We get a call for an “intox.”

Bronson slams his 3-inch-thick paramedic textbook shut and says, “Yippiekai-yay.”

I shrug. Drunks are unpleasant, either passed out or on the verge of vomiting. It’s been a while since we’ve had a call where we’ve actually saved someone. But the computer screen says the patient claims difficulty breathing, and that means paramedics will be on our tail. This gets Bronson excited.

En route to the scene, he tells me he’s enjoying his medic class – school four nights a week, and paramedic ambulance rotations on the days when he’s not working. He’s studying anatomy and physiology right now. Next comes pharmacology, and then advanced life support, doing IVs and intubation. “The real deal,” he says. Intravenous drugs and assisted breathing are the only things that can save a cardiac arrest victim or a victim of a severe asthma attack.

We get to “The Junction” – the x-shape intersection of Flatbush and Nostrand avenues, an ugly edge of the otherwise leafy and bucolic Brooklyn College campus at the end of the no. 2 IRT line. Students emerge from the subway and fan out toward the green campus, with its stone and brick architecture, grass and trees in blossom, and small pond with huge red goldfish and lily pads. On the other side lies Bedford Avenue and its stately homes, as well as Midwood High School, one of the top secondary schools in Brooklyn.

This side of the campus is a shambles of discount stores and trashstrewn sidewalks. We spot our patient lying by the curb near a broken phone booth, one of the new crappy ones that don’t even protect you against the rain. It’s drizzling, and the patient’s face is wet. Past the grizzled beard and sunken cheeks I recognize Louie, a 50-something drunk we haven’t seen since last fall.

“It’s good to know he’s alive,” Bronson says.

In a fit of honesty, I just shrug. “I guess,” I say. I look at all the students, so young, with unflinching optimism written on their unlined faces, and then look back at the wreck that is Louie. His life took a wrong turn somewhere, but it’s probably impossible even for him to say where.

“Louie!” I say, squatting down beside him. “How are you?”

Louie gives me a fishy look. Then his gummy eyes close.

Bronson puts down our gear and, with his newly acquired paramedic’s knowledge and super-advanced stethoscope, checks out Louie. Bronson says there doesn’t seem to be signs of a breathing problem. Louie’s looking particularly scraggly, though, and reeks of sour alcohol. I slap his stubbly cheek to try and rouse him. He’s plastered.

Bronson takes out the paperwork. “Louie, what’s your last name?”

Louie’s eyes open. “The United States of America,” he slurs.

Bronson does a double-take. Odd responses are common in drunks: sometimes profound, sometimes sad, sometimes just entertaining. Bronson chuckles. “How old are you?”

“The United States of America.”

“Do you have any medical problems?”

“The United States of America.”

Whatever Bronson asks, that’s Louie’s answer. I glove up and feel through his jacket – maybe there’s some ID in there. Nothing. Not even a Medicaid card. If Louie were to die tomorrow, he wouldn’t even generate any paperwork. Only a ditch in Potter’s Field.

We lift him onto the stretcher and bring him to Kings County, where we bring all the street drunks we find, unless a family member requests a special hospital. I wonder about Louie’s family. Where are they? Do they ever think about him? Or did he burn all his bridges, and is now just a memory for them?

The triage nurse, one of the kinder ones working in this hectic ER, smiles. “Louie! I haven’t seen you since last fall!” Then she whispers to me, “I thought he must have died somewhere.”

We transfer him onto a clean gurney and the nurse hooks him up to an electronic monitor, which takes his vitals. Then she checks his blood sugar. It’s high. Like many drunks, he’s got diabetes. Alcohol metabolizes into pure glucose, and Louie’s system can no longer produce enough insulin. His liver must be in pretty bad shape, too. Not to mention his kidneys, from processing all that poison. His heart is probably enlarged, and the monitor shows his blood pressure is high. And he probably eats junk food, which means clogged arteries. At his age, with his unhealthy “lifestyle,” a heart attack or stroke is right around the corner. “All in all, it’s amazing he made it through the winter,” I say.

The nurse shrugs. “It was mild,” she says. “Only one snowfall.”

I guess he found shelter somewhere. But where? The subway tunnels? “Louie?” I ask. “Do you live anywhere?”

Almost angelic, with his damp, greasy head resting on the clean, bleached hospital sheets, he opens his eyes and answers simply, “The United States of America.”

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.