The High School Reunion by Nexxie Part III The ridge top made for a long climb unless you went straight up the rock face. Johnny stopped for a moment on the narrow trail, waiting for the absolute size of the mountains to seep into his soul. Just inhaling the air, feeling the immenseness of the outdoors and his own place in it was enough to chase the confusion away...usually. He tried again, taking a deep breath with his eyes closed, then opening them to focus on the rocky trail, the tall golden brown grass that swayed in the slight breeze, the lone wind-sculptured tree part way up the slope. He gazed at the almost painfully deep blue of the sky to watch as high fluffy cumulous clouds peeked over the top of the ridge before drifting off in an easterly direction. His mind remained under siege from a seeming hundred questions. I can't just walk away from the job, Johnny admitted... to himself at least. I don't have other options and, bottom line, I like what I do. So why do I feel like such a failure? Heck, Roy's content to do this and he's really a smart guy. He could have done lots of other things, but he chose fireman and paramedic. Why does the thought of meeting Artie Tyler get me so...so scared? There, I've admitted it. I'm afraid to see Artie again. That's stupid! We're grown men, not kids. Sure, Artie's still a jerk, but it's not like he's gonna hurt me now. What's he gonna do, insult me? Call me geek or pencil-brain? So what? I'm good at my job. I help people. I save lives for a living. I've been on TV...heck even Tom Jenson called me a hero right on his show. I wonder if Artie saw that? Two hours of hiking in the mountains brought Gage to a profound admission of the truth. I don't know why I'm scared. Not a satisfactory answer, but the best he could come up with. As the light faded he found a relatively level area and shrugged out of his pack. He withdrew his bedroll and the meager supper hurriedly thrown together. The sandwich and water from his canteen were enough to take the gnawing edge off his hunger. He opted to save the rest for a quick breakfast the next morning. For tonight, perhaps the stars would show him the answer to his dilemma. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Marco reached for a polishing rag and joined Mike in giving Big Red a rubdown. They worked side-by-side in silence, each wrapped in his own private thoughts and each suspecting that their private thoughts probably ran along the same lines. Mike moved into the cab of the engine and started on the large windshield. Marco watched the engineer for a moment, and then began on the outside. The glass barrier provided a measure of privacy while still allowing for a sense of teamwork. Both were extremely troubled, but hesitated to mention the subject that weighed so heavily on their minds. The two men stopped polishing long enough to watch the squad back in after a long run. Supper came and went while 51's paramedics responded with Station 110 to a boat fire. Roy slid from behind the driver's seat and headed for the locker room, his shoes squishing as he walked, wet uniform clinging to his form. Silently, if hesitantly, Brice followed, his uniform only damp in patches. At a guess Roy ended up in the drink. He seemed to have a penchant for that. Whether it was the stress of each working with a partner he didn't like, or just plain fatigue, the paramedics neglected to greet their shift mates before disappearing into the locker room. Marco slanted a troubled glance after them then walked over to the open door of the apparatus bay. Just for a moment he stared out at the sunset. The engine only had four runs today, but he was tired beyond belief. He felt, rather than saw, Mike join him in the doorway. The sun dipped slowly toward the horizon, sending highlights of pink and gold into the rows of clouds gathering a little to the north. Turquoise, blue and orange melted into each other before fading into a lavender sky overhead. What would Johnny do if he was here? Marco wondered. He would probably run for his camera. Roy would try to explain why the colors look like they do. Mike? "Sure is pretty," Mike Stoker commented. Yep, that's just what Mike would do...state the obvious in three words or less. Marco grinned. "It's the perfect evening for sitting on the beach with a pretty girl," he commented to his crewmate. They heard footsteps crossing the bay behind them and turned to watch Roy DeSoto pause before opting to join them in watching the sunset. At their inquisitive looks, he stated, "I don't want to talk about it." Unlike Johnny, who would never have let it rest at that, Stoker and Lopez just shrugged and returned their attention to the quiet evening. "He's a menace," Roy stated at last, wishing his partner was there to pry the information out of him so he wouldn't feel so much like a complainer. "Brice?" Lopez asked, already knowing the answer. It was all the encouragement DeSoto needed. "All we had was a female victim with smoke inhalation. I had her on O2 and was getting ready to call her vitals in to Rampart. Brice starts spouting off about violations. It was an electrical fire, 110's had it out in no time. The people on the boat were being transported to shore and the boat was undertow. He starts lecturing about the amount of booze on board and how the fire could have been prevented. Wham! The girl's boyfriend throws a punch, Brice ducks, and 110's cap takes it in the face. The crew doesn't like that and they try to subdue the guy while I check out their captain. The boyfriend is drunk as a skunk. He overpowers them and gets loose. I stand up and he pushes me in the water." Marco and Mike bit their lips. They knew Roy wished Johnny was here. For that matter, so did they. As the last of the orange disk that was the evening sun sank from sight, Mike pushed the button to lower the garage door. The three men hesitated, reluctant to leave the apparatus bay just yet. Chet Kelly poked his head out the kitchen door and spied the others huddled beside Big Red. For once too dispirited to crack a joke, he just joined the other three men and stood there in silent commiseration, well aware that there was a missing member of their crew family. "Do you...do you ever look back and remember what you wanted to be when you grew up?" Roy broke the silence with a question that had been stabbing the back of his conscience for several days. Marco didn't look surprised at the question. "I wanted to be a vaquero...a cowboy," he said, smiling a little at the memory. Roy chuckled. "I didn't always want to be a fireman. When I was growing up, I wanted to be a...you're gonna laugh...I wanted to be a pilot." Kelly snorted. "With your love of heights?" "Hey, don't laugh," Marco exclaimed, "everybody has dreams." As if by common consent, they hunkered down next to the engine, their backs to the big pumper. "What about you, Chet? Did you always want to be a fireman?" Chet looked sheepish. "When I was a kid I wanted to run away and join the circus. I wanted to swing on the trapeze--the Amazing Kelly!" He looked to see if the others were laughing. They weren't. "I wanted to drive a fire engine," Mike admitted. "Even when I was little I used to drive my toy fire engine to rescue my sister's dolls. I guess I am kind of living my dream." "So then, you're happy, right?" Roy asked. Stoker thought a minute and replied, "I guess so." Footsteps crossed the bay and stopped a few feet away. "What are you guys doing out here, for crying out loud?" "We're just talking, Cap," Kelly answered defensively. Hank felt a tinge of alarm and lowered his lanky frame to sit on Big Red's running board. He had an uneasy feeling the conversation was related in some way to Gage or the depression that settled on the station since his departure at noon. Roy looked up at his captain and asked, "Cap, what did you want to be when you grew up? Was it a fireman? Are you living your dream? Marco wanted to be a cowboy, I wanted to be a pilot, and Chet wanted to join the circus." The captain grinned. "Chet would." "Hey!" "No, Roy, I wanted to be an actor. I wanted to be in the movies." "So what changed your mind?" Roy persisted. Hank leaned his chin on his hand. "Ohhh, I don't know. There was a firehouse not far from where we lived. Sometimes I would drop by there and shoot the breeze with the firemen. They were pretty good guys, always had time to talk to me. There was one, Shorty Malone, who loved to tell stories. He could make you feel like you were right there with him in the middle of everything. I guess I had a lot of respect for those men. Eventually I decided I wanted to do that instead of acting. I think my father was pretty relieved." Roy shook his head. "I just don't know. Sometimes when my mother-in-law says I should have been a doctor, I wonder if maybe she was right." "Roy," Marco put his hand on the paramedic's shoulder, "if it wasn't for you and Johnny, this state, heck and maybe lots of others, wouldn't have paramedics. It was you and Johnny that made believers out of the doctors." The paramedic looked at his co-worker thoughtfully, then smiled. "You know, I think you're right. It was really Johnny, though, that made the difference. He was the one that kept after Dr. Brackett, needling, hinting, daring him to give us a chance." "That sure sounds like Johnny," Cap admitted. "But you were one of the first," Chet reminded, unwilling to allow Johnny so much credit. "You were the one that recruited Gage, and kept him from quitting when things looked bad." Roy acknowledged the accolade. "But I think if it was just me, Brackett would have just let it all fade. He didn't like the whole concept. It was Johnny's persistence, well...his and Dixie's...that finally changed the good doctor's mind. I wonder if he realizes that?" A little lighter of heart, Roy stood up and walked to the kitchen, his crew mates following as if a general exodus had been declared. From just behind the door leading to the dormitory, two eyes watched their departure with a pang of regret and a voice softly whispered, "I wanted to be a fireman." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yet another stupid house party. The woman, her hair perfectly coifed, designer gown exquisite, downed the remainder of the contents of her glass in an off-hand manner and scanned the white carpeted living room for something of interest to do. Same boring people, same boring food, same boring life. Nothing new here. She noticed the approach of a waiter bearing drinks and beckoned --anything to interrupt the tedium. The faux silver tray reflected perfect white teeth and dark brows beneath sun-streaked, wheat colored hair that framed a face tanned the exact shade of Malibu Ken. Peggy Tyler took the time to further examine the features of the tuxedoed waiter as he offered yet another glass of champagne. Probably a college student with more than one part-time job I would guess from the way he's eyeing my cleavage. She shot him an encouraging smile as she took a drink of the beverage and winked when he straightened his tie. How many of these boys are there? She wondered, scanning the room for clones. At least three that I can see. Where does Gracie hire her staff, Chippendales? Still, boys are a bit wearing. Where are the men? Peggy's perfect brow furrowed momentarily when her eyes lit on the two figures huddled in the corner gesticulating wildly and oblivious to everything and everyone else in the room. Well, obviously not here. Her lip curled in a derisive smile, Peggy Tyler threaded her way through the crowded room to discover what her husband and his best friend were up to. And they're definitely up to something, she concluded, although heaven knows it can't be anything too brilliant, Artie's already a good three sheets to the wind. She noted with disdain the array of empty glasses on a nearby table, each containing a toothpick. The glass in Artie's hand still held an intact olive and about a quarter inch of what she knew to be a vodka martini. I'm driving home, she decided, setting her own still three-quarters-full glass on the tray of a passing Malibu clone. At least I'd better if we're going to get there in once piece. "Man, I can't wait to see old Pencil Brain shoot outta that chair. This is gonna be great." Artie snickered and noted Peggy's delicately raised eyebrows, but opted not to explain. "With all the water he's gonna be drinking, he'll probably do more than shoot outta the chair," Ted Smithers responded, chuckling. "But how are we gonna get Don Carlo's to cooperate?" Artie put on a sympathetic expression. "My poor friend suffers terribly from a back injury. He needs a special chair for support." Oh brother, he looks like he's going to cry, Peggy thought, allowing herself to smirk. I wonder if that's how he got his father to settle out of court for him. It couldn't have been Ted's brilliant defense. "That's good, that's good," Ted responded, pointing toward Artie with a drunken leer, "but how do we take care of the ...you know." He looked at Peggy, obviously wishing she would leave. Artie followed his glance and made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry about Peggy, she won't say a word, will you, Sweetheart? She still wants that car she saw last Saturday. Anyway, I'll make another long face about how he has to follow a strict diet, no salt or something, and get them to make up a special plate and hand it to me. Then we just tip a waiter to deliver it. Piece of cake!" "Brilliant!" Ted exclaimed, "man, you are too much!" You've got that right, Peggy agreed silently, as she beamed a feigned approval. And I've got you two right where I want you. That Caddie is as good as mine. "Hey, I wonder if he's still a skinny geek?" "Don't know," Ted shook his head, downing the last of his drink and signaling for another. "What was it he wanted to be, a cop or something?" "No, no, get this!" Artie put one palm on Ted's chest and leaned forward as if to impart a confidence, "he wanted to be a fireman!" "No way!" Ted Smithers threw back his head and guffawed loudly, bringing all eyes in the room to their corner. "Seriously, I swear. I even offered to hire him to work in one of my stores. It was hilarious." Artie laughed at his own joke and downed the rest of his glass in a single gulp, then waggled his eyebrows as he popped the olive in his mouth with a flourish. He followed the action with a self-satisfied smirk. "What did old Pencil Brain say to that?" Ted asked, leaning forward in anticipation. "Oh, you know Gage," Artie chuckled, "his face got real red, he narrowed his eyes and clamped his mouth shut. Man, if looks could kill, you'd be looking at a dead man." Ted's appreciative laughter was cut short when Peggy asked, "Did he do it?" As they stared at her in confusion she elaborated, "Did he become a fireman?" That made for an interesting thought. She imagined a strong lean torso and bulging muscles. "Who knows?" Artie shrugged. Peggy looked at her spouse with a jaundiced eye. After college Ted spent the last six years managing his stores with very little time for exercise beyond the occasional trip to the golf course. His penchant for drinking, taste for expensive cigars and love of rich food combined with thinning hair to make the once athletic handsome boy she married into a rather unappealing man. Not that he considers himself less than a prime catch even now, she thought wryly. Arthur Tyler's extramarital affairs were common knowledge and numbered only a few more than her own. Loosing interest in the mutual congratulations, which her husband and his best friend seemed determined to enjoy for the rest of the evening, Peggy wandered toward the rest room that was set aside for the ladies. I wonder if he did manage to become a fireman? She tried to recall the image of the boy who created such a scene at the prom. "Artie, she said she doesn't want to dance with you!" The voice rang out over the dance floor and caused several couples to halt in order to watch the developing drama. Peggy's curiosity was aroused upon hearing Artie's name. A thin boy dressed in a black suit that looked more fit for Sunday School than the prom faced Artie in the middle of the dance floor. His date, Margie Freeman, looked on in trepidation, only her freckles lending color to her otherwise stark white face. Artie had one fist balled in a threatening gesture. "Johnny, please, it's okay, I'll dance with him this once." Margie put her hand on the thin boy's arm in a reassuring gesture, then stepped forward, nearly tripping as Artie clasped her hand and pulled her almost roughly into his arms. Unable to do more than stand back in the face of Margie's capitulation, the thin boy retreated to the side of the room and watched, his expression brooding. From her position on the floor as Chad Willis' partner, Margie observed the other couple with interest. In the course of the slow dance Artie's hands did their usual routine of exploration until Margie, intent on thwarting his increasingly personal attentions, finally let out a shriek and stomped angrily onto the boy's highly polished wing-tip shoes. Peggy had forgotten about Margie's date, but suddenly he was there. He used all of the strength in his thin body to give Artie a rough shove then put a protective arm around Margie to guide her from the dance floor. Faculty chaperones began converging on the scene as Artie, unwilling to let the perceived insult drop, gave determined pursuit, catching the unfortunate John Gage by one arm to spin him around. "Nobody shoves me, Pencil Brain, got that?" He eyed the approaching delegation of adults and lowered his voice. Unable to hear what her boyfriend said, Peggy nonetheless knew it had to be an invitation to "step outside"; Artie's own cockeyed code of honor would demand nothing less. She saw the thin boy nod and whisper something to Margie, who tried to protest. He insisted, putting a comforting hand to her cheek as she began to cry. Peggy followed the crowd pushing forward to better hear what was going on. Debbie Reaver and her escort offered Margie a ride home. With a dip of his head, Johnny indicated both his agreement and his gratitude. Everyone watched as, in a swish of floor-length ice blue taffeta, Margie Freeman departed the West Carver Unified High School Class of '65 Senior Prom only an hour into the event. "All right! Break it up! What's going on here?" Late as usual, vice-principal Jerrod Myers advanced to make a show of authority. Some of the students suspected that he actually preferred not to interfere. Peggy felt more inclined to believe that where Artie was concerned, at least, it stemmed from Myers' fear of Chas Tyler, Artie's father. "Nothing's going on, Mr. Myers," Artie replied, tugging his disarranged tuxedo jacket back into place, "just a little misunderstanding." He gave the smaller boy a meaningful glance, which was returned with a serious nod. Myers, relieved that there would be no further confrontation, smiled and retreated to the punchbowl followed by four or five other faculty members. After the music halted by the drama resumed, John Gage left the cafeteria. Artie Tyler, with Ted Smithers and another senior in his wake, left by a different door. Unable to follow, but sure that the smaller boy was in trouble, Peggy asked Chad Willis to escort her from the floor, no longer in the mood to finish the dance. Peggy Tyler brushed aside the ten-year-old memory with an impatient shake of her head. Artie would be Artie; the man never changes. But wouldn't it be nice if Jim Case isn't as much of a pushover as Artie expects? Her lips curving into a wide smile as she refreshed her lipstick in the large mirror of the spacious ornate bathroom, Peggy checked for any other damages to her appearance before returning to the party. The Malibu waiter caught her eye as he leaned casually against the bar chatting with the bartender, his very stance issuing an unspoken invitation. Well, why not? Peggy thought cynically. He probably needs the money. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Johnny lay back gazing at the night sky, still profoundly troubled. He tried to concentrate on the many successful rescues he and Roy were responsible for over the years, the faces of the victims that made it because of them. He tried to remember the satisfaction and gratification of being part of a close-knit team. He tried to focus on the life-saving skills that were almost second nature now. He tried...and failed. When his eyes finally closed in sleep, Johnny's dreams were troubled, haunted by the events and faces from his past. Johnny burst from the front doors of West Carver High, Artie in hot pursuit. Pops Henning pushed the lawnmower placidly across the grass that suddenly turned into a cinder track. Johnny glanced back over his shoulder to see Artie gaining on him, a coil of extension cord in his hand. Have to stay in my lane, Johnny thought to himself. I have to keep running. He looked down to see that he was wearing his track uniform, the wind kissing his face as he ran all out. Then the track became an open field with a closet, it's doors flung wide, standing alone at the other end. Gage ran, unable to stop, toward it. Suddenly he was entangled in a snaking black cord that first tripped him and then wrapped its coils around him, squeezing, suffocating, and bruising his arms and ribs. Artie laughed and pulled Margie from the closet shrieking and struggling while Johnny watched helplessly from the field. As his air was cut off and the world went dark, he called out with his last breath, "Roy! Help!" John Gage sat up in his bedroll, heart pounding, gasping for breath, sweat rolling down the sides of his face. As he became more fully awake he noticed the sun well up in the sky and knew he had slept, but it was a fitful sleep, a sleep without rest. Tired and discouraged he pulled the remainder of his meal from the pack and downed it with the last of the water in his canteen. Then he repacked his bedroll, canteen and cup, and headed back down the trail to the parking lot, the weight of indecision sitting heavier upon his shoulders than the backpack. No answers to his questions. No decision. No resolution. Just the high school reunion growing nearer, hanging over his future like a dark cloud. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dixie McCall exited Treatment One and shook her head sadly at the two soot-covered paramedics standing tired and bleary-eyed at the base station desk. "He didn't make it," she told them unnecessarily, her face and posture revealing the truth long before her voice gave confirmation of the fact. Roy DeSoto, his turnout coat hanging open to reveal the T-shirt that he'd worn to bed, now drenched in sweat, buried his face, eyes closed, in his arms that rested crossed on the counter top. "It just isn't fair," he murmured hoarsely. "I thought for sure..." The head nurse rested a comforting hand on the reddish blond hair. "Sometimes the most you can do just isn't enough," she whispered. "His parents?" "Both dead," Firefighter/Paramedic Craig Brice declared, a his voice bitter with defeat. "They didn't have a chance. That old building went up like tinder." Dixie watched him grope for a handkerchief, and then realize that he was wearing turnouts. She whisked a handful of tissues from the counter nearby and offered them, surprised to see what looked like tears streaming down the cheeks of the "Human Rule Book". Both men accompanied the gurney, one holding aloft several IV bags while the other perched on the rail in order to continue CPR as it raced down the hall toward the treatment room and the waiting doctor. Nurse Sally Lewis rhythmically squeezed the ambu-bag, struggling to keep in step until they could hook up the respirator. Doctor Kelly Brackett worked frantically in an attempt to keep the little boy alive, nearly barking orders as Dixie rapidly took a new set of vitals and the paramedics hung the IVs then exited the room. It wasn't enough. All of the technology, all of the intense desire, the vast knowledge, the practiced skill of a highly trained emergency room staff and two dedicated paramedics failed to save the life of the badly burned little boy who left the world before it had known him for three years. Roy raised miserable eyes, wishing for his best friend, wishing for his wife, wishing for a sane sensible world where going to work didn't mean watching children die. "What's the use?" he asked the room at large, not really expecting an answer. "Why should we break our backs, break our hearts trying...?" His mind replayed Johnny's bitter remark about a 'nowhere job for nobodies'. "Because, DeSoto, sometimes we win." The words that came from Brice's lips were broken and hoarse and barely audible, bespeaking a depth never before revealed. "Yeah." Roy wiped his face with one rough sleeve and slipped the Handy Talkie from the counter, raising it in a weary half-salute to Dixie before he trudged down the hall toward the exit, Brice following a few steps behind. Dixie stood, arms crossed, and watched their departure until she was joined by Dr. Brackett. "What's the matter?" Brackett's words startled the head nurse and she jumped. "I would have never believed it without seeing it on an EKG," she mumbled. "What?" Dixie nodded in the direction of the fast disappearing paramedics. "Craig Brice has a heart." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The trip back down to the Rover left Johnny hot and thirsty. He spotted a bank of vending machines near the parking lot, only their fronts accessible behind the wide chain mesh that stretched across the wooden shelter protecting them from the elements. Johnny popped in thirty-five cents and was satisfied to hear the can of Pepsi bump and tumble its way down to the opening. He held the can for a moment against his sweaty forehead, reveling in the sensation of the chilled metal against his hot skin. Johnny no sooner popped the tab and lifted the can to his lips than he felt a tug on his plaid shirt. "Hey, mister?" Gage looked down into the serious troubled face of a little girl. Clad in pink with smudges of dirt marring the picture of Strawberry Shortcake that graced the front of her shirt, her hair was dark brown and she had soft brown eyes. She reminded him of his partner's daughter. Streaks from dried tears made small stripes of clean in the dirty smudges on her cheeks. She must be about Jen's age, Johnny figured. "Hi. Whatsamatter? You lost?" Her head solemnly moved to indicate a negative as she replied. "Nope." A tiny hiccup escaped the small body to tug at Johnny's heartstrings. "It's Sylvester." She pointed at a nearby tree where a very fat black feline with white mitts and chest reclined on one of the lower branches. The cat perched just high enough to be beyond the grasp of a tall man. And more importantly, it remained well out of the reach of a very self-satisfied German Shepherd that waited expectantly below. Johnny grinned...his first real smile in days. It felt good. "Well, sweetheart, I guess you could use a little help." The child nodded in response, relief evident in the serious eyes. "Lucky for you I'm a fireman--and everybody knows we're experts with cats and trees." Johnny's mind flashed briefly back a few days ago to his rescue of Roger Pemberly and the man's reference to that very stereotype. He mentally shrugged. Well, Roy and I managed to alter Mr. Pemberly's opinion of the Fire Department. Now I'm about to reinforce that view in a little girl. Oh, well. The child's face brightened and she nodded again, this time more vigorously giving Johnny a happy smile--minus her two front teeth. He smiled back, completely charmed. "First let's take care of Fido, shall we?" At her nod he continued, "Do you know who owns this dog?" Two dark brown pigtails bounced up and down as the girl pointed an accusing finger at a pair of teenage boys seated atop a nearby picnic table lobbing stones toward a pyramid of stacked soda cans. "A woman of few words...I like that," Gage told his young companion as she marched by his side toward the transgressors. "'Scuse me, fellas," Johnny garnered the boys' attention, "is that your dog?" The boys instantly became defensive, their distrust of adults in general coming to the forefront. The oldest, a lanky boy with carroty hair, face a riot of freckles, stood to confront Johnny, his elevated position from the height of the bench seat giving him an illusory feeling of superiority. Johnny judged him to be about fifteen. "He ain't hurtin' nothin'," the boy replied, more than a trifle belligerent. "Well, now that depends on your point of view," Johnny responded, hands on his hips, his voice assuming a rather lazy drawl. "You see he's keeping my young friend here from retrieving her cat, right?" Johnny looked at the little girl for confirmation. The child nodded emphatically, crossed her arms and looked accusingly at the two boys. "Sylvester wants down," she asserted. "Hey, her cat was stupid enough to climb that tree..." the second boy, a smaller copy of the first, said with a shrug. "Well your stupid dog chased him up there..." The little girl glared at the older kids, not giving an inch. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. Now just hold on," Johnny stepped in to prevent an escalation of the argument into full-scale war. "From what I can see, Sylvester is wearing a leash, and your dog is not." Johnny struck an attitude of his own. "This park has leash laws. Your dog there is in violation. I'd sure hate to have to call the rangers over something this silly. Why don't you call your dog and hang onto him while I return Sylvester to his owner?" The boys clearly didn't like being outmaneuvered. "You this kid's dad?" "No, he's a fireman," the little girl replied before Johnny could respond. "Big deal! He's not your dad, and he's not a cop; he's just a stupid fireman." The youth elbowed his younger brother and both smirked. "The dog likes it where he is." The little girl stamped one foot, her face reddening with anger. "He's not stupid! Firemen are 'portant. My grandpa was a fireman and Mommy says he was a real hero!" "Oh yeah? How many cats did he rescue?" The boys prepared to tease the little girl, enjoying her agitation. Johnny felt his own anger return. Is there no respect for my profession anywhere? Small fists bunched at her side, the tiny warrior advanced on the enemy. "My grandpa died in a big fire. He saved ten people before the ceiling fell on him and killed him. He was a hero and you're just a stupid boy with a stupid dog and you can't even read a stupid sign!" The child pointed accusingly at a posted message: ALL PETS MUST BE LEASHED WHILE IN THE PARK Johnny's lip quivered as he struggled to hold back a grin. His young friend appeared to be more than capable of fighting her own battles. As the two boys jumped down and moved threateningly toward the child, Johnny advanced to her side, and placed one hand supportively on her shoulder. He squinted at the two boys who halted as they faced a more daunting opponent. "So, what's it gonna be, fellas? Do you restrain the dog or do I use that payphone over there to call the rangers?" Scowling, the boys sauntered over to the tree and dragged the disappointed canine toward a tan sixties vintage station wagon parked several feet away. The occupants of the vehicle, engaged in conversation of their own, scarcely glanced up as the large dog jumped through the open rear door and was secured inside. The two brothers, having lost face, wandered further down the sidewalk toward the brown clapboard building that housed the restrooms and park information. Johnny held out one hand to his small friend and asked, "Shall we see if Sylvester will come down now?" The ponytails bobbed in earnest. "Alrighty." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "'Bring a piece of memorabilia,' it says. What piece of memorabilia?" Johnny stared at the reunion invitation; unable to believe he'd missed that the first time he read the card...and every other time. "I didn't keep anything from high school except that stupid Year Book, did I?" Thoughtfully he walked into the bedroom and opened the closet doors then reached up to pull down a cardboard box, about fifteen inches square, from the top shelf. Spatters of dust trickled down into his face from the top of the box, making him sneeze. "Phew! How long have I lived here?" Johnny returned to the living room and placed the box on the coffee table. Before opening it, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped off the dust, then opened the tucked-in flaps. On top sat some old record albums, their jackets worn and faded with much handling. He and his aunt argued numerous times over these very LPs, whether they constituted music or just "noise". It was her console, as she pointed out, and only "real" music was ever going to touch the turntable. So, his beloved albums retreated under the bed, giving way to classical "uplifting" music...at least until she went out for more than an hour. The corners of his mouth lifted in a sort of half-grin. Wonder why the neighbors never told her? I sure played the stereo loud enough. Maybe they just had good taste. He looked doubtfully at the treasured disks. Those might qualify as memorabilia. What else is in the box? He pulled out a manila envelope, a faded red string extending from the top flap wrapped several times around the security disk. Johnny knew the contents, but it was many years since he opened the envelope. In the quiet of the evening, maybe it was time. Unwrapping the string he flipped open the top and withdrew a stack of photographs, pictures of his family, mostly people who were no longer living. The photos used to have the power to hurt deeply, but now they only evoked a pang of loss. Over the years the pictures acquired a musty scent, the smell of old paper and neglect. Some of these people deserve being remembered better than this, he thought, staring at a picture of his grandparents with regret...and some don't. He placed the faded snapshot of his Uncle Bruce on the table then changed his mind and sent it sailing toward the wastebasket where it made a perfect landing. I'll bet that's the straightest that old man has ever flown, Johnny mused. He carefully set aside portrait photos of his parents and grandparents, then returned the rest to the envelope and tied it closed. What else did I manage to keep? Several editions of the L.A. Times made a two-inch-deep layer. He scanned the headlines as he lay the pile of newspapers aside. The first moon landing, the first heart transplant, assassination of Dr. Martin Luthor King, Jr., Wounded Knee, troop withdrawals from Vietnam, Watergate...why am I keeping these? They're depressing. A dark red strip of crepe paper, crumpled, flattened and faded peeked out from beneath a stack of old Language Arts assignments and copies of the West Carver Sentinal. He carefully lifted the piece of crepe as his lips curled in an ironic smile. Now here was a memento for sure. Peggy Thurston struggled to close her locker; her arms filled with books, cheerleading uniform and pom poms. The pom poms, huge masses of slender strips of red and white, slid from their haphazard perch atop her Chemistry book and tumbled to the floor at her feet. As she held the armful of possessions in place with a delicate chin and bent down to feel for the errant items, they suddenly appeared before her nose and were piled back on top of the books. "Thanks," she said from behind the red and white pom poms to whoever restored them to her. "Hey, no problem," a voice replied. She couldn't quite place it. The troublesome bundles slid back down to the floor as she turned to push the locker door shut with one hip. "Oh, darn." This time the thin face of the boy from English class appeared before he piled the pom poms back into her arms. "Need some help, Peggy?" he asked, one hand holding the pom poms in place. "She don't need no help from you, Pencil Brain," Artie Tyler said from behind John Gage. Johnny felt Artie's hands grasp his shoulders a split second before he was roughly shoved aside, tripping as he sought to maintain his footing. "You need to be more careful, Gage," Artie taunted. "And you need to come up with a new line; that one's getting pretty worn out," Johnny muttered, watching from the floor as Artie took Peggy's books and walked with an exaggerated swagger at her side. A few pieces of the pom poms littered the floor around Peggy's locker. On a whim, Johnny picked one up and put it in his shirt pocket, later placing it in his dresser drawer for safekeeping. Johnny looked at the thin strip of red in his hands and gazed in the direction of the wastebasket, ready to turn the faded piece of crepe into a pea-sized paper wad to join his uncle's picture. At the last minute, the tiny strip won a reprieve. He laid it flat atop the newspapers, disgusted with his own stupid sentimentality. "I've got to be the world's biggest fool. Heck, she doesn't even remember my name." The box held little else, but one item on the bottom caught his attention. He picked it up, examined it closely and smiled. I have my piece of memorabilia, he thought, laying it carefully aside before he replaced the rest of the things back in the box and toted it into the bedroom. The box returned to its place on the shelf, Johnny looked at the invitation to see if there was anything else he had missed. "Dress is informal." Wonder what that means? I bet Jo would know. Blue jeans? Nah, not at Don Carlo's. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ After a long afternoon nap Roy wandered downstairs and gravitated toward the sound of Joanne's voice. A glance out the window revealed his daughter in the back yard trying to get the dog to sit still for a tea party. With no other voices giving response, he knew Joanne must be on the phone. "What? Oh, he's asleep still. He said it was a rough shift. ...Yes, well, he had Brice as a partner and there was a real bad fire last night. He said they were out about four hours. The whole family was lost. ...No, he just wanted to go to sleep. ...I'm sorry too, it was a terrible tragedy." Roy padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, searching for something to nibble on. Joanne must be chatting with one of the other department wives. He pulled out a carton of milk, closed the refrigerator door and opened the cupboard. Tongue between his teeth in concentration, bearing a startling resemblance to his small son, Roy reached for the top shelf and felt around for the familiar crackle of the Oreos package. I don't know why she bothers, he thought with a smile, I can reach just fine and Chris and Jen just pull up a chair and climb up onto the counter. Roy's probing fingers located the cellophane wrapped tray. He smiled in triumph as he withdrew the prize. Maybe it's some kind of game with her, a challenge to see how tough she can make it. "Informal? That means a tea length dress. ...Well I know that. For guys it means a suit or sport coat, but not a tux. ...Yes, definitely a tie. ...Well, wear your charcoal gray suit with that blue shirt. The ladies will fall over in heaps. ...You don't? Oh, in that case, wear that ugly plaid leisure suit your aunt bought you." Joanne giggled at the indignant response. "You'll do fine, hon. It's not formal, so you don't have to worry about which forks and spoons to use. Oh, don't tuck your napkin into your shirt, okay? ...I'm just kidding! Johnny, relax and have a good time and be sure to remember everything so you can tell us all about it. ...Okay, I will. Bye." Roy came running into the living room just as Joanne hung up the phone. His mouth filled with cookies, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk, and he struggled to swallow. Joanne looked at him in alarm. "Roy, what's wrong? Is everything okay?" The concern on her face elicited a nod from her husband, who raised his hand in a placating gesture and managed to finish chewing before he spoke. "That was Johnny? What did he say? Is he all right?" Joanne raised a delicate eyebrow. "Shouldn't he be all right? I thought he took the shift off in order to get ready for the reunion." Roy looked sheepish. "Jo, I kind of fibbed on that one. I didn't want you to worry. The fact is, Johnny got sent home for losing his temper at the station. The last time I talked to him he still hadn't made up his mind whether or not to go to the reunion, and the indecision was eating him alive. To tell you the truth, I've been really worried about him." Joanne sat down on the couch, not quite able to reconcile the mental picture Roy's words prompted with the Johnny she knew. "I was just teasing him," she whispered, momentarily lost. "I didn't realize this was so important." Seeing his wife's distress, Roy took a seat besides her resting his arm across her shoulders to give an encouraging hug. "You couldn't know, honey. There's something, call it a ghost or a demon or whatever, that he's fighting from the past and it has to do with this reunion. I don't know who or what he's afraid of, but it looks like he's decided to face it. I just hope everything works out okay." "What if it doesn't?" Jo watched a deep shadow pass across her husband's face. Roy sighed and covered his eyes with one hand. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Cap told Johnny that he can come back if he works this problem out. If he can't...well, I guess I'll have a new partner." "Oh, Roy! Oh, no. He'll work it out; he's got to. I can't imagine Johnny doing anything else, he loves this job too much." "I thought so too, but lately he's really been down on everything, the job, and his life...everything. And...I'm beginning to wonder if he's right. Am I wasting my time? Could I be doing something better? Is there a way I could be earning a better living for you and the kids? Am I risking too much just for a job?" Joanne put her head on Roy's shoulder. "That's what all those questions were about the other morning, isn't it?" At Roy's nod, she fell silent and reached to give his hand an encouraging squeeze. Jo listened to the sounds floating in from outside, Jennifer lecturing the dog on the proper way to use a napkin, a car passing on the street, the birds singing their evening song. The world should be sweet right now, full of promise. Instead, everything suddenly seemed poised on the brink. "Roy, if Johnny doesn't come back, if he doesn't find his answers tomorrow at that reunion, what will you do?" The response was less than reassuring, "I don't know." I wonder if John Gage has any idea how many futures depend on him right now, Joanne thought, picking idly at a stray thread on the sofa cushion. Can Roy go on doing this job without his partner and best friend? Do I want him to? Can I trust somebody else to take care of my husband the way Johnny does? The peace and quiet of the evening lost its charm. I wish tomorrow was over already. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The rich red fabric of the tablecloths draped elegantly to kiss the darker wine shade of the carpet. White linen cloths beneath peeked out and lent an elegant contrast, matching the flowers of the centerpiece. Red roses and white carnations were the official flowers for West Carver's Class of '65, and in this dining room they graced each individual table while a larger, more elaborate bouquet indicated the head table. A waiter stood ready to light the single taper candles, which would provide illumination once the ceiling lights were dimmed. Peggy Tyler breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Tantalizing aromas filtered in from the kitchen; the chef indicated that all was in readiness to serve the nearly one hundred guests that would soon be gathering for the class reunion. Bottles of Cabernet at each table, uncorked moments ago by the wine steward, held court over a circle of graceful stemmed glasses. Red linen napkins, folded to resemble full-blown roses, rested on each plate. Yes, Don Carlo's was definitely the right choice. She frowned. What on earth? A plain black metal folding chair, it's top just peeking over the edge of the table, made a jarring and unpleasant contrast at a table in the center back of the dining room. Peggy signaled the headwaiter with an imperious hand. Indicating with distain the offending piece of furniture, she questioned, "What is that doing there?" Mario tugged at his collar and donned his most condescending smile. "It was provided for one of the guests, Mrs. Tyler. The man with the back injury?" She gave him a blank look. He continued, "The guest with an ulcer?" Peggy shook her head, hoping there wasn't a screw-up somewhere. She glanced toward the bar, unsurprised to find her husband and Ted Smithers already paying homage to the bartender. Ted's newest, and youngest wife to date, hovered nearby. What was she, number three? Peggy, donning her best hostess face, crossed the room to join her husband. "Well, it looks like everything is ready. The class members should start arriving in about ten minutes or so." "Fine, fine," Artie smiled. Peggy grew suspicious. He couldn't have drunk enough to be that happy already. What is going on? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Oh dear, there must be some mistake!" Sandra Wellman read the name cards at each table, finding her own, but unable to locate her husband's place. "I guess it's my fault for not specifying that Aubrey and I are married," she told the Reavers who were seated at her table in the very back of the room. "Aubrey wasn't sure he could make it, you see. He had a terribly important meeting in New York City to attend this week and we didn't buy his ticket until the day before yesterday. Now it seems like they've put him somewhere else." Has Sandra always been this fussy? Margie wondered as the other woman babbled nonstop about "dear Aubrey", his delicate digestion, heart condition and sinuses. Are we going to listen to this throughout the evening? I wonder if Johnny will be here? Paul Reaver gave his wife a long-suffering look that clearly stated, "I love you, but I really wish you'd listened to me and decided not to come." Margie smiled sweetly back, secretly beginning to agree. Still, there was an uncomfortable feeling that wouldn't go away, like she really needed to be here for some reason. She took a sip of water and pretended to listen to Sandra's monologue. The other couples at the table, who looked vaguely familiar, seemed to be well acquainted and were engaged in their own conversation. No help there. Margie clasped her husband's hand and decided to tough it out. The woman had to stop talking long enough to eat, didn't she? The room began to fill as couples drifted in. Margie regretted somewhat her own insistence that they arrive early. In truth she was more anxious to see John Gage than she was ready to admit to her husband. Sandra spotted her "dear Aubrey" and waved frantically to attract his attention. A very worried looking man in his mid-fifties, thin almost to the point of emaciation, made his way through the crowd of people toward his excited and much younger spouse. Margie tried not to laugh as the man looked helplessly at his wife seated at the already full table. A nearly chinless face that seemed to blend into his neck and end with a very prominent Adam's apple was accentuated by glasses with thick lenses in equally thick black frames. Sandra gazed at her husband in blatant adoration; sure that he would now solve the unfortunate mix-up. When "dear Aubrey", as Margie began to think of him, simply stood staring back at his wife, Margie uneasily arose to scan the room for empty spaces. Really, what do they expect, one of the people here to give up their spot? Not far away she spied two empty chairs at a table in the center back. With a reassuring pat on Paul's arm, she excused herself and slipped behind the other couples at their table to investigate. "Excuse me, do you know who is supposed to be sitting here?" The people at the table broke off conversation and stared at Margie as one of the men reached for the name tag in front of the black folding chair. "It says 'John Gage'," he replied. Margie vaguely remembered the guy from Senior Literature class. "And the other?" She nodded, indicating the vacant chair beside the one assigned to Johnny, her brows knitting in anger at the perceived slight. It would be just like Artie to do his best to make Johnny feel awkward. Well, if Artie Tyler hasn't seen Johnny since high school, he's in for a big surprise, she thought with satisfaction, remembering the tall, slim and very-good-looking paramedic who treated her son. And I'll be pleased as punch to see the meeting. I'll bet one of Artie's chins will drop in amazement while every lonely follicle on that almost bald head cries out in envy at Johnny's hair. "It just says 'Guest'," the man said after turning the card over as if expecting to find something written on the back. He smiled apologetically and replaced the name card on the table. With a smile of thanks and an apology for the interruption, Margie wove her way around small groups of people engaged in laughing conversation and returned to her table. She wasn't surprised to find Sandra and "dear Aubry" still awkwardly waiting for a chair to miraculously appear. "Sandra, if you and Aubrey don't mind moving, there are two places together right over there at that center table." She pointed, still standing, toward the table where Johnny's nametag rested. Sandra rose, relieved, and put her hand on "dear Aubrey's" sleeve. "Oh, do you suppose somebody else is supposed to be sitting there?" Absolutely sure that "somebody" was, Margie nodded, but added, "Yes, but only one of them is taken and we know the person who is supposed to sit there. I'm sure he won't mind changing seats at all. In fact, I'll watch for him and wave him this way...if he comes. He wasn't even sure he would make it." Sandra nodded and shepherded her adored spouse toward the table indicated by Margie, somehow managing to make it look like 'dear Aubrey' was actually in charge. After a bit of confusion, Aubrey gallantly offered to sit in the plain black folding chair while his wife, looked adoringly at him from her plushly cushioned seat at his side. "That was smooth," Paul murmured, eyeing his pretty wife in appreciation. Margie nodded acknowledgement before returning her gaze to the entrance, watching for the appearance of a tall dark-haired paramedic. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Johnny adjusted his tie, leaning closer to the mirror. Hair looks okay. No blemishes didn't miss any spots shaving. He stood up straight. Jo was right about the suit, it does look pretty good. Not so sure about slaying the ladies, though. I think I'll be happier if nobody recognizes me. Maybe I can stick with Margie and her husband or hang around Gil Robinson. We got to know each other pretty well when he rode with us in the squad. Yeah, like he's gonna want to baby-sit me all evening. He snorted. Gage looked at the invitation again before tucking it into the inner pocket of his suit coat, then readjusted his tie. Wonder who ever came up with these things? Must have been a woman. Only a chick would have the urge to see a man spend the evening trying to keep from choking to death. If it was up to me I'd make the darned things illegal. After a quick glance at his watch, Johnny took a deep breath and leaned against the bathroom wall, eyes closed, fighting rising nausea. I can do this. I'm not eighteen; I'm not in high school. I'm a firefighter. I'm a man. He straightened, opening his eyes, and stared in the mirror. The face that looked back at him was unsure, vulnerable, and uneasy. He attempted to paste a smile in place. That looks ridiculous. He shook his head and tried to appear serious and dignified. Now I look sick to my stomach. Well, I am sick to my stomach. I give up. He shrugged and waved one hand at the mirror in a gesture of dismissal. With another vicious tug at the hated necktie Johnny left the bathroom and walked into the living room. He scooped up his bit of "memorabilia", stuffed it into his pocket, and then exited his apartment. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Artie Tyler casually sauntered over to the small discreet podium near the entrance to the dining room. A petite blond in a low-cut tea-length dress presided there over the list of attendees, conscientiously checking off each name, collecting the invitations and fees, and greeting each arrival. Artie paused to appreciate the vision his height gave him as he looked down on the woman before he cleared his throat and asked, "Has er...John Gage shown up yet?" The woman glanced up, frowned as she noted the direction of Artie's gaze, and then examined her list. "No, Artie," Susan Wilkes replied, her voice stiff with disapproval, "he hasn't shown up yet." As Tyler turned away, she made a moue of disgust at the potent aroma of whiskey on his breath and the slight stagger in his walk. I don't know why he's so all-fired anxious to see John Gage, she fumed. I didn't even think he liked him. With a glance at the clock Susan prepared to close the list and go to her own table. The dinner was scheduled to begin ten minutes ago, but like all large gatherings, people seemed reluctant to break up their small groups and return to their designated places. Next time I'm not going to let Peggy Tyler buffalo me into playing secretary while she goes around acting like this whole thing is her private party. Geez, who looked up all the addresses? Who called around for prices at the different restaurants? Who consulted with the management about the menu? Who had the invites printed and then got writer's cramp addressing them all? Not her majesty Peggy Tyler, that's for sure! Susan stuck out her tongue at the other woman's back and then quickly pulled it back into her mouth as a tall figure in a dark gray suit stopped in front of the podium. Johnny turned to locate the object of the small woman's disdain and then gave a slight smile as the diminutive hostess blushed crimson, embarrassed at being caught in such undignified behavior. "Um... I'm Johnny, er...John Gage?" "You're kidding!" was the breathless response. "I mean...of course you are." Susan glanced down at the list and concentrated on finding the name Artie had her checking for about once every five minutes for the last half hour. Running her finger along the page she noted that he had not yet paid the fee. "Do you have your invitation?" she asked. Johnny slipped the printed card from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to her. Then he reached for his wallet and removed a twenty-dollar bill. "Is that right?" he asked, concerned for a moment that he hadn't remembered the proper amount. Susan smiled and collected both the fee and the invitation. "Welcome to West Carver Class of '65 Reunion, John. It's good to see you again." "Thank ya," Johnny responded, giving her his best grin. He glanced at the paper nametag just below her left shoulder. "Susan Wilkes? I don't..." "It used to be Braithwaite," she replied, smiling widely in return. Gage thought for a moment, and then snapped his fingers. "Suzy Braithwaite! Of course I remember you. You wrote some really great articles for the Sentinal. How have you been?" Johnny was relieved that this first encounter, at least, was pleasant. The small lady giggled. "Hey, the editor-in-chief had better remember his ace reporter. Remember how you used to call me 'Scoop'?" "That's right! You broke the stories about the cafeteria food thefts and the science fair scandal!" He was glad to realize that there were some parts of high school worth remembering. "Well, a bum breaking into the pantry hardly qualifies for nationwide coverage, but the science fair article sure stirred up a hornet's nest." Johnny nodded. "I thought I was gonna get canned for printing that one, but Miss Morris, the Sentinel's sponsor sure backed us up. 'It qualifies as news, does it not?'" Johnny imitated the supercilious voice of the English teacher who could and often did go to bat for her precious newspaper staff. Susan covered her mouth giggling in delight. "You have her down to a T! Johnny." The sound of conversation dwindled as someone tapped on a microphone set just behind the head table, "If you will all please take your seats, we will begin serving." Peggy Tyler sat down flushed with the overall success of the event so far. She idly glanced at the podium and watched as a tall, slender handsome man joked with Susan Wilkes before beginning to search for his seat. Someone waved to him from the back of the room. As he made his way through the tables, she wondered with budding interest who it could be. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Relieved to see Margie's welcoming face in the back of the room, Johnny quickly ended his conversation with Susan Wilkes and headed toward the Reavers. As he pulled out his chair and unbuttoned his suit jacket, his eyes fell on the name card before him. "Sandy Scott?" Margie chuckled as Paul explained, "Sandy Wellman now. It seems they neglected to seat her beside her 'dear Aubrey'. My devious wife found an extra seat beside the one assigned to you and pulled a very slick switcheroo, earning the eternal gratitude of everyone at this table." Johnny looked around to find the other couples smiling in amused agreement and began to relax. Dear Aubrey? He grinned at Margie. Maybe this won't be so bad after all. He introduced himself and shook hands with the other people at their table, giving them a "Hi, how ya doin'?" and ending with a "Good to see you again," to Paul Reaver and "Thanks, I appreciate this," to Margie. As waiters started bringing out trays loaded with plates of food, Margie touched Johnny's arm to gain his attention. "Do you recognize that guy?" she asked, pointing out a stout man with thinning hair just disappearing into the kitchen. Johnny looked in the direction she indicated and shook his head. "Should I?" With a smile of satisfaction, she nodded and told him, "That's Artie Tyler!" Johnny's mouth dropped open as he watched the kitchen door for the man to reappear. Somehow it seemed ridiculous that his old nemesis could be such an ordinary-looking guy. "Surprised?" Margie asked, her eyebrows raised in a coy expression, not a little satisfaction oozing from the question. Gage realized that Margie Freeman...no, Margie Reaver, found the memories as disturbing as he did. As Tyler returned to the dining room, Johnny heard Paul Reaver mutter, "I'd like to break that guy in half." It doesn't take a lot of imagination to figure out why, Johnny mused. I wonder what Artie was doing in the kitchen? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Gil Robinson stood at his table near the middle of the dining room and searched for John Gage. Dixie's comments a few days ago troubled the tall blond paramedic. He didn't know Artie Tyler, except by reputation, but he had come to know and respect John Gage. If Tyler planned to pull something on his fellow firefighter, Gil planned to stop it if he could. So far there was no sign of...no wait! John Gage stopped to chat at the podium with hostess Susan Wilkes, and then made his way toward the back of the room where a redhead beckoned, probably Margie Freeman. Gil relaxed. Johnny is among friends. He watched as Gage shook hands all around the table and, smiling, took his seat. Other than being relegated to the back of the room with the other less popular members of the Class of '65, John Gage looked to be unharmed and in good spirits. There's probably nothing to worry about. After all, we're all adults now. Still, Gil decided to keep his eyes open. As waiters streamed out of the kitchen carrying trays loaded with plates of steaming food, Gil Robinson turned his attention to matters at hand. Peggy Tyler strained to see the table in the back of the room where the dark-haired man disappeared, but the crowd and the sudden burst of activity as the staff began serving dinner cut off any opportunity for further observation. He's a looker, and alone, Peggy speculated. I wonder if Arty knows who he is? Her thoughts were interrupted as her husband returned to his seat, his face a picture of smug satisfaction, and leaned forward to give Ted Smithers a "thumbs-up". Smithers grinned widely and leaned back, reaching out one hand behind his wife for Artie to smack it in triumph. Those two are up to something. Wonder what it is this time? Oh well, I'll find out eventually. She nudged Artie. "Hey." Artie Tyler felt a sharp jab in the ribs and turned to look at his wife. "What?" "Who's the guy who just came in? He was talking to Sue Wilkes...?" Tyler looked up sharply, first gazing toward the woman at the podium, who now made her way toward her assigned table at the outer edge of the dining room, then turned his attention toward the seat he'd prepared for John Gage. People milling around blocked his view, but there was no one he could identify as Johnny Gage. Failing to see his quarry, Artie shrugged. "Beats me. What guy?" "Tall, dark hair, slim..." Artie frowned in concentration, wondering if it might in fact be John Gage. Dark hair, yeah, Gage had black hair. Slim? Well, he was a skinny runt, that's for sure. But tall? Artie pictured the last meeting he had with John Gage who measured a good two inches shorter than himself. "Dunno, can't be Gage," he replied. Peggy snorted delicately. "I don't know what your fixation is with that man. He's not the only person in the class, you know." "He's the only one I care about," Artie assured his wife. "He's choking! Someone help!" From the back of the room a woman's distressed cry rang out. Peggy stood to see better, but was prevented by the general confusion and the crowd that seemed to gather near the center back table. "Watch out," a man's voice carried over the general hubbub. "Please, stand back." She could see the tall slim man making his way through the onlookers toward the source of the outcry. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Johnny watched in envy as plates of Steak Florentine appeared before Paul and Margie Freeman. He'd managed not to take more than his share of the antipasto and crispy garlic bread, but now wished that he had. The dish set before him by the red-jacketed waiter held a small portion of Shrimp Scampi and buttered pasta. He tried not to let his disappointment show. "Here, John, trade with me," Margie offered, reading correctly the crestfallen face of the man beside her. "You must have gotten what Sandy Wellman ordered." "I wonder what they gave 'Dear Aubrey'," Paul Reaver muttered in a voice just loud enough to be audible to his wife and Johnny. "I'll be all right." Johnny attempted to be gallant, although Margie's steak looked and smelled absolutely wonderful. "I imagine Ole Aubrey's eating my steak right now," Gage said, just a little bit wistfully. To the amusement of the other guests at their table, Margie gave an impatient sigh and whisked Johnny's plate away, replacing it with her own. "There. I couldn't have begun to eat all of that anyway." Grateful, if a little shamefaced, the paramedic smiled his thanks and began to do justice to the feast before him. "He's choking! Someone help!" The cry came from the center back table. Johnny dropped his fork, wiped his chin on his napkin and let it fall to the floor as he hurriedly jumped up and began to make his way through the cluster of people that immediately gathered around the unfortunate victim. "Watch out," he said trying to thread himself through a small break in the crowd. He pushed past the curious onlookers and hunkered beside the chair where Aubrey Wellman clutched his throat and gasped for breath, his face a brilliant and dangerous shade of red. Johnny felt a little claustrophobic himself as the guests shoved closer to gawk, some of them offering their best suggestions. "Please, stand back," Johnny said sharply. Recognizing an authoritative voice, the onlookers complied. Seconds later the crowd parted from the other direction as Gil Robinson maneuvered his way to Johnny's side. "It's his heart, I know it," Sandy Wellman wailed, watching her husband gasp for breath. Aubrey shook his head and pointed to his dinner plate, his eyes wide. Johnny loosened the man's clothing and checked his pulse and respirations while Gil helped him take slow sips of cool water. In a few moments, the man's face faded from darkly red to pale and he began to draw deep gasping breaths. Johnny looked at Gil and said in an undertone, "Pulse is 110, respirations 30." Gil nodded slightly. Johnny turned to the man's wife who stood wringing her hands in agitation. "Ma'am, is he on any medication?" The woman nodded and reached for her purse, then fumbled as she pulled out a bottle of pills, and handed it to Gage. Johnny looked briefly at the label. "Nitro," he said quietly to the other paramedic. Shifting his attention back to Aubrey Wellman, he noted that the man's breathing seemed less labored. He checked the pulse again and found it to be more in the normal range. "Sir..." "His name is Aubrey," Sandra Wellman interjected. "Is he going to be all right? He has a pacemaker. Please help him." Johnny nodded acknowledgement, "Aubrey, are you having any pain anywhere?" Aubrey reached for the glass of water and took a quick gulp. "Easy...easy," Johnny told him. "Just sip it slow. That's it." "It's the food," Aubrey said at last. "I took a bite and suddenly I couldn't breathe. It's so hot." The paramedic frowned in confusion. The room seemed a bit close, but not overly warm. He picked up the plate containing Aubrey's food and gave it a curious sniff, then sneezed. His eyes watered and he sneezed again. Johnny took one finger and ran it across the top of the Steak Florentine then touched it to his tongue. Quickly he looked for the nearest glass of water and downed half before returning it to the table. "Pepper!" Johnny wheezed. "This steak is loaded with it! And probably hot sauce too." The headwaiter, who hovered nearby along with the manager shook his head in denial, "Impossible!" He took the plate and held it up for the manager's inspection. The manager imitated Johnny's actions, his eyes grew round. Furious, the man snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared. "Take this...this travesty to the kitchen and bring out a Florentine, immediately!" "No, wait!" Aubrey gave him an apologetic look. "Maybe something less rich? A salad perhaps?" The manager nodded and signaled to the waiter, who disappeared. Johnny touched Aubrey on the shoulder and asked, "How do you feel? A little better?" "Yes, yes," the worried-looking little man assured him in a shaky voice. "I think I'll be fine now. It wasn't my heart." He gave his wife a reassuring smile. "It was just the food. I don't understand how this could have happened." With a nod at Gil Robinson Johnny got to his feet and made his way back to his own table. The steak that smelled so appetizing only moments ago now lay cold and unappealing. Johnny sighed and pushed it back out of the way. Margie Reaver watched John Gage move a lock of hair out of his eyes and rest his chin on one palm. "I'm sorry your meal is ruined, Johnny," she said. "But it's a lucky thing you were here." "Is it?" Johnny asked, a bitter tinge to his voice. At her questioning gaze he continued, "I saw the name card in front of Aubrey. It was mine. That plate was meant for me. Now I know what Artie was doing in the kitchen. I just can't get away from that guy, ya know?" Margie cast troubled eyes at her husband and fell silent. The conversation at the table dropped to a subdued murmur as the once enjoyable evening fell flat. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peggy Tyler watched from the head table, frustrated with the inability to see what was happening, while the crowd thinned out and returned to their various seats. The air of fun that pervaded the room, the loud laughter and excited chatter disappeared. The conversation level dropped to a low murmur. A few laughs rang out, but were quickly stifled. Anxious to shift the focus from the dramatic scene in the back to the front of the room where it belonged, Peggy stood up and moved to the microphone that stood behind her chair. The first item on the agenda should be a welcome by the Class President. No, too serious. I need to lighten the mood. As self-appointed master of ceremonies, Peggy Tyler cleared her throat and waited for silence and attention from the room at large. It didn't take long. Assuming her best bubbly voice, a forced cheerful smile plastered on her face, Peggy greeted the gathering. "Hello fellow classmates." Several voices called back a variety of greetings, albeit without the hoped-for enthusiasm. Better skip comments about how good the food is, given the circumstances. "On your invitations we instructed you to bring a piece of memorabilia from school. I hope everybody did that." Hands holding items of various sizes and shapes appeared in the air from nearly every table. Some were immediately recognizable, such as letter jackets, and pom poms; others were not readily identifiable. One person held up a steering wheel. "Wonderful!" Peggy exclaimed. She stooped to retrieve a pom pom from under her chair. "I want each of us who brought something to tell briefly why it brings back a fond memory. I'll go first and then we'll start in the front row of tables to my right." The gambit seemed to work as the volume level increased. People from each table pulled out their items of memorabilia in anticipation of the story they would tell. Johnny heard echoes of the phrase "What did you bring?" make it's way around the dining room until the woman at the microphone began raving about her experience as a cheerleader, the friends she had made and how it still gave her great pride to remember those days. Johnny immediately recognized Peggy Thurston...no, Peggy Tyler. She looked much the same, although her eyes seemed a little shadowed, her face a little hard as if life didn't turn out to be the big party she had expected. The people at his table brought mementoes as well. One woman held a clarinet and a man brought his tennis racket. Johnny looked at Margie, a question in his brown eyes. She held up her left hand, her husband's hand securely in its grasp. On her wrist, unnoticed until now, was a corsage of dry and faded rosebuds. I remember those. I paid my last five dollars at the florist shop on Elm Street the day of the prom. They were bright yellow then. Now they look kind of like old paper. Geez! Why did Margie hang onto those things? I just wish I could forget that night. Once again able to read Gage's expression, Margie looked fondly at the flowers. "Debbie Reaver and Joe Fallows offered to take me home. Her big brother had dropped them off. Debbie called home and her brother showed up a few minutes later. He wondered why we were leaving but didn't ask too many questions. He dropped off Joe and then took Debbie home, leaving me for last. On the way, he noticed I was crying and asked what was wrong. I told him what happened. He was so kind and sympathetic. He walked me to the door and said good night. Debbie's brother is my darling Paul, Johnny. If it wasn't for the prom and how you stood up to Artie for me, I wouldn't have ever met my husband. So you see, the corsage reminds me of how I lucky I am to have Paul, and how lucky I was to have such a wonderful, kind friend who escorted me to the prom and kept me from harm." Johnny saw the expression of devotion on Margie's face as she gazed at Paul and swallowed a lump that grew in his throat. "I'm glad something good came out of that night," he said, his voice a bit wistful. "Did you bring something, Johnny?" The question came from the wife of the man with the tennis racket. Johnny flushed slightly and fished in the right pocket of his jacket. He brought forth a piece of six-inch ribbon attached to a flattened ribbon rosette. The color might have been bright blue at one time, but now resembled a faded purple. "From one of your track meets?" Margie questioned. Johnny nodded, staring at the strip of purplish satin that read "First Place, 440 Yard Dash, March 27, 1965, All-County Spring Track Meet", the bright gold lettering now a dirty tan. The team stood in a huddle listening to final words of advice and encouragement from the coach. It was only March, but already the Southern California sun beat down unrelenting on the young athletes. A smattering of students gathered in the stands, along with some parents, to watch. Peggy Thurston chatted with a few of the other cheerleaders. They weren't in uniform for the meet, but came out to support the team anyway. Suzy Braithwaite, covering the event for the West Carver Sentinal, gave Johnny a cheery wave. The coach dismissed the team and watched as they hurried to the areas marked off for each of their events. The runners regrouped at the end of the track that formed a straightaway for the start of the races. Some went to chat with friends gathered at the fence that served to keep spectators off the field. The starting gun rang out for the first event, the high hurdles. Gage had several minutes until his race. "Hey, Scoop," Johnny greeted his ace reporter. "Hey, yourself, Boss," she retorted gaily. "So are you gonna win this thing...what event is it?" "The 440," Johnny replied, tugging at his uniform while giving a nervous glance at the other competitors. "Anybody else competing from our school?" "In the 440? Yeah, Artie Tyler" As if summoned by his words, Chester Arthur Tyler approached the fence where Peggy Thurston stood waiting with a smile of greeting. Johnny watched them, envious. "Hey, Peggy, got a good-luck kiss for me?" Artie teased. Peggy put up a hand and shook her head. "I'll give a kiss to the winner," she promised with a teasing glance. "That'll be me," Artie boasted with no little confidence. Suzy Braithwaite and John Gage moved off to allow the couple some privacy. "Will he win?" Suzy asked, frowning. Artie Tyler was too conceited for her taste. "Sure he will," Johnny replied. "Just ask him." His crooked grin appeared. "Well, I'm bettin' on you, boss!" "Thanks. But don't tell Artie. His ego would never recover." Suzy chuckled and gave Johnny a thumbs up just as Artie walked up and slapped the smaller boy on the back. "Time to line up, Pencil Brain," he said. Johnny flinched and nodded in acknowledgement. "Gee, I hate that guy," Johnny said under his breath before following Artie to the starting line. He watched Suzy make her way down to the finish line area just behind Peggy Thurston. I sure wish Peggy would promise to kiss me, Johnny thought. Hey! She didn't promise absolutely to kiss Artie; she said she would kiss the WINNER. So if I win, that means she'll kiss ME! His grin appearing briefly at the thought, Johnny got set for the start of the race and focused on the track before him. It was asphalt, a different surface than the home track. The starting pistol rang out over the noise from the rest of the field and the stands. Johnny took off with the pack. Can't slow down, I've got to win this, he thought. As he passed the stands the crowd was a blur, but he thought he heard a faint voice calling "Go Johnny!". Scoop, he realized. Artie is in the lead; let him stay there for the moment. Johnny gained on the other runners until he passed everyone but Artie and was running a close second. Just before the final curve that led into the last forty yards, Johnny put on an all-out burst of speed. For a moment the two runners were neck and neck, but with a final determined effort, he managed to pass Artie Tyler a mere twenty feet from the finish line. As he broke the tape, his arms raised in victory, Johnny felt his heart burst with happiness. Now Peggy would finally notice him. Now she would finally remember the name of the boy in English class. Now she would kiss the winner...and the winner was John Gage! As they cleared the track in preparation for the next race, Johnny watched in anguished disbelief as Peggy Thurston ran up to Artie Tyler and gave him a big kiss on the lips. She paused to glare at John Gage, then, arm in arm with Artie, walked with her boyfriend to the stands. "Hey, Boss! Congratulations!" Suzy Braithwaite grabbed Johnny's hand and pumped it enthusiastically. She whipped out her notepad and pencil, eyes sparkling. "How does this sound, 'John Gage, like a galloping thoroughbred...no you don't look at all like a horse. Let's see. How about a greyhound? Yeah! John Gage, like a Galloping Greyhound, passed the field and broke the tape, giving West Carver a victory in the 440-Yard Dash. What do you think? Gage, the Galloping Greyhound...sounds like a great nickname, doesn't it? Johnny? Hey, Boss? " "Huh?" Johnny still followed the departing couple with his eyes. "I said doesn't that sound like a great nickname?" "Yeah, sure, Suzy. It sounds fine." Johnny picked up his towel and headed for the stands to watch the rest of the races. He tossed off a cup of water pressed into his hand by one of the team moms and endured backslapping and congratulations from his teammates with an air of abstraction. She didn't really mean she would kiss the winner, Johnny thought angrily. She only meant she would kiss Artie if HE won. What an idiot I am. Oh well, at least I beat Artie, the jerk. The next day at school Artie caught Gage in the hall and slammed him against the wall. "Listen, Pencil Brain, bad move showing me up at the track meet. If it happens again, you'll be very sorry, ya got that?" Still staring at the first place ribbon, Johnny remembered glaring at Artie in mute rebellion. I should have listened, he thought, shaking his head; it would have saved a lot of pain later. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Joanne DeSoto entered the living room to find Roy staring at the television, his hands gripping the arms of his favorite chair. The heavy, patched and repatched black naugahyde recliner should have been thrown out long ago, but Roy adamantly refused to budge regardless of her numerous pointed hints and muttered complaints. "It's my chair, Joanne," he'd said on countless occasions. "It's broken in and comfortable. I like it." When Roy DeSoto ends a sentence with "I like it", Jo reflected, you might just as well talk to the moon for all the good it will do. Well, at least the ugly old thing is roomy enough for two...four on occasion. She smiled remembering the time they all piled on top of her husband, determined to draw his attention away from the newspaper and redirect it towards the beautiful weather outside. The chair tipped over backwards when Roy tickled Christopher and his son jumped out, upsetting the balance of weight. Yeah, that easy chair holds a lot of memories. But Roy sure doesn't look "easy" in it now. "Hey!" Roy gave an indignant cry of protest when his recliner suddenly sprang into the upright position with a groan of its ancient springs. "Hey, yourself," his wife responded, plopping into his lap with a smile. Roy moaned in feigned distress at the sudden weight, but submitted meekly to a wifely kiss. "You haven't moved in over an hour. I was beginning to wonder if you were still breathing." "I was until just now," Roy affirmed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Nice to know I still have the power to take your breath away," Jo retorted, "although it does seem to require a little more effort these days. If I didn't know you've been sitting there brooding over your partner, I might get jealous." "I haven't been brooding!" "Then what would you call it? You've been frowning and staring at the television, which is now playing Hee Haw...which you don't care for. Before that was the Wide World of Sports...which you also don't care for. Do I need to remind you that it is Saturday evening, the kids are spending the night with your mother, and your wife does not have to attend any meetings of the PTA, Brownies, Cub Scouts, Ladies' Auxiliary or little league. In fact she is wondering why we are still sitting here when the night is young and the world is before us." "I'm sorry, Jo. I...I just don't feel like going out anywhere. Unless..." Roy suddenly beamed at the birth of and idea. "Unless what?" Roy sat up straighter and Jo had to make a grab for a hold on his neck to avoid sliding to the floor. "Joanne, how would you like to have dinner at Don Carlo's?" At the mention of the pricey restaurant Joanne's eyes widened in surprise then narrowed with suspicion. "Why there?" she asked, sure she already knew the answer. "Oh, no reason," Roy shrugged. "Can't a fella take his wife on a date to the best place in town?" "Not if the real reason is because a fella wants to check up on his partner and taking his wife along makes a fair excuse." She sighed. "Roy, Johnny is a big boy. He'll be fine. In fact, he would probably be furious that you would think of spying on him!" "It wouldn't be spying..." Roy trailed off, realizing that he'd been trapped into confessing his motives. "Now I am jealous," Jo told him, rising. "I think I'll find out what's playing in the theater." She reached for the newspaper resting on the floor where Roy laid it earlier in the day and located the movie schedules. "Jaws?" she queried. "No thanks, I see enough of people getting hurt." "Dog Day Afternoon?" "No." "Just no?" "No." "The Apple Dumpling Gang? The French Connection?" "No...and we saw The French Connection..." "This is part two." "Sequels are never any good." "Roy, you're being difficult. Maybe I'll go by myself. It doesn't sound like you're going to be any fun anyway." Roy reclined his chair and stared at the ceiling. "I'm not trying to be difficult, Jo. I'm just..." "...worried about my partner," she finished. "Honestly, Roy, I think you're making too much of this. Johnny will be fine. He'll be back to work tomorrow morning and wonder what all the fuss was about." "I don't know, Joanne, if you'd seen his face..." "Roy, I'm going out to dinner, then I may treat myself to a movie. If you're going to be a... a... an old poop, you can just stay there in that chair and pretend to watch television." "An old...? Joanne!" Roy brought the chair back upright and launched himself from the seat, turning to make swift pursuit of his wife as she disappeared up the stairs. He burst into the bedroom. "I am not an old poop!" Joanne stood with her hands on her hips. "Prove it, Buster!" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Artie craned his neck and squinted into the crowded room, trying to make out the features of the man seated in the black chair at the back of the room. Thanks to Peggy's stupid idea about keeping the lighting low to set a romantic mood, the figure was at best indistinct. Still, even with the flickering candles providing poor illumination, he could see that his quarry hadn't aged well in the last ten years. Thick glasses, thinning hair, shorter than the woman sitting beside him that seemed to fuss interminably...yep, Gage was still the little pencil brained geek after all these years. "Do you see him?" Ted Smithers asked in an undertone. Oblivious to the comments and bursts of laughter engendered by the mementos produced by one after another of the attendees, Ted and Artie were content to contemplate the impending fate of Johnny Gage. "Yeah, I got a pretty good look. He's still a scrawny little guy. Big thick glasses, hair almost gone. Probably weighs ninety-eight pounds soaking wet." "Oh, man, this is priceless. Do you have the remote?" Ted's features broke out into a wide grin as the two men snickered together. In answer, Artie held up a small antennaed box, swiped from his son's radio-controlled car. "Is it gonna work?" Smithers asked, suddenly anxious. Artie snickered. "I tested it on the cat; man, that was one flying feline!" Both men laughed harder. "All I do is flick the lever up, and we launch one fireman wannabe half way across the room." "Beautiful! Hey, this isn't dangerous, is it? I mean, the cat wasn't burned or anything?" "No, it's not dangerous. Geez, Ted, don't be such a wimp! It's just two little batteries, for crying out loud." Peggy eyed her husband and his friend wondering why Artie brought their son's toy to the reunion. At the back corner of the room Margie Reaver watched shadows play across John Gage's face that had nothing to do with the flickering candle in the center of their table. Laughter erupting all around them seemed to startle him out of whatever thoughts held his lips in a tight, angry line. She was relieved to see him smile as the class clown stood up waving a steering wheel and proceeded to relate a story about the principal's car that brought the room into whoops of merriment. Maybe he'll be all right. Margie looked briefly at the head table. In the dimly lit room she could make out the figures of Artie and Ted with their heads together. When the laughter died down and the room grew quiet, the two men sat up and looked expectantly at the center back table. Margie swallowed shifting her glance to the table where Johnny was supposed to be sitting. A chill started up her spine. "AAAAAAAAH!" A commotion at the center back table involved a swiftly moving figure that jumped as if startled and then fell to the floor. A woman's scream rang out, Sandra Wellman's, Margie supposed, combined with the sound of breaking glass and loud guffaws from the direction of the head table. In the ensuing confusion another cry went up, "FIRE!" A gray blur from the right saw Johnny once again pushing his way toward the back center table. This time, though, there was little resistance from the crowd which surged away from the area in near panic. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Aubrey Wellman relaxed and put down his fork, thoroughly enjoying the tale as told by the fellow with the steering wheel. The earlier incident nearly forgotten, he smiled at his wife and gave her hand a reassuring pat. She worries about me too much, he thought. The laughter died down as the man with the steering wheel took his seat. Everyone seemed to lean forward expectantly, awaiting the next entertaining account. Suddenly Aubrey felt a searing pain travel through his entire body. He shot from the chair onto the dinner table in reaction and his hands reflexively clutched the tablecloth, seeking some kind of handhold. The table tilted crazily off balance and then overturned, glasses of wine, plates of food, cloth, candle, flowers and all sliding to the floor with the unfortunate Aubrey. The wine soaked tablecloth became tinder for the candle and quickly turned into a burning heap of fabric, the flames inches from the unfortunate, and now unconscious, man. Sandra Wellman stood in horror watching as her husband fell to the floor and the tablecloth became a small bonfire. Someone was shrieking. Was it her? The same tall man as before burst through the crowd, ripped off his jacket in a fluid motion, and used it to smother the flaming tablecloth. The other man joined him and they knelt beside Aubrey, tore open his suit jacket and then his shirt. In the confusion, one of the men, the dark-haired one, stood and gave orders to the head waiter, then grasped Sandra's shoulders and forced her to focus her attention on him. "Ma'am," he said in a firm panic-free voice, "you need to calm down and help us, okay?" In a daze, Sandra looked into the intense brown eyes and nodded, unable to speak. "John," the other man called out, "he's stopped breathing." Abruptly the dark-haired man released Sandra and returned to her husband, "You said your husband has a pacemaker?" he asked over his shoulder. Sandra nodded, then realized he couldn't see her and forced her voice to work. "Y-yes," she said hoarsely. "Oh, please help him. Please..." After minutes that felt like hours, two uniformed men hustled into the room and headed for the group of people clustered in the back. Johnny looked up with a sigh of relief and greeted his fellow paramedics, "Dwyer, Manley, he's arrested, and he has a pacemaker." Sandra watched as the uniformed paramedics quickly went to work on her husband. They spoke over a portable transmitter and received orders from a calm-voiced physician. She turned away, overcome by fear and gave way to tears, shaking as great gasping sobs shook her body. Dear God, what will I do without Aubrey? Words like 'bradycardia', 'IV' and 'spontaneous respiration' seemed to come from a great distance and drift around her in a dizzy whirl. "What will I do?" she repeated aloud. "What will I do?" The dark-haired man was back, gently guiding her to a chair. "What's her name?" she heard him ask. Someone replied, "Sandra". The man put his hand under her chin. "Sandra, you need to calm down. Everything's going to be all right, do you understand? The paramedics are here and they've got your husband stabilized. He's conscious, his heart is beating and they have him on oxygen. Aubrey needs you to be brave right now, can you do that?" She managed to nod. "Good, that's real good. Now, Sandra, the ambulance is here and they're going to take your husband to Rampart hospital. Do you want to ride in with them?" Another nod. "Okay, you'll have to ride up front. Are you going to be okay? Do you need somebody to go with you?" She shook her head. "Okay, do you want me to walk out there with you?" Before Sandra could answer, a woman's voice cut in. "I'll go out with her. We were at their table and ...our dinner is ruined anyway. My husband and I are leaving." Johnny nodded acknowledgement. He saw FF/PM Charlie Dwyer kneel to clean up the various wrappers and bags hastily opened and emptied during treatment of the patient. "I'll get that, Charlie, you go ahead." Dwyer acknowledged with a "Thanks, Gage," before hurrying after the departing gurney and his partner. Johnny waved and bent to work on the mess, but was forestalled by the head waiter. "Please, sir, we will take care of this. You have already done enough. This is such a ...a tragedy. Such a terrible thing to happen. "Yeah," Johnny agreed, "terrible." He reached down to pick up his ruined suit jacket, now stained with soot and smelling of smoke. With a sigh he held it in his hand, not willing to drape it over his still reasonably clean shirtsleeve. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the black folding chair, preparing to place it back at the table, now turned upright by a red-jacketed waiter. Odd, why is this chair so darned heavy? Johnny turned the chair on end, discovering two 6-volt batteries attached to a small electrical device taped to the bottom of the chair. It didn't take much imagination to figure out what caused Aubrey's heart attack! He ripped the gizmo from the chair, unsure what to do with it and slipped the device under his jacket for the moment. It was definitely withholding evidence, if the restaurant decided to prosecute, or if Aubrey did, but Johnny knew he, not Aubrey, was the intended recipient of the practical joke. With a last look at the table, now restored to order and covered with a fresh cloth, Johnny made his way back to the corner table where Margie and her husband waited, the other guests having left. "It looks like there's been a mass exodus," he commented, noting the many empty chairs around the room. Margie smiled half-heartedly. "I think most of them left when somebody yelled fire. They headed for the exits and didn't come back." She bit her lip and took a sip from the water glass before her. "This was meant for you too, wasn't it?" she whispered. "Yeah," Johnny replied, not sure what more to say. "I guess Aubrey's gonna be okay," he added. "That's good." Margie lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Paul spoke up, "What exactly happened?" "It was a stupid juvenile trick," Johnny spat. "A device triggered by remote control that was supposed to give the person a hot seat. Only in this case, it interfered with Aubrey's pacemaker, darned near killed the man." "Oh, Johnny! No! How awful. I wish somebody would teach that Artie a lesson once and for all!" Johnny shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good, Margie. I know that now. People like Artie don't ever learn...and I really don't want to sink to his level. But I did figure something out tonight about myself. I like what I do and who I am. I'm sorry Aubrey had to end up getting hurt, but I'm glad I was there to help. Artie is a small-minded jerk, but I don't have to let him get to me." They watched for a while as the room continued to empty out, the party atmosphere gone. Margie put her hand on Johnny's, "John, you were a hero to me in high school, and I'm not a bit surprised that you managed to fulfill your dream. You wanted to be a fireman, and you did it. Lots of guys have settled for less." Johnny smiled at Margie. "You know, I guess you're right. Being a fireman was all I really wanted to do, and I'm doin' it. Huh! What do you know about that?" He picked up the bundled suit jacket and loosened his tie then stood to leave. "I...I guess I'll see you around, huh?" "You'd better!" Margie said sternly, and then her freckles seemed to dance as she giggled, her eyes sparkling. "Don't be a stranger, Johnny. Stop by and see us often." "It's a deal." Johnny gave Margie a quick hug, shook hands with Paul Reaver and made his way determinedly to the front of the room. Stopping before the head table where Artie and Peggy Tyler and the Smithers made up a glum foursome, Johnny stared for a moment at his old enemy and shook his head. He removed the battery device from beneath his jacket and dropped it in front of Artie Tyler. The heavy gadget hit the table with a BANG! causing everyone still in the dining room to turn their heads toward the source of the noise. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "I believe this belongs to you," the dark-haired stranger informed Artie. Artie Tyler, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish, stared back, not comprehending how the man could have figured it out. "I th-think there must be some mistake," Artie stuttered, unwilling to admit to any knowledge of the incriminating article resting in front of his dinner plate. The man shook his head, "Artie, when are you gonna grow up?" The stranger's face wore a disgusted look as he stood before them accusingly, one hand resting on his hip as if addressing an incorrigible child. Peggy Tyler stood and skirted the table to confront the stranger. She held her hand out to him and said, "I don't believe we've met. I'm Peggy Tyler. You were wonderful this evening, saving that poor man's life." The stranger looked into the woman's eyes, noting the very personal interest and the way she seemed to devour him like the dessert course. He snorted, and then shook her hand. "John Gage," he replied, enjoying the way the woman's eyes widened even as her husband choked on the drink he'd just raised to his lips. Slowly and deliberately, Johnny reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed the faded blue ribbon, his prize from the track meet where he'd bested Artie Tyler. He looked at it for a moment, tempted to throw it at the other man, and then carefully and deliberately tucked it into the pocket of his shirt, the tail end of the ribbon sticking out. Think I'll keep it. Yep. I'll definitely keep it. Gage turned without looking back and left the restaurant, not caring whether he ever saw Artie Tyler again. It just didn't matter anymore. As he unlocked the Rover and climbed in, he began to whistle. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Roy DeSoto paced the floor of the latrine rehearsing the speech he planned to give his partner. Maybe a good pep talk is all Johnny needs. Sure, why didn't I think of it before? I'll remind him of how important our job is, how much people depend on us and how he was the one to really change Brackett's mind about the paramedic program. I'll make him remember how he kept me from quitting when I almost lost my confidence and how much we've gone through together. I'll... The sound of off-key whistling echoed through the apparatus bay, a sound immediately recognizable as coming from Johnny Gage. Roy quickly busied himself with getting dressed for the shift. "Mornin', partner! Beautiful day, isn't it?" Johnny breezed into the locker room, a smile on his face, and opened his locker door. He hiked one foot up on the bottom of his locker and proceeded to untie his sneakers. He resumed his cheerful whistling, interrupting it occasionally as he changed into his fresh uniform and pinned on his badge. Finding a small smudge on the mirror bright surface, Gage pulled out a handkerchief and polished away the flaw, then fastened on his paramedic pin and nametag. He slipped into the latrine to check out his appearance in the mirror, tucked in his shirttails and grinned at the man who stared back at him. A quick motion with his comb settled a wayward lock of hair. With a last glance in the mirror, Johnny turned to exit the latrine, snapped his fingers, executed a U-turn, and retrieved his utility holster from the bottom of his locker. "Can't forget this," he remarked, "tools of the trade!" He finally looked at Roy. "Well, come on, partner. You gonna stand there all day?" Mouth still agape, the blond paramedic hurriedly tucked in the tails of his blue uniform shirt and followed his partner toward the kitchen. Johnny swept toward the coffee maker and poured himself a fresh hot cup of java then blew on it to cool it off before taking a sip. Over the lip of the cup his eyes met the anxious faces of his crewmates staring at him intensely. "What?" Kelly made an impatient gesture, "So, how'd it go?" Johnny looked back blankly. "How'd what go?" "How'd what...oh, for heaven's sake, the reunion!" Cap exclaimed. "Oh, that." Johnny shrugged. "It went all right. I mean, there was a little excitement, but it was okay. Actually it was kind of boring at times, but all in all, I'd say it was okay." The sound of the squad backing into the bay as the C-Shift paramedics returned from their run interrupted any further comments from John Gage as he set down the coffee cup and homed in on the plate of donuts still untouched on the kitchen table. Eyes closed as he savored the first bite, everyone was treated to food-in-mouth dialect as Johnny greeted Dwyer and Manley. "Ethey shwft?" After four years the other two men had no trouble understanding Gage's question. "Pretty easy, as shifts go," Dwyer replied. "Only two calls after the guy at the restaurant, he added. "Oh, yeah, Aubrey!" Gage exclaimed, quickly washing down the remnants of the pastry with a gulp of coffee, wincing at the heat of the liquid as it burned it's way down. He retrieved a glass from the cupboard and cooled his throat with some water. "How's he doin' anyway?" he asked the other paramedic. "He's gonna be fine. His wife's still a basket case, though. I thought Dix was gonna put her lights out. She kept pushing in, trying to hold 'dear Aubrey's' hand. Anyway, he's in the cardiac unit for now. He kept mumbling something about a shock. You know what he's talking about?" Johnny looked thoughtful for a minute, and then shook his head. "Nah. Who knows?" He took a quick and careful sip of coffee, wiped the powdered sugar from his mouth, and started toward the bay. "I'll do the calibration and comms check, okay, Roy?" Gage called over his shoulder. Roy stood for a moment staring after the other paramedic. "I think I'm gonna kill him," he muttered. "Here I worry all week about that guy..." The rest of the crew could still hear DeSoto as he disappeared after his partner. "He's back," Marco stated matter-of-factly. With a wide grin and a rueful shake of his head, Cap just commented, "Twit!" and walked toward his office. "What do you mean upset?" Johnny's raised voice rang out from the next room. "I was a little nervous, but I certainly wasn't upset!" "I don't believe you!" Roy's answer came back louder than usual. Chet shook his head, smirking, and bit into a large jelly donut. Yep, Gage is back. THE END ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author's Note: My thanks to Min for letting me pick her brains for the medical details, to Livewyr70 for his "beta listens" and to Kajakat for her encouragement and for giving this story a home. feedback for Nexxie return to main menu