Chapter 43
NIck
Excuse us! San Francisco Fire Department! Please let us through!” Captain Hyun’s voice is loud and commanding, but it’s like the patrons of the Drip nightclub don’t even hear her.
“Dispatch didn’t say anything about how fucking chaotic it would be here,” Tristan mutters from by my shoulder.
“Right?” I survey the scene.
All around us, men of all shapes and sizes dance and bounce in time with an incomprehensible EDM remix of a popular song.
Do they even know that someone is apparently passed out in the bathroom?
I wave at the club manager to get his attention. “Can we turn down the music, or something?”
“But the night isn’t over!”
I blink at him. He’s a middle-aged man, with more gray hair on his chest than on his head, and he’s wearing a silk shirt and too-tight black pants.
“Sir,” I say, as calmly as I can while raising my voice over the deafening music. “We had a 911 call about a medical emergency. Do you not have a protocol about what to do in this situation?”
He seems offended. “Well,” he begins brusquely, but he doesn’t have anything to add.
I haven’t been to the Drip before, but after tonight, I don’t think they’re going to have my business.
Just then, a youngish man muscles his way through the crowd. He’s shirtless, wearing black jeans, and has flushed cheeks.
“Excuse me!” he cries. “Are you the fire department?”
We all exchange glances. What gave it away?
Vinnie, of all people, answers. “Yes. Did you call 911?”
The man’s expression dissolves in relief. “Yes. I’m John Michael. My friend is unconscious in the bathroom.”
We follow John Michael through the club—dodging elbows and shaken asses—to one of the public restrooms in the back.There’s a line of guys waiting, and a cluster of young men in one of the doorways, looking worried and talking quietly.
Several of them spare appreciative glances for me, for Tristan—even for Vinnie and Charlie—but then seem to remember that we’re here for their sick friend.
“We found him passed out on the toilet,” one of the guys says. “He, um, he’s not wearing pants right now.”
Captain Hyun sighs. “Did you cover him up?”
John Michael cringes. “We didn’t want to move him. You know, disturb the scene.”
“What is this?” Vinnie mutters, “A crime scene?”
John Michael blanches. “No, not at all. He’s alive, I promise.”
“Let’s go,” I say, and Tristan follows me into the dingy bathroom.
The walls are covered in graffiti, the linoleum floor is peeling up, and there are no doors on the bathroom stalls. I’ve been to places like this before, and I imagine the stalls aren’t usually used for toilets’ traditional purposes.
In one of the stalls, a young man, maybe twenty-five, is sprawled on the toilet, legs spread wide, arms hanging down by his sides. He’s wearing a crop-top, and his jeans and underwear are around his ankles.
I can’t help but notice he’s impressively well-endowed.
“Jesus,” Tristan mutters. Then, he calls over his shoulder, “Someone get me a jacket! Or a shirt. Something to cover him with.”
One of John Michael’s friends strips off his shirt, hands it to Tristan, and winks at him. I glare at the friend, and he practically withers on the spot.
“He’s not dead, is he?” John Michael says. He’s clearly the most sober of his friends.
“No,” another friend says. “He moaned when we slapped him.”
“You slapped him?” Mila says behind us. “You didn’t pull his pants up, but you slapped him?”
Tristan and I wedge ourselves into the stall. Tristan drapes the donated T-shirt over the unconscious man’s naked crotch.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Mark,” John Michael says.
“Mark!” Tristan says loudly, gently shaking his shoulder. “Mark, can you hear me?”
“Try slapping him,” offers one of the friends.
“How about you give us some space?” Captain Hyun suggests.
“Do you smell that?” Tristan whispers as we check Mark’s vitals.
“What, body odor and urine?”
“Yeah. But what don’t you smell?”
I frown. “Lots of things. Snickerdoodles, sulfur, um… fresh-baked bread—”
Tristan rolls his eyes. “Alcohol, smart-ass. He doesn’t smell like alcohol.”
I glance over my shoulder at John Michael, who’s standing nervously in the doorway.
“How much did Mark drink before this?”
“Drink? No, he doesn’t drink. I mean, he had some water, a Diet Coke or two, but that’s it.”
“So he’s not intoxicated,” I murmur.
“His vitals all seem fine,” Tristan says, a perplexed look on my face. “Do you think—”
Suddenly, Mark sits bolt upright and lets out a yell.
“Who are you?” he gasps, staring wildly from Tristan to me and back again.
“Fucking hell,” Tristan says, clutching his chest. “We’re paramedics with the SFFD. You passed out in the stall here, and your friends called 911.”
“Passed out?” Mark says—and then he yawns. “No, I think I just fell asleep.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You fell asleep?”
“While you were, um…?” Tristan trails off and gestures at Mark’s distinct lack of pants.
Mark shrugs defensively. “What can I say? I’m a public school teacher. I’m tired.”
Honestly? Fair enough.
“Sir,” I say to Mark, “Do you need any medical care?”
“I need a nap,” Mark says grumpily.
“Maybe do that at home,” Tristan suggests.
Mark shrugs. “Can I get some privacy here? I want to put my pants back on.”
We leave him to do his thing and begin packing up our equipment.
“I’m so sorry I wasted your time,” John Michael says, looking mortified.
“Not your fault,” Captain Hyun says. She nods approvingly at him. “It’s always better to be safe than sorry. If he really had passed out, and you just thought he was sleeping, what then?”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Take care of your friend.”
We all shove our way out of the club, where people are now dancing tastefully to “Fire Burning" by Sean Kingston. I roll my eyes, but it’s honestly a good bit.
When we make it back out to our vehicles, Vinnie runs over to me. “Hey, Nick, got a sec?”
I lean against the ambulance and shrug.
“Sure, what’s up?”
Tristan climbs into the ambulance and shuts his door, though I can tell by his expression that he’s curious what’s going on.
Vinnie shifts awkwardly and then says, “Uh, John Michael? The guy who called 911? He gave me his phone number.”
My jaw drops open. “What?”
Vinnie holds out a folded napkin. Sure enough, John Michael’s name and a phone number are scribbled on it. Along with a little note that says, “You’re cute—text me if you’re interested.”
“Bold of him,” I comment.
“I kinda admire it, though, you know?” Vinnie says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You gonna call him?”
“Well, no, that’s why I’m giving it to you. I’m not gay.”
I laugh. “I don’t want it. Why’d you take it?”
Vinnie falters. “I—I don’t know.”
I sense that there might be a bigger conversation here than something we can talk about on the side of the road.
“Do you think Tristan might want it?” Vinnie asks hopefully.
“Nah, I doubt it,” I say as calmly as I can.
“Damn. What should I do?”
I shrug. “Maybe text him later to turn him down and politely explain that you’re straight.”
He nods. “Okay. Good idea. I’ll do that when we get back to the station. Thanks, Nick.”
“You got it, man.”
I climb into the ambulance.
“What was that about?” Tristan asks.
“John Michael gave Vinnie his number,” I say with a small laugh. “Poor guy.”
“Who, Vinnie or John Michael?”
“Both, maybe? Vinnie looked a little embarrassed, like he didn’t want to offend John Michael. He wanted to give the number to me or you.”
“Not interested,” Tristan says.
I’m glad to hear him say that. We haven’t defined what we are, but we’ve agreed that whatever it is has gone beyond just sex.
“I told him just to text John Michael and let him down easy.”
Tristan shrugs. “Or go out with him.”
I falter starting the ambulance.
“I don’t think Vinnie’s gonna go out with another man. He’s the straightest Straight Bro I know.”
Tristan gives me a skeptical look. “Do I hear you stereotyping right now?”
We back out of our parking spot and follow the truck, headed back to the station. “Maybe. I don’t think that Vinnie is interested in men.”
“People can surprise you.”
That they can, I think, as we drive through the night.