November Writing Challenge, Day 8

Dot, dot, dot…

I have approximately 779 stories bouncing around in my head right now to elaborate upon. I know that it’s not necessary for me to only tell one, but I don’t want to wear out my welcome. Not everybody has hours upon hours to loiter online reading ramblings of the resident redneck. So let’s get down to it.

First of all, I have several prayer requests on my mind. And I know y’all count on me not to get all religious but one of my very-good-oldest-friends in the world lost her dog today. Well, technically it was her husband’s dog first, but she knew Buster from his earliest days. Emme and Buster were buddies when M&M’s relationship was blossoming. (This is also poignant-Emme had a last visit today with her old friend. And this is getting complicated, but the reason she doesn’t live with them is because she was a little short on patience when the girl children came along, so Emme relocated the grandparents farm). Anyway, the children are understandably upset-it’s their first close death experience, I’m sure MBM is distraught, he’s had Buster for like, fifteen years, and M is quite miserable with her own grief plus dealing with the girls’ trauma. So there’s that. Next is a lady I’m close with who lost her mother a week and some days ago. She is definitely having a hard time coming to terms with it, as you can imagine. Please lift her up. And lastly, Joe Woods. He’s broke his hip twice (I’m unsure if it was the same one both times or different) but really, I think he’s doing okay…I want you to pray for his caregivers as I’m sure he’s not the sunniest patient they’ve ever encountered.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled blog.

At first I pictured easing y’all into some different scenarios and leaving you hanging. Like, putting you on a rooftop balcony in the French Quarter in a robe, sipping a café au lait and watching the city come to life before you while the fog rolls in off the Mississippi, wondering what the day would bring in your new position as a Jazz performer at Preservation Pub…

Or what would it be like to wake up looking at the road every day. Climb out of your cab behind the wheel and take to the interstate for another ten hours, just rolling across America’s deserts and plains…

Or to wake up looking at the ocean, waves gently lapping in, bringing with it storms and treasures…

But I finally settled on this. I’m changing the lead character’s name to something I know it’s not even though I don’t really remember his real one.

It was a typical day at 911 dispatch. We were sitting around one Saturday eating Cheetos and Pop Tarts. The phone rang. A phone ringing in the dispatch center is unlike what you’re accustomed to, obviously. It’s a wailing, screeching, piercing, set-your-tongue-against-your-teeth alarm. Amazingly enough, you get used to it pretty fast.

“Sevier County 911, where is your emergency?” Possum answered. (We called her Possum because if she got mad at us, she’d sull up for awhile).

“This is Lonsdale Adams, 924-86-0000, and they’re tryin’ to arrest me!!!”

“Sir, where are you?” WpH2 (back in the day GPS) was placing him on a residential street in Gatlinburg.

“This is Lonsdale Adams, 924-86-0000!!!” Came his belligerent voice again. We’re all looking at each other incredulously. There were four of us in there that day, and the three of us that were muted were quickly conferring in a whispered tone what the hell the guy was talking about.

“It’s gotta be his social,” one of us said.

“I’m a ref-u-GEE up here from Katrina and they’re trying to take me to jail!!!!”

“Sir, where are you?” the dispatcher kept repeating. That is absolutely the first thing you have to establish with any call before the location is lost, because you can always send the cavalry to an unknown problem, but if you don’t know where to send anybody, there ain’t much you can do.

Thus begun the cussin’, the likes of which will not be repeated here. We gathered he was on an (adjective, adjective) trolley, minding his very own (adjective) business, trying to get home. It became clear around this point that he was quite inebriated. Code for that is ETOH on board. We could hear scuffling in the background and directly a stern, agitated sounding gentleman informed us that he was in custody of the Gatlinburg Police Department and thankyouverymuch. We disconnected with an audible sound of relief. What the heck?! People are crazy. We talked about him for the rest of the shift, speculating on what may have happened. We even listed to GPD’s radio traffic for awhile trying to glean more details. He continued to give his social in the background to anybody new. We decided he must have been in the military or something since he recited it so readily.

Weeks went by, and although we talked about Mr. Adams from time to time, he was eventually forgotten, lost in the shuffle of all the other crazy drunken phone calls we received on a daily basis. Evidently it’s not just exes you drunk dial, it’s 911, too.

It’s the height of summer and everything is booming in our tourist town.

“Sevier County 911, where is your emergency?” Again, same dispatcher.

“Hey, I’m up here in front of Puckers, and this guy fell in the middle of the road and he won’t let anybody help him…he’s pretty mad.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No, but I think he’s drunk.”

We can hear a man caterwauling in the background.

“Sir, without endangering yourself, could you check and ask if he needs an ambulance?”

“Uhhh…I think he’s alright. He’s just mad.”

You can tell there are a crapton of people witnessing this spectacle. And our caller kept saying, “I’ve got 911 on the line!” This was before YouTube was a sensation, or I’m sure I could provide you a link.

“Can you ask him his name?” Our dispatcher requested.

“Uhhhh…..sure….Sir, what’s your name?”

“Lonsdale Adams 924-86-0000!!!” he thundered clearly in the background. “I’m a REFUGEE from Louisiana!!!”

“Didja get that?” our good Samaritan asked as we all broke up laughing in dispatch.

“Yes sir.”

We sent the call on over to the police department and of course eavesdropped shamelessly on the rest of the call till they got there. It was highly entertaining. He really could cuss like nobody’s business.

So he goes to jail. Again.

A few nights later, I’m working and we get a request for a patient transport from the Gatlinburg jail to the hospital. Patient is complaining of chest pain. Sometimes they did this just to get a field trip, and really, I didn’t blame them. Imagine our surprise when gathering information for our card it was our good buddy Lonsdale Adams! Not to forget the 924-86-0000 part. If memory serves, he got halfway to the hospital and told them never mind, turn around, he didn’t think he was dying after all.

All is quiet on the Lonsdale Adams front for a good six months. Then one day…

“Sevier County 911, where is your emergency?” Possum again, of course. Because that’s how coincidence works.

“My wife’s not breathing!!!!”

“Sir, where are you?”

“This is Lonsdale Adams, 924-86-0000, in Gatlinburg!!! Send someone!!! Hurry!!!”

Everybody’s jaws dropped as our eyes bugged.

“Sir, what is your address?”

“We’re refugees from Louisiana!! Send an ambulance right now! She’s not breathing, she’s just sitting in her chair.”

Long story short, we finally extract the address, send help, and in the meantime we’re trying to get him to do CPR. Seems like he told that she had choked on her false teeth. I’m not trying to be funny, it really seems like that’s what he said. Anyway, the ambulance gets there along with the police, she is in cardiac arrest, and probably had already died but I reckon paramedics are obligated to perform CPR until a doctor is present to declare one dead. I’m not really sure. Maybe they don’t want the responsibility. Can’t say as I blame them. Or maybe they’re hoping to save one more.

Either way, they couldn’t save poor Mrs. Lonsdale Adams that day.

There was something fishy about the call and I remember we all were playing Angela Lansbury for quite some time afterwards. Her death appeared in the paper as “under investigation” and that an autopsy would be performed, but evidently that’s commonplace when someone dies of unnatural causes, or if they hadn’t been sick, at any rate.

I never did hear the verdict. And I think I recall seeing his obituary in the paper a few years ago.

People always ask me what my craziest call was. This one definitely takes the cake. It was the series of calls that made it so incredible; like a soap opera for 911. We would get “frequent fliers” aka drug seekers, but he was absolutely the most astonishing. I still wonder if he killed her…