Tell Me Exactly What Happened: Dispatches from 911

by Caroline Burau

I’ve eaten more Culver’s chicken strips than any one human ever should.

Let me give you a little backstory about me that will make the rest of this call easier to understand: I’m a dumbass.

Some people actually choose night hours … and even prefer them to day hours. These people should not be trusted. Their character disorders range from anti-management stress knitters to outright sociopaths.

DISPATCHER: “Ma’am, did you hurt anything other than your ankle when you fell?” ELDERLY FEMALE CALLER: “Just my pride and my ass.”

Long story short, don’t ever Google “gunshot wounds.” And now you’re going to because you’re human. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

DISPATCHER: “Do you have any pets that need to be put away before the medics get there?” ELDERLY MALE CALLER: “Nope, I’m her only pet.”

“This is Blah Blah County. We need a helicopter for a bus-involved accident to County Road 15 and East County Line.” “Okay, I’m not finding East County Line in my database. Is it called anything else?” “It’s the old Farm Bay Road.” “Is it still called that?” “I’m not sure. But it’s just about four miles north of the Walmart on 15.” “Do you have a proper address for that Walmart?” “You don’t know where Walmart is? How about the Pamida?” Oh, come on!

“We can’t have popcorn in here?” I ask, panicked. Popcorn is a full nutrient group on my personal food triangle, nestled right between Frosted Mini-Wheats and Culver’s chicken strips.

“Sir, is your friend completely alert?” “No, but I mean, he’s not the brightest guy normally, anyway.”

I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t want to be the one dispatcher who didn’t start an ambulance and then the little guy dies of PEP. (Pencil eraser poisoning; I just made that up.) No, thanks. “You’ve never heard of PEP? Didn’t you hear about that one case in Florida?” Okay, so PEP isn’t actually a thing. I Googled it.

DISPATCHER 1: “Did you fart?” DISPATCHER 2: “No! I NEVER do that in the comm center.” DISPATCHER 1: “In something like fifteen years, you’ve never let one go in the comm center.” DISPATCHER 2: “Never. Not once. If I have to toot, I step out.” DISPATCHER 1: “Dude. I’ve farted five times in, like, half an hour.”

If you ever find yourself in Betty’s position (and I sure hope that you don’t), think of the song “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees. That’s how fast you need to pump, about a hundred beats per minute. No joke. Love it or hate it, ’70s disco can save lives. Ah, hah, hah, hah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. Ah, hah, hah, hah, stayin’ aliiiiiiiive!! The Queen classic “Another One Bites the Dust” also works, tempo-wise. But I can’t recommend that one.

DISPATCHER: “Have you ever had a stroke before?” WIFE: “Yeah, I had a stroke a couple years ago.” HUSBAND (NEXT TO HER): “WHERE THE HELL WAS I?”

I find another site with advice about “turnarounds.” If I insist on switching from night shifts to day hours, I am told to nap from about 10:00 A.M. to 2:00 P.M., then just “potter around” for the evening. Also, eat carbs and crackers whilst pottering. I don’t know what this means. It sounds British.

“The ambulance will be there shortly, ma’am.” “Who’s coming? Is it you?” “No, I’m sending two paramedics over to help you.” “Oh, too bad. You sound very nice.”