Okay, you’re an ambulance. I didn’t say it out loud, even though I find it hard to resist a straight line, a habit I’ve had as long as I can remember. I turned around at the sound of the bell when the door to Bloody Murder opened and was hit in the face with a blast of chill January air that reached to the middle of the shop where I had been dusting paperbacks. The figure in the doorway started to buckle about the knees without saying anything else.
This was not the typical reaction of a person when he or she first walked into my bookstore . . . not by a long shot. Usually, customers inhaled the smell of fresh Café du Monde coffee and smiled. If it were morning, they’d gravitate towards the freshly baked muffins, sometimes grabbing a book or two on their way. I sprinted the short distance from the shelves over to the doorway and managed to catch the figure under one bony elbow, placing another hand at the back and had to brace myself. My visitor was definitely male. I guessed he was anywhere between thirty and forty, now that I was close enough to see his face. He had about five inches on my 5’10”. Preventing him from falling turned into an all-consuming effort. For a slender guy, he had some weight on him. I tried to get him to his feet.
“What happened to you?” Why did you choose my store to collapse in?
He didn’t answer, but instead slid out of my arms and hit the floor with a serious thump, nearly taking me with him. I poked my head out the half-open door. It was a Sunday evening in the French Quarter; Royal Street was quiet. I didn’t see anyone on the street and only a few lights in my neighbors’ shops and homes. Much of the action the Big Easy was famous for was a block away on Bourbon, especially if it involved alcohol or sex. There would be plenty of time for both later. Right now, I needed to get the stranger all the way inside and get him some help.
After I dragged tall, dark, and unconscious all the way inside and closed the door, I knelt down beside him, trying to remember the last time I’d taken a CPR class. First thing, get someone to call 911. Right. Where was the store phone? Damn cordless. I could have left the handset anywhere. My cell phone was upstairs in my purse. I’d left it there when I changed clothes in anticipation of tonight’s date.
It was in the back on the coffee table by the fireplace. That was where I had left the handset, together with a fresh cup of coffee heavily laced with some Jameson’s Irish whiskey. The plan was to have a warm treat at the end of a cool night. I dashed for the phone, dialed 811, realized what I’d done, then dialed 911 while I rushed back to the man on my floor.
I was put on hold. I stared at the phone in stunned silence for minute before a disturbingly calm tenor voice came on the line. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“My name is Zofia Smith,” I said, slowing down to make sure I enunciated. “I need an ambulance. Royal Street and Saint Philip. It’s a business address, Bloody Murder bookstore. I don’t know what’s wrong. A man walked into my store and collapsed. He’s unconscious.” I passed a hand over his nose and mouth and didn’t feel anything. “He’s not breathing. Hurry!” After a reiteration of my name and address, I was told an ambulance was on the way.
What the hell was I supposed to do next? I wracked my brains, reaching into dim recesses of memory. Get him on his back, open the airway. His skin was still warm but it was also the color parchment faded to in the days before acid-free paper. I tilted his head back gently, put my ear next to his lips. Still no signs of breathing. Where was the ambulance? I was seriously out of my league here.
Two quick breaths? Three? Damn, I should have kept 911 on the phone. I made a mental note to call the Red Cross or the YMCA to get recertified and hoped this guy wouldn’t sue me if he caught the flu I was getting over. I chose two quick breaths. No response. I slid my fingers to where I thought the carotid artery should be—over a tattoo that looked like a stick figure with circles at the joints--and didn’t find a pulse. No pulse, start chest compressions. I remembered that much. John Doe’s leather jacket was partially zipped, his shirt a deep burgundy. I unzipped the jacket and when I pulled it aside, smelled something akin to old pennies that made my nose twitch.
The bottom of the sternum was much easier to find on the manikins we’d used last time I tried this, I mused. I guesstimated, lay three fingers down, placed the heel of my right hand on his breastbone, whispered a quick prayer, closed my eyes and pressed down hard. One. No cracking sound, so at least I didn’t break any bones. Something warm and wet leaked over my hand and my stomach leapt into my throat and did a one-and-a-half gainer. I forced it back where it belonged. I suspected what it was and kept my eyes shut. If I saw it, I was going to faint and the ambulance would find two people unconscious.
Two. My stomach clenched, the coppery smell was getting stronger. I wasn’t sure I was going to stay with it long enough for another couple of chest compressions, never mind a full set of fifteen, but I had to keep going. Three. I could do this. I was not going to let someone die because of a weakness I couldn’t control. I opened my eyes, which was a mistake. My vision began to tunnel, and I heard a ringing in my ears. Or maybe that was the ambulance? Four. Blackness encroaching. I looked down and saw my hands covered with blood that was spreading on my hands from just below his clavicle. Five. I can stand this just a little longer. Six. Just until someone can get here with paddles. Seven. Blood was rushing from my head. I felt myself falling over the guy. I hoped the ambulance made it before it was too late to revive him. I really didn’t want to have to explain this to the cops.