{"id":12887,"date":"2017-04-27T17:53:49","date_gmt":"2017-04-27T21:53:49","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/?p=12887"},"modified":"2017-05-04T10:06:55","modified_gmt":"2017-05-04T14:06:55","slug":"post-traumatic","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/post-traumatic\/","title":{"rendered":"Post Traumatic"},"content":{"rendered":"

May 2017 | view this story as a .pdf<\/a><\/p>\n

By Wren Pearson<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\"May-17-Fiction\"“Call 911. I think I\u2019m going to kill someone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Jeff was prone to exaggeration.<\/span><\/p>\n

I walked the length of the parking lot to his apartment. He was standing on the curb, staring at my approach.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDid you call?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo. I\u2019m not calling 911 without knowing why.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He glared at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cA guy at the bar was getting in my face. He kept pushing me, shooting off his mouth. I left, but it\u2019s not going away, so call 911 and tell them to send the fucking cops before I end up hurting you, too.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He\u2019d never threatened me before. I was his consigliere. We took care of each other.<\/span><\/p>\n

I dialed the number.<\/span><\/p>\n

As I tried to explain the situation to the operator, Jeff kept interrupting.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTell them to send the cops now!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The operator repeatedly asked if I were being threatened. Was I in danger? She wouldn\u2019t listen to the backstory. They both kept talking over me. I set the phone down, not knowing what to do.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStay on the fucking line!\u201d Jeff hollered at me. \u201cYou don\u2019t hang up!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

A fire truck was the first to arrive. High up in the cab, the two occupants looked down on the scene.<\/span><\/p>\n

Jeff stormed to the engine as the uniforms descended.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo what\u2019s going on here?\u201d the woman asked from the step of the truck while the driver rounded the front. Her tone was dismissive as she took in Jeff\u2019s tattoos.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI need to be handcuffed!\u201d Jeff shouted. \u201cI need to be cuffed and restrained now!\u201d He was pacing back and forth by the truck, wrists out in front of him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJust calm down,\u201d the woman said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTake it easy, man,\u201d the driver said. \u201cCalm down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Calming down wasn\u2019t an option.<\/span><\/p>\n

Blue lights bounced off the brick walls as the next vehicle arrived. Jeff kept moving, stalking up the lot toward the cruiser and the emerging officers. The firemen followed him. Jeff was pleading now.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPlease, officers, cuff me. Handcuff me before I lose it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The young cop on the left put his hands on his hips, on his belt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSir, tell us what\u2019s going on with you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Suddenly Jeff was looking around wildly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s Sharon?\u201d he bellowed. \u201cI can\u2019t see Sharon! Where is she?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I started running, calling to him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m here, Jeff. Hold on. I\u2019m right here!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTell them!\u201d he screamed as he caught sight of me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m his caregiver. He\u2019s an Iraq war combat veteran with severe PTSD. He\u2019s got a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star, and he lost men in Baghdad. He\u2019s unarmed, and he\u2019s asking for your help! Please handcuff him now before this goes bad.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Jeff stood still, wrists out, arms shaking. The older cop nodded at me, stepped forward, and clicked the cuffs. Jeff let out a long breath then drew in more air and roared up at the night sky, straining against the the cuffs with all his might. His body seemed to swell in size like Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk. He didn\u2019t move from his spot. Every muscle in his body contracted, forcing the fury against the cage of his skin.<\/span><\/p>\n

A stretcher appeared. A paramedic with a syringe. The needle went in, but still he roared, straining against the handcuffs. Another syringe. He collapsed on the stretcher, and all six uniforms rushed forward to strap him down. Fully restrained, he stopped his howling, replaced by a small voice of tears as the gurney was rolled to the back of the ambulance.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t kill that child. I didn\u2019t kill that child.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere to?\u201d the ambulance driver asked me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMercy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I could hear him swearing at people as I filled out forms with the nurses and police. They were trying to intubate him to pump his stomach, though I knew there were no drugs and not much alcohol in there. He hadn\u2019t been downtown long enough.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis may take a while,\u201d a nurse said. \u201cThose two shots barely lasted the ambulance ride.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I sat in the open doorway, reading by the corridor light as two people slept on rows of chairs in the darkened lounge. The swearing faded away. Hours later, I moved to Jeff\u2019s room, sitting at the foot of his bed. I watched the drainage bag slowly fill up with urine while he snored peacefully.<\/span><\/p>\n

He was released in the morning under the condition that he go immediately to the VA and meet with his psychiatrist, who was expecting him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSharon will take me,\u201d Jeff said.<\/span><\/p>\n

The doctor saw the quick flash of panic on my face. I didn\u2019t know what to expect anymore.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe can call the sheriff,\u201d the doctor offered. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to transport him.\u201d But I knew I did.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the car, Jeff reclined the seat, making the journey in silence with his eyes closed.<\/span><\/p>\n

At the VA, I sat in the psych unit waiting room with combat vets from different wars. I\u2019d been here before. A young guy behind me pulled out a Ziploc bag containing a dozen peeled, hard-boiled eggs and offered them to anyone within earshot. When Jeff came out of the locked hallway that led to his shrink\u2019s office he was all smiles. His ride home was jubilant.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDoc said I handled this all real well. I got out of the situation to a safe place. I asked for help. No violence. No arrest. I did it all right.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m proud of you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

As I parked the car, Jeff took out his cell phone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m gonna call Brita and see if she wants to go roller skating. You wanna come?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I shook my head no.<\/span><\/p>\n

He got out and walked toward his place, already dialing the phone. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, locked the door behind me and cried myself to sleep. <\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

May 2017
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