Before I complete my training to enter the FDNY’s Emergency Medical Service, I have to pass the Emergency Vehicle Operator’s Course (EVOC). The course is designed to introduce students, in one week, to the mechanics of driving an ambulance.

The field course is set up in a parking lot at the far end of the Fort Totten military base, and the EVOC building’s classroom is cheerily hung with poster-size black and white photographs of ambulance wrecks. In the middle sits the simulator, a red FDNY ambulance cab housing a $350,000 computer system, surrounded by angled plasma TV screens displaying various computer-generated scenarios.

“Everyone gets carsick in this,” Instructor Lupino says, patting the cab lovingly.

The brick building has its own spooky, white-tiled kitchen with an antique freezer that looks like something you’d find in an old butcher shop.

“There’s some discrepancy as to whether this place was originally used as a meat-packing area or a morgue,” Inspector Lupino says.

I gulp. “That’s some discrepancy.”

He explains. “This whole place predates the Civil War, so no one really knows anymore what anything was built for. But you can see here where the blood washed down,” he says, pointing to the drain holes in the sloping floor. Down at the driving field, I have visions of a different kind of bloodshed. During the week we’re given different courses to run, set up on the tarmac with orange traffic cones. Some runs have alluring names, such as the Serpentine and the Switchback. Others sound terrifying, like the Brake Wall.

Some of us are experienced drivers, some are not. For me, driving a Type-I emergency truck is daunting. There’s no rearview mirror, and the whole thing is 23 feet long and 12,500 pounds. I sit in the seat, slide it as far forward as it will go to accommodate my short legs, adjust the side-mirrors, and look down the length of the box. I take a deep breath and start the vehicle.

I take the first maneuver in stride, weaving in and out of the cones. Miraculously, I don’t hit any. I stop and put the vehicle in reverse. I now have to weave in and out backward. I take another deep breath and look in my side mirrors. It’s all cones back there, a sea of them. I give it a little gas, and the cones all shift and change pattern. I can’t tell my left from my right. It’s like being 18 and taking driving lessons again.

I burst into tears. I don’t know whether it’s because Instructor Short and the entire class are standing in the blinding heat watching me, but I’m frozen in panic. I wipe my eyes and try to regain control before Instructor Short walks over. No such luck. He gets into the cab with me and talks me through the maneuver.

I make it through, taking out a lot of cones with me. But as the days pass I take out fewer and fewer, even though the maneuvers get harder and harder, and by the end of the week I’m feeling pretty comfortable behind the wheel.

Then I do the Evasive Wall. I am to drive straight for a wall of cones, and at the last minute the instructor will shout “Left!” or “Right!” and I have to turn that way, straighten out, and exit the maneuver without hitting any cones. It tests reflexes, hand-eye coordination, and mirror usage.

I don’t have the washboard abs required to turn a steering wheel with such force or rapidity, however, and I take out a wall of cones before I run clear off the course. I’m reminded of that scene in “The Little Rascals” where the kids in the go-cart hit the lady and her groceries go flying into the air.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell Connelly, one of my classmates. “There’s no practice session. We’re being tested cold.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you this is no joke?” Instructor Short says. “Didn’t anyone tell you to rent a U-Haul and practice this stuff beforehand?”

“Practice speeding towards a wall and swerving at the last minute?” I mutter to myself.

Exhausted, overheated, and frustrated, I march up to the simulator, where we’re tested every day on how well we handle a virtual ambulance in scenario traffic. As I climb into the cab, I tell myself, “I’ll go back to nursing school. Who needs this? What am I, Mario Andretti?”

I start the engine, and the simulator hums with an artificial sound. Putt-putting along the virtual highway, I note the surreal urban architecture, part Midtown Manhattan, part Super Mario Brothers. I relax. A virtual call comes in, and I check my mirrors, hit my siren, put on my directional signal, and pick up speed. As I slow down to pass some stopped cars, a minivan zips through the intersection on a green light and almost clips me. I make it through, but then veer into oncoming traffic to make the next intersection, where a pedestrian jumps out from behind a bus. Bam.

I come out dizzy, with sea legs.

Instructor Benjamin says, “Let’s go to the videotape,” and seats me before a video screen to show me the error of my ways.

“I ran over a person,” I say.

He winks at me. “At least it wasn’t a cone.”

Luckily, simulator scenarios aren’t critical failures, but are intended only to give us the feel of driving in traffic, and how easy it is to get into an accident. Only the maneuvers in the driving field are critical. All of them have to be performed successfully in order to pass what, to my little platoon, is rapidly becoming hell week.

The last day of field maneuvers, I’m in a state of panic. We get the feel of the antilock brake system by racing down a straightaway, hitting the brakes, skidding, and coming to a screaming halt.

“Did you feel the vibration of the pedal?” Instructor Short asks.

I cough as the smoke from the burning rubber dissipates. “I couldn’t tell with all the screeching.”

I do the Brake Wall again, avoiding a pyramid of cones while engaging my antilock brakes. Instructor Short orders me to accelerate heading straight for the wall, then barks “Left!” or “Right!” The point is to heighten awareness, not fear. We’re supposed to learn how to function under high stress.

But as I accelerate towards the wall I hit the brakes, turn my wheel, skid, and my reflexes lock up: I forget to take my foot off the brake to exit the maneuver, and I crash straight into the wall of cones. I get seven chances to do it right, and I botch every one of them. Instructor Short shuffles and marks points on my papers. By the end, my breath is hitching and I can’t tell my sweat from my tears.

During my last simulator scenario I hit a pedestrian, crash into a UPS truck, and clip a lady pushing a baby carriage. The street map we’re given is apparently of a tiny Alaskan village, all simple right angles, nothing at all like Brooklyn. And I can’t get the stupid radio to work. I burst into tears again. When I come out of the bathroom, Instructor Benjamin from class is standing under a tree. He motions me to come over, and asks, a little too carefully, if I’m okay. “I’m fine,” I tell him. “It’s just EVOC.” Gently, he lays a hand on my shoulder. “You know, I’m also with CSU.” He means Counseling Service Unit, the psychological support branch of the FDNY, where we’re supposed to go when the stress of our job accumulates and we need to talk. We had a lecture on it a week ago, with a video. The whole suave voice, hand-on-the-shoulder thing is exactly like in the movie! But I had no idea CSU’s operators would pop up in the field. I thought you’d have to go to headquarters or something, set up an appointment. I burst into laughter. “Really. I’m fine.” He maintains the velvet voice. “You can talk about anything. Job, home, stress…” I laugh again. “By the end of EVOC, I just might take you up on it,” I say. On my way back down to the field, I finger my uniform sleeve. “Oh well,” I think. “Guess I’ll use it as a Halloween costume.” If screeching brakes and burning rubber is what EMS is about, then maybe it’s not for me. In the blinding heat of the tarmac, I tell Connelly about the simulator carnage. He scolds me. “You idiot. You’re supposed to burst into tears on the driving course. Not in the simulator.” At the end of the day, we’re told who passed and who failed. I slaughtered everything in my path. And yet I pass. I approach Instructor Lupino, baffled. “But I’m a horrible driver.” He looks at his clipboard. “Not the way the points added up.” I gesture to the field. “Did you not see me take out that wall of cones?” He looks up. “We don’t count cones. We count technique.” I return to the group, stunned. Connelly, who also passed, shrugs. “Who can fathom the ways of EVOC?”