Beating The System
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

The call comes in for an “unknown condition” in Flatbush. “No further,” I tell Bronson, who as usual is driving like a caffeine-fueled madman. He whoops his siren to get through an intersection and some guy in a livery cab gives him the finger. Bronson instinctively goes to flip him the bird, but I grab his hand and hold it down. Bronson always likes to get even. But we’re in uniform. “Cool it, Dirty Harry,” I say.
We pull up to an apartment building that has seen better days. “This place looks familiar,” I mutter as we step out and gather our gear, slam compartment doors, and lug everything across the sidewalk and into the building’s grand old courtyard. “Some crazy woman.”
I look up at the peeling exterior and rusting fire escapes so typical of the once-glorious courtyard apartment buildings in this section of Brooklyn, and shake my head at what once an oasis of tranquility. “I’d swear this is the building.” I remember I had been working an extra shift without Bronson and the patient was on the fifth floor and wouldn’t open the door. Police officers had to come and help “escort” her to the hospital.
We press the doorbell. “Probably broken,” I say. It doesn’t matter, as the security door doesn’t close properly, anyway. We push through.”I remember the elevator didn’t work,” I say.
It still doesn’t. Bronson sighs. “I’m not in the mood to climb five flights up,” he says.
“I’m not in the mood to carry her five flights down,” I say.
A female cop comes across the lobby. “Came to let you in,” she says. “Heard you, but the buzzer doesn’t buzz back.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Woman on the fifth floor,” she explains, “wants to go to her doctor but won’t open the door. Screaming and yelling. I think she’s an EDP” — an emotionally disturbed person.
“I knew it!” I say triumphantly, and explain to the cop: “I had her last month.”
We trudge upstairs, hauling our gear. There’s a chair at every landing – they seem to have been placed to accommodate the mostly elderly residents who have to rest at every floor as they climb. I sit in one of them. “Beats fixing the elevator,” I say. “You gotta hand it to these slumlords.” I get up and keep walking, up to the fifth floor.
The cop’s partner is standing in the hallway next to the woman, who has come out of her apartment. She’s heavy, about 250 pounds in a flowered housedress and battered old slippers, and is sitting in the chair on the landing. The cop is pleading with her to go to the hospital. “Hey,” I say. “Remember me?”
She seems surprised. “Remember you?” She looks me up and down.”No.”
It’s not the time to reminisce, so I move forward with the situation. “What’s going on?” I ask.
She sighs and adjusts her cheap, honey-colored wig. “The elevator hasn’t worked in months, and I can’t get to my doctor.” People call 911 for rides to their doctor all the time. We’re an emergency response unit, not a taxi, but they know if they call us they don’t have to pay. It’s called beating the system. “We’re 911,” I inform her. “We only go to the emergency room.”
She grows histrionic. Says it’s her right to go to the doctor. Says who are we to stop her? Says this is America, she has the right to go anywhere she wants.
“We understand,” Bronson says. “But you dialed 911. We come for heart attacks, or if you can’t breathe. What you need is a non-911 transport ambulance.” But the woman is hysterical. I try to calm her down. “We’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” I lie, just to get her downstairs and into the ambulance. We’ll ad lib it from there.
She goes inside to get her purse. When she comes back out, Bronson has the star-chair all ready and opened. “Pop a squat,” he says.
“Please sit down,” I translate, and shoot Bronson a look. He makes a face and takes the handles of the chair closest to the woman’s head. I take one side of the bottom, and the male cop takes the other side. She’s heavy, awkward to move, and even though the female cop carefully guides us down, at every landing Bronson’s chest rubs against her head, which shifts her wig. “Fix my wig!” she shouts, every time. At each landing, he does, and she responds sweetly, “Thank you.” This happens five times. Inside the ambulance, she whips out a compact and fusses with her synthetic hair. When we get to the Kings County ER, she starts yelling. “I wanted to go to my doctor! You said you were taking me to my doctor!”
The nurses tranquilize her with a syringe.
“A bad situation,” Bronson says. “But who’s to blame?”
“The slumlord,” I say. “He should have fixed the elevator.”
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.