Welcome to New Orleans Vol. 2 The life you save may take your own: Welcome to New Orleans, #2

By B.J. Schneider

In the second volume of short stories, B.J. Schneider recounts more stories and events from his career as well as many tales from friends and co-workers. Spend time with colorful characters, bizarre patients and a city like no other as you ride the streets. You’ll again be alongside the medics of New Orleans as well as law enforcement from around Louisiana. Enjoy the adrenaline rush and the belly laughs but be careful it can be addicting. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xiphos Books
• Release date: Sep 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536578942

B.J. Schneider

The author got his first medical training in the Army in the mid-1980s. He has worked as a policeman, a paramedic, a Safety Manager and many other positions. He says he basically didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up. This book has taken form over many years and numerous fun evenings with friends. All these stories started as actual calls and have been told as stories at barrooms, diners and get togethers.  B.J. Schneider currently lives in the New Orleans area with his family and continues to work in the medical and health field as well as pursue a career as an author.

Book preview

Other Books by B.J. Schneider:

Non-Fiction

Welcome to New Orleans... How many shots did you hear?

Fiction

A Salty Life & A Traitor’s Death (A Hannibal Greco Novel)

WELCOME TO NEW ORLEANS Volume 2

THE LIFE YOU SAVE MAY TAKE YOUR OWN

By: B.J. Schneider NRP COSM

Copyright 2016 XIPHOS BOOKS

Copyright© 2016 by XIPHOS BOOKS

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Xiphos Books

This is a work of the author’s memory and impressions. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s feeble mind. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

For more information, visit

www.xiphosbooks.net

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all those brave and loyal, men and women of the Police, Fire, and especially the E.M.S. Departments that are no longer with us.

There are three men that without them, many, many of these stories would have never exist. Their friendship, tolerance and skills as partners made them great people to work with but much more importantly it made them great friends.

To my old swing shift partners:

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Brian Bordelon

Frank Petta

&

The closest thing to a brother

Raymond Mad Dog Mandola

Forward

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A friend that was recently reading volume one of this collection asked me question that I’ve begun to hear regularly from people that worked with me over the years. They asked "What about (insert story that I had forgotten here)?

I immediately smack myself in the head (No damage......steel plate) and wonder how in the seven rings of hell, could I have forgotten that particular nugget, that gem, that vaunted story just waiting for release.... Okay, maybe I went too far, but you get the idea.

I Think I know what it was. When I wrote volume 1 something happened about ¾ of the way through. I started having an idea for a fiction book (actually several stories) and was developing that story in my mind. I already had that list of 100 stories that I had listed when I started the project and I was working my way down that list as I wrote.

I think you’ll enjoy. All the same miscreants are here. Raymond takes his place early and often. There are also some new stories that were provided to me by great friends and co-workers that had the same urge as I did. They wanted the stories that they always tell to be immortalized in print. That seems like a legitimate request, so I thought I would do everything I could to obliged.

With that in mind the following stories are from three distinct areas.

Stories that didn’t make volume one (this was mostly because I was trying to hold to 100 stories)

Stories that I have been reminded of and felt truly needed to be added.

Stories that happened to others and were shared with me and are a great example of EMS and deserve inclusion.

So please dive in and enjoy. Get your gloves on and your street face in check. It’s time to run lights and sirens.

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Swing for the fences 

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It can be argued that the mind is the most important tool man possess. I can’t argue this, but after that, what is number two?

So, I thought I’d pin this down in my field. The question is, what is the most important tool a medic can possess? Not counting that swollen gray oatmeal above his ears. Is it the truck, the stretcher, his laryngoscope? I say no. It’s his clipboard.

The paperwork is always a huge part of being a medic. It is not glamorous. It doesn’t make great stories for me, but it is a required evil. Every call gets documented and this task can easily get you bogged down and struggling to get caught up.

This is never truer than when you run a critical emergency. Obviously during these types of calls there is no paperwork started. You’re too busy trying to save your patient to put pen to paper so you’re left finding a quiet place after the call, to get it completed, before you’re ushered off on your next call.

This particular day we had just brought a gunshot victim into Charity Hospital. I had passed off his care to the staff, and they were all busily trying to save his life.

I found myself sitting on a gurney along the main hallway of the E.R. working diligently on my report since the staff would want a copy for the patient’s records. I was trying to block out most of the turmoil and excitement around me to concentrate on getting all the facts correct. I am mid-sentence when I hear someone yell He’s escaping!!

I look up to see one of the patients is slipping out of his restraints and making a B-line for the exit. He is wearing prison orange and was secured to a bed so my guess is injured inmate. That’s merely a guess from my years as a trained investigator.

Our orange clad decathlete is now sprinting down the hall in his prison slippers. A hospital policeman has turned the corner behind him but there is no chance of him catching up. The only thing between him and the light of freedom is me!

The running man is paying no attention to me. His only focus is hitting the doors to escape, so I have to help if I can. I square up my position on the gurney ready to spring into action. As sprinting escapee gets to me, I rock back and swing the flat side of my clipboard. It squarely connects with his face. His head seems to come to a stop, and like an old peanuts cartoon, his feet keep going until his body is parallel to the ground. Then, as if he just remembered gravity, he falls to the floor.

I immediately return to my report wiping any evidence off the back of the clipboard onto the sheets next to me. The air of confusion is made complete by the policeman having not seen, or at the very least pretending he had not seen, the swing and hit.

I figure that now would be the best time to take my walk around the bases and get out of there. When I get to the truck I pass the clipboard to my partner as I get in. He takes it and asks why there is a face print in the back of the clipboard. I stuck to the rules at this point.

Deny everything

Admit nothing

Demand proof

Raymond Mad Dog Mandola 

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This is the second time in recent history that I find myself sitting down to write about someone I have recently lost. In this case, someone that I was as close to as a brother.

Ray and I had been friends since the 80s. We went from rivals at different high schools to cops at the Sheriff’s Office to medics in the same truck all the way to him living with my family for a while. This level of intimacy makes it very difficult to find a way to truly convey the friend I knew, in all his many varied ways.

I think the best thing I can do is tell a few stories that will hopefully help you the reader get a feel for Ray.

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Not until Christmas 

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Now Ray and Brian had been bickering back and forth lately, as partners do on occasion, but Raymond was not one to be bested. He would take insurmountable measures to ensure that he, even if not technically winning an argument, came out ahead in the battle. This being the holiday season I did not find it odd (much) to see Ray walking into the back bay of the station with a wrapped Christmas gift under his arm. This would soon change.

It was off hours, so it was just him and I in the bay. When he approached me. He had that conspiratorial look and evil grin that spent more than its fair share of time on his face. I knew trouble was coming and I was just hoping I was in a position to watch, and not be in the direct line of fire.

I need you to keep an eye out. Ray said

For what? I replied.

Just let me know if anyone else is coming and give me a heads up. I got a theekret Thanta gift for Brian. He says with the lisp he used to convey ill intentions.

I find myself playing look out for the original Bad Santa. He takes his time and jimmies Brian’s locker open and places the brightly wrapped gift box, decorated with a holiday bow. Ray even took the time to leave a card......

Several hours pass and we find ourselves at shift change back in the bay. Everyone is hustling to get off and swap out with the crews that are coming on shift. Ray is suspiciously hanging around near Brian as he opens his locker. Brian is surprised and appears genuinely excited to receive such an unexpected gift. I watch as he picks it up and reads the card.

Do not open until Christmas......Santa

Brian shakes the box and you can hear the contents bouncing around inside. By now a crowd has gathered and everyone is watching him with his gift. They are urging him to open it, asking him who’s it from, and you feel a level of curiosity from the group wanting to know more.

Brian succumbs to the urging, both heard and just felt through the vibe of the crowd, and begins tearing the paper away.

Ray has now worked his way up next to Brian as he unwraps his gift. The paper is discarded. The tape on the lid is cut. Brian pulls the cardboard flaps back on the top, and suddenly staggers backwards. The people around all lean in to see what’s happening as Brian lets out a disgusted gag and drops the box to the floor.

Inside the box is a very large turd. I would later learn that Ray had ever so delicately squatted over the box to provide the personal touch to the gift giving experience. Also in the box is another note written in large letters. It reads, I told you not to open until Christmas.

Pin up girl....... 

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Now friends are important in life, I doubt anyone could argue this point. Friends are there to help lift you up and give you those words of encouragement to move forward. They are there to share the highs and lows in life, making the highs that much more special and spreading the sorrow a little thinner during those dark times.

Raymond was my friend through all of these situations, but there is something else about really special friends that I failed to mention. They are also there to help keep you on the level and make sure you don’t take yourself too seriously. This story is about one such time between Ray, I and, unfortunately, the rest of the crews.

Ray and I were the Paramedics on swing shift. We were the two trucks in place to help cover the higher volume hours of noon to midnight. I was riding an old Harley at the time and I think Ray felt I was a little too serious about that bike. I was very protective of people fucking with it since I had worked real hard to get it back on the road. I took my riding seriously, almost certainly too seriously. When I would arrive at work, I would make a production of removing my leathers and would always hang my leather motorcycle vest over the handlebars. This was partly because I couldn’t wear it in uniform, but it was also me marking my territory.

The following information that I share is all second hand, since I was the butt of this little intervention. I have no doubt you will be amused with the thought of me learning all this afterwards.

It seems at some point in time I had made a comment that I wanted a picture of some sexy girl on my bike to hang in my locker. It was a stupid comment that I would live to regret. Ray had told his partner Patti (see Pranking Patti in volume one) that week to bring a camera to work. This is of course prior to the wonderful world of digital.

In the middle of the shift, Ray and Patti snuck back to the station, and they set up a little photo shoot with my bike.

Patti then had to take the film to be developed. She had to convince the person at the Fotomat not to call the cops once the pictures were finished. I can just see Patti, a dozen shades of red, trying to explain her way out of that.

Once Patti had passed on the negative (for those of you borne after 1980 that’s the thing film is converted to prior to being printed as a picture) Ray went about the next step in his diabolical plan. This plan was the long game. Several weeks passed as he ensured everything was in place........

The timing is finally right for his coup de grâce. This particular shift we are asked to stay late and make shift change with the regular night crews. I am held a little late by dispatch before heading back to the station. In hind sight, an obvious ploy by them at Ray’s request.

I arrive at the station and as I walk into the bay, there is somewhat of a crowd around my locker. I work my way through them and get a look at what is holding everyone’s attention. There is a huge ass poster taped up over the face of my locker.

The poster is of my motorcycle, which just so happens to be parked behind me in the bay as I stand there. The disturbing part is the model on the bike!

The model is wearing only a pair of EMS work boots my leather biker vest and a set of boxers pulled so far up the crack of the ass that they have turned into a thong. It is Ray in all his glory he is hunched over the bike back (and ass) to the camera looking over his shoulder like he was posing for the centerfold in Easy Rider Magazine.

The worst part of it all is he is blowing a kiss at the camera...................

That’s probably 20 years ago and I wish I knew where that picture was today......The internet is so worthy of a view like that.

Knock Knock 

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Now every time I saw an episode of some cool 70s cop show as a kid, I always thought about, how awesome it would be, to kick in the door and storm in after the bad guys. I think every red blooded American boy fantasizes a time or twelve about it.

It was many years later when I finally got my chance to live out that fantasy. It was a lot more work than it appeared on T.V. I learned breaching techniques and the use of a door ram but my favorite tool of all time was the sledge hammer!

I don’t know what it is. It’s just something about having a three-foot hammer with a big ass weight at the end that makes you feel all ‘Comic book Norse warrior’.

I was with a team serving warrants in New Orleans and the team leader said they needed to breech the door. Their plan was to kick it open and make entry. Well, I had just gotten a brand new monster of a hammer. It had a twenty-pound head on it and I felt like Paul Bunyan every time I hefted it.  I wanted very badly to try it out on a door.

I convinced the team that I should use my new toy to make entry. They foolishly agreed. The team finished their prep, taking the all-important time to gear up, both mentally and physically. Once everyone was ready we made our way silently to the door of the house.

It’s early morning and still dark out as we stage in a line. The entry team is on one side of the door while I am on the other.

The plan is, I’ll breech the door and they will make entry in the house. I will drop the hammer (see what I did there?) and come in the house as rear guard. That’s the plan.

It wouldn’t be a good story if the plan worked.

When breeching a door, especially with a monster hammer, the goal is to strike the door just below the knob where the power of the swing can exert all its pressure on to the locking mechanism and the door jam. This should cause either of them too fail, allowing the door to swing open. That’s the goal.

I got the nod from the team leader. We were ready to go. I hefted my tool and aim my swing. Everyone is tensed and ready to go. As the head of the hammer swings through the air I am mentally calculating the impact and trying to compensate for the weight of the overly large hammer I’m swinging.

The hammer makes contact. The problem is, it didn’t make contact with the door. I had perfectly struck the doorknob.

The impact of twenty pounds of steel on a twelve dollar Walmart doorknob had only one outcome. The knob was driven clean through the door. The house had a long entry hall that lead into a living room, with the