“With A Little Help from my Friends”
Camille Sullivan
What the hell was that? I rushed into the clean utility room, slammed the door, and fell back on it, my breath coming in gasps. Damn, girl, get it together. I tried to calm my racing pulse and the thoughts careening wildly in my head. Handsome, charming men were fixtures at my job, and it made not one iota of difference to me.
It was readily apparent from the way I presented myself at the hospital that I was there to run the Emergency Department, not find someone to warm my bed. Not even to find male companionship. I bent, rested shaking hands on my knees, and squeezed both eyes shut tight. Good thing Luckie hadn’t seen my performance out there; I’d never have heard the end of it. Check on the supplies? The doctor? Good Lord. I’d stammered and stuttered like a middle school girl. Probably blushed, too. He was handsome but not perfectly so. Thick, dark hair touched with just a bit of gray at the temples, but that had to be premature. Wide shoulders and biceps ever so slightly straining the arms of his dark tee. Velvety brown eyes, soft and deep enough to fall into. Tall—really tall—maybe six two? Tall enough that I’d have to rest my hands on his shoulders and tiptoe to reach that soft, full mouth. Again, what the hell? Everyone who knew me knew I didn’t do this. But that mouth…
The door opening unexpectedly shoved me out of the way. “What the hell’s up with this damned Autoclave? Flooded the hall yesterday, and now the suture sets are soaking wet? I’m getting reamed out by Dr. Dickless. I swear to almighty fuck, Cam, that turd-polishing monkey’s asshole is dancing on my last nerve.”
Luckie was seriously steamed, and I was in her way. “I’ll call maintenance, girl, but you know the story…” I sent an eye-roll her way.
“Yeah, well.” She swung a look my way. “What’s your problem? Seriously.” She tilted her head and regarded me for a moment. “You look like someone just stole your crayons.”
I schooled my face and busied myself by rearranging the instrument packs. “Nothing at all. Just a busy day. It’s crazy up in here…”
“I’ll say.” Samanthe breezed in just then, swinging the door shut before leaning on it with a sigh.
But Luckie wasn’t distracted in the least; she squinted at me. “You’re such a lying little bitch. I saw you with tall, dark and fuckable. What the hell was that escape routine? You need to check on the supplies? Those sweatpants didn’t leave much of a guess as to the supplies he was packing.”
I had to get out of there fast. The glare emanating from my two friends was going to involve a serious discussion, and Luckie would see right through my excuses. “Everything’s fine,” I wheedled, “same as always. I was just distracted and I…”
“Look. You need to shut up right now.” Samanthe sighed and leaned on the leaking Autoclave. “The story’s heartbreaking, Camille. You’ve had a hard road to walk, but it’s time you considered the possibility of living again.” She brushed off my nonverbal protests with a wave of her hand. “It’s been, what? Three years? Four?”
I nodded my head in agreement. Four long years since I’d said goodbye to my sweet boy. How could anything be okay ever again?
Luckie emerged from the bottom shelf of the utility cart with an apparently dry suture pack. “Sam, I’ve got to get back to the nastiness awaiting me in room three, but Grace has suffered a tragic Code Brown in room seven. I’d lend a hand, but Dr. PissyPants awaits. Do you have time to help her out?”
Samanthe bristled but started stuffing her pockets with disposable vinyl gloves. “Of course I’ll help her, but stop calling me Sam, you deranged wench. Do I look like I have boy parts under these scrubs?” She stomped past us both but tossed out a parting shot with a smile. “I’ll do chest compressions all afternoon, but Gracie is gonna owe me for voluntarily helping with her Code Brown.”
We both grinned at our friend; we had all had more than our share of disgusting things to clean up over our years as nurses, but the truth was, nurses were virtually unfazed by the ick factor. When “civilians” found out I was a nurse, they’d inevitably offer gratefulness in the form of a perceived compliment about the profession—”You must be an angel of mercy,” or, “I could never do what you do.” It was a kindness, but mostly off base. Nurses were still widely regarded as sweet, gentle young women clad in angelic white, speaking softly and bringing the doctor coffee while he did important man’s work.
In the harsh light of modern day, doctors and nurses were nearly equally male and female, mostly clad in shapeless blue scrubs and constantly in a hurry to the next task, all while critically ill patients crowded triage and treatment rooms. The nursing profession required the ability to multitask, prioritize, give excellent care, and do it all with the compassion that drew a person to nursing in the first place. Some days, things just didn’t go to plan.
Luckie’s hand on mine brought me back, and I blinked up at her. “You know I love you, Cam, and I have since nursing school.” Her stunning brown eyes looked right into me. “But sometimes that means calling you out.” I swallowed hard and tried to pull away. “You’re too young to throw in the towel, baby girl, got too much ahead. You can’t just pour all of yourself into this department. It’s a damned hospital, for God’s sake. It’s a career—a good living—but it’s not a life.”
“I dunno, Luckie. I don’t think I can. Amos…sometimes it seems like yesterday, not four years ago. He took everything inside me when he left. Feels all empty there, like a shell.” I swallowed down the lump in my throat and wiped my eyes.
Her arms went around me. “That’s why you’ve got me. Hell, you’ve got all of us.” She whispered in my ear, “We’re an unstoppable team. And we’ve got your back, girl.” The huge eyes met mine again. “We’re going to have a pow-wow in the break room when this train wreck of a shift is under control. We’re going out, child. And by out, of course, I mean partying. Vivvie has the lowdown on a big party this weekend chock-full o’ cock. No shit, tons of men, hot as fuck. And this time, you’re going.” She flashed a big smile and swept out the door. I tried to grab her arm to protest, but she was gone.
Oh boy.
The day wore on, and a lull finally came around mid-afternoon. Room nine held a homeless guy sleeping off a bender; and there was one elderly gentleman, attended by his daughter, awaiting transport for admission, but everyone else seemed to have been taken care of.
I surveyed the carnage. The supply cart, which shouldn’t even have been in the hall, was. And it was totally empty. So really just a cart, I thought wryly. Half-empty coffee cups and charts littered the nurses’ station, but there was no staff in evidence. We would need to clean up, restock everything, and get every available housekeeper in here before shift change. The quiet never lasted long.
I headed toward the break room, trying to remember what lackluster lunch item I’d stuffed in the staff fridge at 0545 I hoped I’d remembered a peach; they’d smelled so good at Whole Foods. The break room door stood half open, and hilarity spilled from the door.
Luckie was holding forth on the seriously inebriated patient who had come in last weekend with glitter superglued to his nipples and encircling the head of his penis like a halo. We never lacked for stories to tell and retell. Some of the classics turned into yarns like fishing stories, the details becoming more outrageous by the year. It was our very own oral history.
“So he says…’Doc, they said it was a party, and I wanted to be dressed for the occasion.’“
Samanthe jumped to her feet amid the laughter and waved her hands to signal she had the floor. “Camille’s here finally. Vivvie, spill on the party, right this instant. Who even knows how long we have before the rug’s yanked out from under us again? Grace says it’s a pilot party—true or false?”
Vivian held up both hands, her face breaking into a huge smile. “The rumors are true. The hot-as-shit fighter pilots at DM will have the pleasure of our company tomorrow evening. The amount of pleasure and company up for grabs is left to the individual, of course.” I sank back into a corner, hands clasped behind my back. With no further detail than that, I wanted to disappear right into the floor.
I stared down at my Dansko clogs and felt Luckie’s arm come around my shoulders. “And, ladies,” Luckie announced to the assembly, “at this festive gathering, we will be joined by our esteemed leader, the lovely Camille.” Light applause and smiles ensued all around. I frowned at Luckie, but it was too late. She’d already thrown me under the bus.
“So, give us the skinny, Viv. How have you wrangled this invite and what’s with the details? Do we need to make an emergent trip to Nordstrom?” Samanthe did love to shop.
Vivvie pulled up a chair to the long break-room table, and we all joined her. “You all know that my brother flies Hawgs over in the 82nd, and they got a new commander after the crash a couple of months ago.” She grimaced, and a pall passed briefly over the room. We’d heard the accident report on the radio and expected to see casualties through our doors from the tragedy; the pilot had instead gone to Northwest, where he’d been pronounced dead on arrival. “Anyway,” she continued, “apparently the new guy is a certified hottie. My friend, who’s also Jake’s neighbor, called with the lowdown and an invite to his welcome party at the O’Club tomorrow night.”
Samanthe pushed away from the table a bit. “He’s gotta be a Lieutenant Colonel, at least, right? He might be a little too old. Worth a look, though.” She grinned big. “Who better to assess the situation than us? And I assume there will be a generous selection other than the new commander, right, Viv?”
“Obviously, Sam.” Vivvie grinned at Samanthe, who was having no luck shaking her despised nickname. “Here’s the rub, gals. It’s a flight suit party.” She surveyed the sea of blank faces. “Flight suit. You know, khaki jumpsuit, tons of pockets, name tag on the chest, zippered garment. Invented solely to make the tight little ass of every pilot look even more delectable.”
She wasn’t wrong. Davis-Monthan Air Force Base occupied a big chunk of southeastern Tucson, but it was not uncommon to spot pilots in the wild all over the city, easily identifiable by the aforementioned uniform item, a one-piece getup that made it completely impossible not to stare at the owner’s posterior.
“Here’s how it works,” Viv continued. “The pilots wear their flight suit to the party—they call them ‘bags’—and they bring an extra with them, which is hung in the big coat closet near the lobby. Half an hour or so after the guys get there, the ladies are invited to arrive, but before going into the bar, you pick a random flight suit from the closet and change in the ladies’ room. The sizing on these things is very generous and kind of generic, and there are adjustable Velcro tabs that make it all work.” Heads nodded around the room, and smiles broke out as awareness dawned. “After that, you just head to the bar where the pilots are already assembled, drinking and generally being badasses, and you find the guy with a name tag matching yours.”
Samanthe’s eyebrows went up. “What if I don’t like my guy? Or he’s married?”
Vivvie waved her hands a little impatiently. “It’s just an ice-breaking exercise to get everyone chatting. And the married guys bring their wives, already wearing their extra flight suit, so no harm, no foul. Don’t forget to get to know the married chicks; they’re a cool bunch of girls.” She looked around the table. “So we’re all in, right? Let’s meet at the gate at 1945. My friend will be there to escort us in, so don’t be late. Hey, Grace, wanna ride?”
The group reluctantly shuffled out of the break room to address the debris of our busy morning. Everyone chatted amiably about the interesting evening that lay ahead as we stocked utility carts, moved fresh linens, and stacked instrument trays. Everyone was excited about the possibilities, with one notable exception.
Me.
Code Brown—Hospital-speak for an epic cleanup of actual feces. Often requires stacks of linens, more than one set of hands, and a mop bucket.