Rescue— By AndreW Plattner
Artwork by Arlene Tribbia
While C convulses at their feet, A and B argue. Too much, too fuckin’ soon! On his phone, D stands twenty yards away. This is the scene E comes upon. While keeping his distance, he catches the eye of D. Nine-one-one? D nods. C has gone lifeless. B is yelling that things are fine, and he props C into a sitting-up position. There are only the whites of his eyes. D and E turn rigid at the sight. C’s shoulders are shaken by B. F appears, cradling a terrier in her arms. She asks E what’s happening, and he murmurs he can’t be 100 percent sure, but he’s thinking overdose. D and E have dogs on leashes; D is a dalmatian, E’s a rescue mutt. A, B and C have very dark skin, B and C are dressed in rags. A is shirtless, in overalls. F whispers I’m a nurse and moves ahead, clutching the terrier. Don’t shake him like that, she says in B’s direction. A says let him be, let him be, while B yells fuck you fuck yourselves, I got this! He flicks a lighter in front of C’s face. Shining near C’s white eyes, the flame is horrifying. D and E move towards one another; their dogs, tails wagging, come together. I’ve been on the line for ten minutes now, D says. Good thing we’re not the ones they’re saving. He frowns harder. E only swallows. B drops the lighter, shoves something up C’s nose.
C vibrates, flops. Begins to windmill his arms. B pulls him up, and C’s knees buckle and he limbos, staggers, reels, like someone who has escaped a lab table. B strides away, yelling come on! I ain’t waiting. C wobbles after him. A, an older man, drops onto a nearby bench. D, into the phone, says, well they’re getting away. No, I wouldn’t say he’s all right now. F drifts towards D and E. Naloxone, I guess, she says. She appears downhearted. I have to get to my shift. E’s mutt howls at the sound of approaching sirens. The ambulance yanks to a stop along the curb. D gestures in the direction to where B and C have vanished. We’ve been waiting, D says. G, riding shotgun, jogs to where D has indicated. H, the ambulance driver, is stepping towards A. G returns, holding his arms out at his sides. Half block down the street, a firetruck eases to a stop in front of a Mexican restaurant. This is a popular restaurant; the police double-park in front of it all the time. Hand on her knees, H speaks to A. Can you tell me anything? she says, and when A feels the will to respond, he says one of these days. She says I hear you. The lights are flashing on the firetruck, the siren has gone silent. The howling of E’s dog ceases.
Andrew Plattner has published fiction of late in Tampa Review, Ponder Review, The Lincoln Review and New World Writing Quarterly. He lives in Atlanta with his wife, Diana, and has a novel-in-stories, Stymie, forthcoming from Mercer University Press.