Customers, ‘Fisticuffs,' And Korea

Bronson and I get called for a man injured on 16th Avenue in Bensonhurst. Bronson's too busy driving to check the computer, so I tilt the screen and read the text aloud. "Seventy-eight-year-old male assaulted at the American Legion Hall. No further."

As we head over, Bronson tries to figure out what happened. "Probably robbed and thrown to the ground."

I stare at him. "That's precisely why you could never be a cop."

He takes a turn too quickly and I hold onto the door handle for dear life. "Explain," he says.

"You can't just make conjecture like that," I say. "You have no idea what happened. Could have been anything."

He shakes his head. "Right," he says, sarcastic.

I'm of the Kojak school: Look for clues once you get there. Bronson is of the Miss Marple school: Go for the psychology. "Okay, Miss Marple," I tell him. "Let's get there in one piece, if we can, and see."

We arrive at the dingy building and go inside. The Legion Hall is decorated with flags and war memorabilia —World War II, Korea, Vietnam — harshly illuminated by fluorescent bulbs. There are brown metal folding chairs stacked against the wall, and the air smells of stale cigarette and cigar smoke. Fliers taped to the wall show what programs they offer the elderly, including a reduced-cost lunch. A bunch of seniors is talking about what just happened. The director of the hall leads us to the patient.

For a 78-year-old, Mario is in good shape, his body sinewy and lean. He explains that he got into an argument with one of the other seniors. "It came to fisticuffs," he says.

I chuckle at the outdated terminology, and Mario politely waits until I'm done laughing. He sticks out his right arm and I notice a red bruise, as if he was grabbed roughly. He then points behind his ear, where he says the other man hit him. I look and see a red welt. "What did he hit you with?" I ask, thinking: blunt object.

"His fist."

The director appears with the assailant, an 85-year old, who's holding his hand as if it hurts. "This is the other guy," he says.

Suddenly, the two men start laughing like old friends. Bronson says, "Looks like you guys made up. So what happened? Why'd you get into a fight?"

Mario says it was all a misunderstanding. "We're really buddies," he says.

"From Korea," the second guy, whose name is Robert, adds. "We were playing cards, and I was winning every hand. Mario told me I must be cheating since I never win, so I socked him good."

"Right in the head," Mario says. "If you only had that kinda aim in Korea, maybe that crackpot wouldn't be building nuclear bombs."

Robert shakes his head in reverie. "I shoulda gone to school, 'steada goin' to fight."

Mario makes a "bah" gesture. "Ah, they wouldna taken you in school. A face like yours." As their banter continues, we ascertain that neither man wants to go to the hospital. "What I need a hospital for?" Mario says. "I should just sue Robert."

Robert brushes him off. "With a face like yours, you need the money."

Their injuries are only minor, but we'll have to go through telemetry because of their age. Mario is willing to speak with the doctor, but Robert says he wants to go home.

"Get outta my way," he tells Bronson.

Another senior sitting nearby in a folding chair, smoking a cigar, laughs, and says in an Italian accent, "Eh, what's a million dollars if you no gotta you health? You no gotta you health, you no gotta nothin'!"

"Tough crowd," I tell Bronson.

Mario, done with telemetry, nods and hands me back the telephone. "All of us," he agrees. "The real McCoy."

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician on an ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.