#1: Wrong Number

1968, Petoskey, Michigan

By Rick Fowler

My first real paying job came as a 16-year-old at a Northern Michigan hospital in the late ’60s. My job description was under housekeeping, but as an asterisk to the job, I also helped deliver the deceased to the morgue.

One evening, I received a page from the switchboard operator who explained that there was a deceased that needed to be transported. My supervisor said, “Take Norman with you. Get his feet wet!”

Norman was from a small community in Tennessee, new to the area, new to the job. Tonight was his first 8-hour shift and he seemed a bit skittish on this, his first assignment.

After getting a gurney, we proceeded to the elevator and up to the third floor. We knocked on 301, and then entered to the side of bed 301 A. Norman was miffed by the appearance of the dead woman. Rigor mortis had apparently set in; her right elbow and forearm were cocked at a weird angle across her face. In addition, she was extremely obese.

After a bit of maneuvering we managed to get her onto the gurney and pulled the white sheet over the reposed body.

We pushed the gurney with our fragile package into the elevator and began our descent.

Then there was movement beneath the sheet. Norman’s eyes rolled back into his head as a bulbous arm swept back the sheet, and then he fainted to the floor as the sleeping pill-laden woman sat up and said, “Where the hell are you guys taking me?”

The operator had given us the wrong room number. It was supposed to be room 201 A, Not 301 A.

Rick Fowler is a high school English teacher in Boyne City, Michigan. He and his wife Sue have two teenage children, one cat, and an energetic dog who all contribute to a lively household.

#2: Running in Circles

1987, Sacramento, California

By Shawn Hansen

My first time wasn’t what I’d imagined.

It’s 2 a.m., and I’m looking for trouble. Rounding another corner, my headlights off, I scan the parked cars for signs of the auto-burglar who’s been mocking my district. The proverbial needle-in-a-haystack search, this rookie cop’s too naïve to care.

It’s my lucky night. Right in front of me, I see him working a car window with his Slim Jim. Holy shit.

I bail out of my unit, draw my weapon, and yell, “Police!”

He’s a deer caught in my flashlight’s illumination, and his eyes say he’s a runner. Holstering my .38, I bark the pursuit location into my radio and take off. I catch him in the alley; we’re in a stare-down.

“You’re a girl.”

It’s the kiss of death. He no longer fears being caught.

He scurries into a small parking lot and begins running around a car, while I follow as if the vehicle were a mulberry bush. Suddenly, he stops and stares over my shoulder. I’m unaware backup has arrived until I hear a voice behind me chuckle, “Need help?”

It’s my first time, and I’m caught running in circles.

Shawn Hansen worked for five years as a city police officer in Sacramento, California. She now teaches a variety of English classes at Sacramento City College and is a freelance writer. You can read her work at www.ShawnHansen.net.

#3: Fifth Gear

Early 1980s, Iowa

By Mark Cloud

One summer I worked at an amusement park. After being outfitted in my shame-inducing uniform of white bell-bottom pants, yellow short-sleeve shirt, and mesh ballcap with brown brim, I was put in charge of a ride I’ll call the Kilimanjaro (names have been changed to protect the guilty and civilly liable).

The ride had five gears, but the guy who trained me admonished that I should never, ever put it in fifth gear. “OK,” I said.

But after mind-numbing weeks of watching Kilimanjaro whirl round and round, up and down, curiosity got the better of me. Seriously, my teenage brain reasoned, what could be so bad about fifth gear? So one afternoon I went for it. I jammed the thing into the mysterious fifth.

The transformation was shocking. The thing immediately gained speed and careened wildly out of control. Centrifugal force smashed riders together against the outer edges of their cars. Peels of laughter turned to screams of terror. Pants were peed, onion rings were vomited.

I never put it in fifth gear again, so in a sense I learned my lesson. In another sense, there was that job I had the next summer at a grocery store. The walk-in dairy cooler had a lock on the outside of the door, but the assistant manager said never, ever lock it because one of the other bag boys might be in there. “OK,” I said.

Mark Cloud’s got to meet you by tomorrow noon at a bar called O’Malley’s for two things: (1) to cut through all this red tape, and (2) to plan some sort of escape.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, October 1st, 2007 | Email This Post

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