Patrolman Marc Morales: Swine Flu In NYC

After a whole shift riding that damn patrol car, I decided to walk -to keep the circulation flowing on my numb legs- from the Precinct to the Blues Bar and Grill, on Second Avenue.

Not only was the joint packed, but noisy as hell. It smelled of burnt chicken wings.

Not having much to do this glorious (high up in the 70s), Friday-afternoon, I told Saleem, the bartender, to run me a tab. I was on my third beer chaser when a huge guy -who was being loud and obnoxious- at the end of the bar all of a sudden keeled over.

Pandemonium broke. Then Silence engulfed the joint. The two fellows shooting pool and a waitress kneeled down to assist the two-hundred-fifty pounder.

Indeed the place got silent in a New York minute, but not for long.

A shrill female voice sounded off: "Swine flu!"

"Swine flu!" the parishioners echoed like a church choir.

Panic ensued. Even the guys that were helping the poor soul ran out the door. You should have seen them running in all different directions, scurrying about like roaches when you turn on the light. Of course this made me angry: recalling my ethics training at the Academy, the thought depraved indifference flashed through my mind. Could even be reckless manslaughter, I concluded.

Yo, man-not right to abandon a helpless human being.

Never dealt with "Swine flu" before, and I know it kills people, but even knowing this I got down and tried to revive the big guy. His pulse was strong. Heartbeat loud and booming. When I opened his shirt I saw the medal that diabetic people wear.

Without wasting a second I yelled to Saleem to pour a glass of orange juice. I pried the man's jaws open; not an easy task because the 250-pound gorilla had his jaws locked tighter than a bear trap. I stuck my cell phone between his teeth and then I poured some of that Tropicana yellow liquid down his gullet.

"Fix another glass, Saleem!" I screamed. "Load it with sugar-right quick. And call 911!"

The second glass went in easy enough, just like pouring oil in a funnel. This is one sad case when I really agree with "water boarding." Or rather: OJ boarding -not OJ Simpson, mind me- but orange juice boarding.

Like stars twinkling in the night, the man's eyelids twitched and fluttered, opening and closing, and as he sat up, he spat out the damn cell phone. He looked confused. Of course, he'd left teeth marks on the metal casing of my cell phone, and I marveled that he hadn't chipped a tooth-the dummy! So strong was his bite that I could barely flip open the gadget.

By the time the paramedics arrived the big fellow was up and about, a little spaced out, white shirt stained yellow, lips and gums bruised, but okay.

The senior paramedic recognized the man right away and exclaimed,

"Oh, him! Man gets loaded allatime and denn he feggets his med-ee-kayshion." Though I was born and raised in New York City -El Barrio- I can never get used to that Brooklyn accent.

"What's this thing about swine flu," I asked the Brooklyn-language-mangler paramedic.

"Oh, yeah, da ting it's traveling: from Mexico to Don Diego. Couldda come to New Yoik, already--Queens I heah."

"You mean San Diego," I said to check if I had calibrated his meaning well.

"Das wattaised."

"Thank God," I said and left mumbling to myself, "damn plague still out there in the boondocks- the Bronx and Queens are foreign territories to me. Manhattan is my beat, and to be more precise: East of Tiffany's.

"Hey, Marc," I heard Saleem call. "Good job, man. Next time I'll give you two on the house."

My man Saleem kills me.

Saleem must be the only bartender in New York City who doesn't drink liquor and will give you one on the house only if your tab shows you've downed five drinks. The owner of the joint loves him. Can never figure out how Saleem can mix the best drinks in town since he has the faintest idea how they taste.

I'm off duty, so I won't collect OT pay for my good Samaritan work helping old Twinkle-Toes, but I feel good about being a cop in New York City -East of Tiffany's, my beat.

So, let me go to McAnn's on 1st Avenue, to cultivate the Irish garden; if you know what I mean, where all the bartenders, waiters, and waitresses, and even busboys-they all drink. The moment they start singing "Danny Boy," and people star moving from glen to glen, I take that as my clue to leave.

I wonder when the Precinct will get us them swine-flu hots?

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