Politics, and A Crack Vial Named Roger

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.

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My partner, Bronson, and I are having an intellectual political discussion.


“Bush is embarrassing,” he says.


“The Democrats are worse.”


“We don’t get with any political party.”


“We’re independent, we think for ourselves.” I blink at the dashboard. “I used to be into -isms.”


Bronson laughs. “College-kid socialism.” I make a retching noise.


“Feminism?” he asks.


I sigh. “Unfortunately, women can be deceitful.”


“And men are more honest?” I want to say men are more up-front. I botch it: “More superficial. I mean, shallow. I mean …” He makes two marks on a scrap of paper. “You’re 0-for-2.”


“I used to work in an office, and God forbid you wore the same outfit two days in a row. The gossip!”


He regards my uniform. “Hey. You wore that same outfit yesterday.”


I lean over and kiss his cheek. “I love you,” I say, and then bite into my sandwich. “Don’t tell Rachel.”


She’s the triage nurse he’s in love with. She works at Maimonides, where we hijack every patient to, just so Bronson can see her. “You’re going to propose, aren’t you?” As I say this, we get a call for a female “intox” in East Flatbush, a charmless area of storefront churches and junk food restaurants. “Lovely,” I say, radioing in our response. “Drink?”


“Drugs.”


“Betcha.”


He parks near a Jamaican Ital restaurant, the only decent food around. “A cruise with unlimited jerk chicken,” he says.


“Deal.”


Bronson wins. The patient admits to a 20-year crack and heroin problem. She’s 45 but looks 60 – skinny, with no teeth. “I got diarrhea,” she announces. I can already smell it, and her sweatpants are soiled. “I see,” I say, and show her into the ambulance. I sit her on the bench seat, which is vinyl and can be sanitized.


She proceeds to talk nonstop as I take her vitals, all the while eating a bag of stale hot dog buns, avoiding the green, moldy patches by ripping them off and flinging them to the ambulance floor. “Delicious!” she exclaims, gumming the sticky bread. “Can you believe they throw these out?” She says she gets them from the dumpster behind Food-Town. “I just got out of jail a week ago,” she informs me, spitting breadcrumbs. She then reaches inside her sweatshirt and moves her breasts around. It’s an amazing trick of anatomy, and I watch, fascinated, to see what she comes out with. It’s a crack vial with a rock of cocaine at the bottom. Bronson hits a bump in the road and the vial goes skittering across the ambulance floor. She leans over to fetch it and nearly falls off the seat.


“Sit, please,” I say.


“Gotta get my friend,” she says. She introduces me to the vial: “This is Roger.”


I take out my cell phone and text my husband the single word: LISTEN. Then I dial him and place the phone nearby, hoping he’ll tune in. This is in direct violation of all patient privacy laws, but so what? Then I stick my head into the front seat for fresh air.


“Poor ting,” Bronson says, in a Jamaican accent. “I know,” I gasp. The smell is overpowering.


“Not you,” he says. “Her.”


I can’t believe my ears. Who kidnapped my partner and replaced him with this impostor? “Two years on the street has made me more conservative than my Greek mother,” I say. “But two months in love with Rachel has made you more liberal than a Park Slope yuppie.”


Bronson hits another pothole and the crack lady starts cursing his driving, shouting a stream of obscenities. He amends his previous comment. “She’s hopeless,” he agrees.


“Whew. Spoken like the true conservative I always knew you were.”


He corrects me. “We don’t take sides.” I nod. “Right. We’re independent.”


“You said that already.” I blink at the dashboard and say, “I’m confused.”


At Maimo, I look at the patient’s ID to fill out my paperwork. “She’s on welfare, food stamps, and WIC,” I tell Bronson. “She also has a prescription for methadone. I guess to combat the crack.”


“Methadonians,” he says, like it’s a religion. “Rachel can’t get the asthma medicine she needs on her health plan, but they can get anything they want on Medicaid.” Rachel smiles at him from across the crowded ER. She really is striking: tall, with chestnut hair pulled back into a sleek bun, chartreuse scrubs, and garnet drop earrings that sparkle in the cold fluorescent light.


Jealous, I finish my paperwork and with a touch of sadism turn the foul-smelling patient over to her. “Last intake: crack, methadone, and stale hot dog buns.” I gesture to the vial in the woman’s hand. “And this is Roger.”



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


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