom floor, “this is why we leave our boots on.”
“But now you are going to track it all over my carpet!”
“Yeah, but it won’t be on my feet.”