Montana, the freedom fighter
Montana and I were partners at a private ambulance company, back when I was an EMT in Galveston, Texas. I was very taken by Montana. Despite her diminutive posture and petite, feminine affectation, she had balls. Whenever a patient took a dive mid-transport, she never panicked, never missed a beat. Watching her intubate a cardiac patient who’d lost his airway, I noticed her hand never shook. She never broke a sweat. Part of my training involved assessing respirations per minute as well as pulse and blood pressure—and as an experiment one day, we hooked her up to the monitor as shit really hit the fan with a dying patient, and her vitals didn’t change one bit.
She told me the real trick was not to care—a seemingly paradoxical trait for a healthcare professional to possess.
Most of the time, our patients were just elderly folk requiring a ride from the convalescent home to the hospital. We used to joke that EMT stood for “Early Morning Taxi.” Many of these people were in a sad state of affairs. Bed-ridden. Morbidly obese. Octogenarians without family or friends, who just watched game shows all day, waiting for us to take them to their dialysis appointment, then back again.
“Pathetic,” Montana said, shaking her head in pity. “Their bodies are like prisons, and their life’s final cry is choking to death on their own mucous in some sterile room as Pat Sajak is like, ‘Ooooh, Bankrupt!'”
We began dating after a few months. Though I was incredibly physically attracted to her, something was very off. Maybe it was the way she showered in tepid water; or that she thoroughly enjoyed waxing her own bikini line; or that she never once, to my knowledge, orgasmed during intercourse; or how, one time, we saw a bee stinging a dragonfly to death and I swear I could see her massive green eyes immediately dilate as crunched the stingerless bee and dying dragonfly beneath her pumps with an unnervingly satisfying crunch.
Montana seemed to date me just because I was there. I don’t think she was even remotely interested in me as a person; nor anyone else, for that matter. I tried with her though; I really did. I knew that somewhere within the cold recesses of her personality, there was an optimistic girl who wanted only to love and be loved in return. Time after time I labored to please her between the sheets, to illicit a response when I went out of my way to make her feel special with elaborate gifts and epic love letters.
Imagine my horror when I realized, one afternoon, that she had been using her medical know-how to subtly and neatly kill off the old and the weak. She noticed the fear and contempt in my voice when I confronted her and replied, “Don’t you get it, Knox? They have nothing to live for. I’m freeing them.”
“Well, do me a favor and never free me,” I said.
Later on, in court, when they handed down her death sentence, I’ll have no way of knowing for sure; but I’d bet my life her blood pressure didn’t change one bit.
Filed under: stories of heartbreak | 2 Comments