Another Drill
Ξ September 29th, 2009 | → 8 Comments | ∇ Uncategorized |
We got to do another drill last night. This was for a local city’s fire and rescue and was a lot smaller than the last one.
This time, the age limit on it was 10 years old, so I signed up DaBoy and his cousin to play, too. Randy refused this time; said he would just stand on the sidelines and watch because he’s a spoilsport.
At the last minute, we learned that the cousin couldn’t go, so Randy offered his services to take the cousin’s place. We signed in, got our tags and went to moulage where we learned, to our chagrin, that we were only covered with scrapes, bruises and lacerations. The scenario this time was a bleacher collapse, so there wasn’t a whole lot of carnage, although there were a couple of people who got to be dead and some that had pieces of metal sticking out of them. One of the makeup artists showed us a Bingo ball in a cheesecloth sling, meant to represent a dangling eyeball because he was disappointed that he wasn’t going to be able to use it.
Randy got all the skin scraped off one of his arms; DaBoy got bruises, scrapes and a bloody nose, and I scored with my makeup artist again, getting a cut on my throat, a torn t-shirt with bloody under it (that blood is *cold* inside a bra, let me tell you), and had apparently rolled in the dirt. We were the first there, so after we were made up, we had to wait while the other 100 volunteers were done. By the time they were ready to start, DaBoy’s nosebleed had peeled off. As they were ushering all the volunteers to the field, Randy and DaBoy went to their makeup artist to get more bloody. The artist grabbed DaBoy by his upper arms, plopped him down into a chair, and reached for his fake eyeball. Nevermind that DaBoy was classified as “minor injuries”, the guy just really wanted to use it.
The remaining handful of volunteers all gathered around and watched in awe as the artist slapped two-sided adhesive to my son’s face, stuck the cheesecloth to it, covered it with more adhesive, and then proceeded to coat the whole thing in about a gallon of gore. DaBoy, naturally, was delighted.
Finally, they turned us loose and we walked across the property to the bleacher site, being stopped several times so people could take pictures of the eyeball. When we arrived at the scene of the accident, the other 90 or so volunteers, getting a look at DaBoy, froze. Then a chorus of “ooooh,” and “aahhh” filled the stands followed by scattered applause and a rush to grab cellphones for pictures. That boy hasn’t had so much fun in years.
The coordinators told us that the firetrucks and paramedics were on their way, so we all positioned ourselves accordingly. They’d asked us to be combative, disobedient, unintelligible and generally not helpful. They didn’t want us to make it impossible for the rescuers, but they did want it to be difficult. So I decided to be the Mom From Hell. Randy wandered around like a zombie, and DaBoy plastered his hands over his face and began to scream.
The first firefighter on the scene grabbed me by the arm and tried to get me to go over to the “walking wounded” triage area. I screamed at him that I had to find my son, snatched my arm away, and he left me alone. Hee. I was waiting for one of the rescuers to discover DaBoy so I could run over there, shrieking like a fire alarm and get in the way, but before that could happen, I saw that DaBoy’s cell phone had fallen out of his pocket, and was being picked up by some little punk. He was turning away with his prize when I arrived and snatched the phone out of his hand. Without even so much as a glance at me, he walked away. I passed the phone off to Randy, who, since he hadn’t intended to participate, was the only one wearing clothes that actually fit and had pockets.
Deciding to stay put, I plunked down on the ground next to my screaming, writhing son and began hollering for help. The ground was damp and cold (we found out later that one of the volunteers had apparently gone into real shock or had a convulsion or something, needing real emergency care. We were told it was because it was so cold out there, and she’d been assigned to be unconscious, so she was lying there, not responding. Luckily, someone realized she wasn’t acting, and got her help. I guess if you need medical care, a disaster drill is the place to do it).
The first paramedic to approach DaBoy knelt down beside us and asked, “Are you okay?” DaBoy, covered in blood, with an eyeball smacking him in the ear every time he turned his head, began to giggle. I burst out laughing and even the paramedic laughed at himself. He circled DaBoy’s wrist with a strip of red tape, circled my wrist with green tape and went off to find another victim. There was a man lying behind me with a piece of metal sticking out of his stomach, shrieking for Jimmy John’s and wanting to know why nobody was taking his order. Beyond him was another victim, yelling at his mother, who was paralyzed about twenty feet away, that he’s never cleaning his room again. On the bleachers was a girl who had draped herself over a seat, hollering about being dead. And then I saw Randy.
He wandered over with this total blank look on his face, leading a paramedic. He stopped next to DaBoy and I, pointed at us and said, “Eyeball.”
“Yes,” said the paramedic, “that’s an eyeball. Now why don’t you come back over here…again…and sit down.”
“Eyeball,” Randy said more forcibly. The paramedic grabbed him by the arm and led him away and I collapsed across DaBoy’s chest laughing until I cried. “Was that Randy?” DaBoy asked, beginning to giggle again. He turned his head so he could watch Randy with his one eye. Randy had escaped his keeper and was zombie-walking back toward us again. Another medic approached, looked at Randy and then down at us. “Eyeball,” Randy informed him, pointing at DaBoy.
“Get him OUT of here,” I howled. “He’s scaring my boy!”
“Eyeball.”
“Okay, sir, it’s an eyeball,” agreed the medic. “I need you to come over here and sit down.” He began leading Randy away. Randy pulled away from him, extended his entire arm, pointed at DaBoy again, and said, “Eyeball!” The medic grabbed him more firmly, led him away and then came back with a stretcher. He left again to get someone to help and by the time they came back, Randy had come back as well. I grabbed the new medic and began babbling about DaBoy’s eyeball lying on the ground getting dirty.
“He’s got beautiful eyes!” I shrieked. “You have to stick it in a styrofoam cup and tape the cup to his face! I read that in a pamphlet! No, don’t TOUCH it, you’ll bruise it! Where’s a cup?” The medic looked at me like I was crazy, gently elbowed me out of his way, and they put DaBoy on the stretcher.
“I am unconscious from the pain,” DaBoy informed us. “He’s DEAD,” I screamed.
“Eyeball,” Randy announced.
“He’s not dead,” the first medic said, trying not to laugh. Then he looked at Randy. “Come on, sir, we need you over here. Follow the eyeball.”
“Eyeball!” Randy said happily, and began to shamble along behind us.
They took us to another area with all new personnel. By the time they got DaBoy settled, Randy was gone. I looked for him and discovered him sitting on the ground in a group of people with a large firefighter standing over him to make sure he didn’t wander off again. DaBoy and I were stationed next to a couple. The husband was on a stretcher and the wife was lying practically on top of him, trying to keep him warm. “Get a room!” I snapped. “Watch your kid better!” the woman replied, grinning.
“Where are we?” my son asked, trying to peer through the blood with his one eye.
“I don’t know; we’re still in the parking lot,” I said, looking around.
And then I saw him.
Randy, staggering toward us, arm extended, finger pointing…and a fire station commander in tow. Randy stopped at the head of DaBoy’s stretcher, tugged the commander forward and said, “Eyeball.”
“That’s right,” the commander said, looking frantically around for help, “That’s what that is. Now why don’t we go over here…” and he led Randy back to the area that everyone had been trying to send him since the beginning. He told me later that two other victims had thrown a screaming fit about being cold so that Randy’s guard would go get them a blanket. As soon as he turned away, they hollered, “Go! GO!” at Randy and he made his escape. Again.
At last, they loaded DaBoy up into an ambulance. One of the paramedics tried to get me to go away, but laughed and gave me the front seat when I told him that I am the mother from hell. “Nice to meet you,” he said, escorting me to the front of the rig. Then the wife that had been next to us was put in the seat with me. As soon as she got the door closed, she leaned over me and shouted, “I’m HERE, Kyle! I’m right HERE!”
The ambulance took us back to the station. When they let us out, one of the other medics came over to unstrap DaBoy. He got a good look at his face, and said, “Oh! Did you see the eyeball guy?”
“He IS the eyeball guy,” I said.
“No, the other one. Guy with glasses. Never said a word except ‘eyeball’.”
“Oh, THAT guy!” said another medic who happened to be standing there. “I saw him.”
“Everyone saw him,” said the first medic. “Do you know him?”
“I red-tagged him for transport,” said the second medic. “He’s obviously disoriented, plus he was making us crazy.”
And on that note, the drill was over. They gave us dinner, thanked us profusely, and waved cheerfully at us as each rig left the parking lot.
On the way home, DaBoy informed me that the next time we get invited to participate in another drill, he definitely wants to go. But even with the eyeball, Randy definitely stole the spotlight. Other families go on vacation together, or bowling.