Vol. 6 No. 3		June 2007
-e*I*32- (Vol. 6 No. 3) June 2007, is published and © 2007 by Earl Kemp. All rights reserved. It is produced and distributed bi-monthly through efanzines.com by Bill Burns in an e-edition only.

Contents — eI32 — June 2007

Cover: “Spring Planting,” by Steve Stiles

…Return to sender, address unknown….22 [eI letter column], by Earl Kemp

Picnic Time in Wabash, Indiana, by Juanita Coulson

Ted White Still Scares Me, by Ed Gorman

Corflu Quire Confidential, by Graham Charnock

Duet, by Earl Kemp

Override, by Michael Moorcock

Frankenpussy, by Victor J. Banis

‘The Things I do for that Earl Kemp,’ by Peter Weston

‘The Things Peter Weston does to me,’ by Earl Kemp

San Francisco Confidential, by Robert Bloch

No Holds Barred, by Poul and Karen Anderson

Introduction to No Holds Barred, by Earl Kemp

Things are going to get unimaginably worse, and they will never get better again.                      --Kurt Vonnegut, 1970

THIS ISSUE OF eI is in memory of sterling fan David Wood, because he deserved it, and I’m sorry he won’t know it. It is also in memory of my dear old friend Robert Bloch.

In the exclusively science fiction world, it is also in memory of David Honigsberg.

#

As always, everything in this issue of eI beneath my byline is part of my in-progress rough-draft memoirs. As such, I would appreciate any corrections, revisions, extensions, anecdotes, photographs, jpegs, or what have you sent to me at earlkemp@citlink.net and thank you in advance for all your help.

Bill Burns is jefe around here. If it wasn’t for him, nothing would get done. He inspires activity. He deserves some really great rewards. It is a privilege and a pleasure to have him working with me to make eI whatever it is.

Other than Bill Burns, Dave Locke, and Robert Lichtman, these are the people who made this issue of eI possible: Karen Anderson, Victor Banis, Robert Bloch, Graham Charnock, Melissa Conway, Juanita Coulson, Ed Gorman, Earl Terry Kemp, Michael Moorcock, James O’Meara, Curt Phillips, Martin Tays, Bob Tucker, and Peter Weston.

ARTWORK: This issue of eI features artwork by Ray Nelson, Steve Stiles, and recycled artwork by Poul Anderson, Harry Bell, Dean Grennell, and William Rotsler.

In this era of big brains, anything that can be done will be done—so hunker down.
                       --Kilgore Trout

…Return to sender, address unknown…. 22
The Official eI Letters to the Editor Column
Artwork recycled William Rotsler

By Earl Kemp

We get letters. Some parts of some of them are printable. Your letter of comment is most wanted via email to earlkemp@citlink.net or by snail mail to P.O. Box 6642, Kingman, AZ 86402-6642 and thank you.

Also, please note, I observe DNQs and make arbitrary and capricious deletions from these letters in order to remain on topic.

This is the official Letter Column of eI, and following are a few quotes from a few of those letters concerning the last issue of eI. All this in an effort to get you to write letters of comment to eI so you can look for them when they appear here.

Sunday April 22, 2007:

All Science Fiction!  Gosh-wow! Boy-Oh-Boy!  That’s for me!  It’s about time we got rid of all that icky fannish stuff and hunkered down to BEMs and rayguns and brass bras and stuff.    And a quick scan of eI31 shows a bountiful plenty of great articles and lavish illos that are sure to please.  Those scans of EMSH originals look great.   A good-looking eI, Earl.  You may even coax an actual loc out of me this time.

                              --Curt Phillips, Trufen

#

Barristers, it’s the best bit of con reporting I’ve read in years...though how could I not warm to a piece that reminded me of “We Met On The Steps...?” Well done to Earl for snagging it, and to Mike Moorcock for an instant classic in fannish writing!

                              --Mary Reed, Inthebar

Monday April 23, 2007:

It was really wonderful to discover in eI30 the article “Through Emshwiller’s Eyes” written by Luis Ortiz about the great artist Emsh. I am an absolute fan of Emsh who is my favorite SF illustrator and that I consider as being the best among all the others. Maybe you remember a whole page is dedicated to him on the Showcase site.

Who is Luis Ortiz? I can see in the middle of the article the picture of a book titled Emshwiller Infinity X Two The Art and Life of Ed and Carol Emshwiller.  I am very interested by this book because it is the first time I hear of a book dedicated to Ed Emshwiller. Do you think this edition is still available in the US and where it is possible to buy a copy? [This was handled directly by Jacques and Luis. –EK]

Thank you to have mentioned among some other names, Patrice Dubic in memory of him.

                                 --Jacques Hamon http://www.noosfere.org/showcase/

#

You know, I know almost nothing about Ed Emshwiller’s life as an artist. I know a fair bit about his time as a filmmaker, but the article about his SF art was so fantastic. From the outside, it’s hard to see how interconnected some people, particularly artists, are with individual publications. I’ve seen almost every issue of Galaxy, and I didn’t realize half the stuff that was mentioned. I guess it comes from being far too young to have known the early days. I have a few images from him burned in my brain. When we were trying to come up with an iconic image for our chess exhibit, I instantly recommended the image from Astounding of the guy sitting bored in front of the computer. To me, that’s the perfect image of the early computer era and the piece of Emsh’s that sticks hardest in my mind.

His filmmaking career was incredible and Anthology Film Archives has copies of most of his stuff, and they’ve been kind enough in the past to show several of them and to loan out copies to be viewed at places like the MFA and the Institute for Contemporary Art in Boston and at SFMOMA. There’s an amazing beauty to his pieces, and I’ve recommended a few of his pieces for the National Film Registry, including Sunstone from 1979 that is one of the most important films of the last 30 years. Working with Alvy Ray Smith, he created what has to be considered the most important step forward for computer graphics of the 1970s. It’s worth noting that the film is sadly not in the collection of the Computer History Museum, but a snippet of it appears on an SIGGRAPH tape that we have.

His other important film is “George Dumpson’s Place.” It’s another one that should be on the National Film Registry. The cinematography is strange and actually foretells the methods that filmmakers would be using in the 1970s and ’80s. It’s a textural piece that flows with the kind of visual sensitivity that only an artist used to creating with his hands could provide. There’s an amazing sense of oblivion in the film and it’s one of the best examples of avant-garde documentary filmmaking from that period. It’s available on the Treasures of American Film Archives DVD set. I’m hoping that more Emshwiller pieces make their way onto DVD because they are an important part of the story of the artist and of American Experimental Film, especially his early work documenting dance that is seldom seen any more. I know that there was a Dance centered film festival that showed several of his pieces in the 1990s, but I did not attend.

The Rog Phillips stuff from Terry is just wonderful. It’s exactly the kind of writing I love; personal and attached while informative. I’ve read a lot of those “Club House” articles over the years and I have to say they were good stuff. I had little idea about the guy behind them.

Great issues as always, Earl.

                               --Chris Garcia

#

That mammoth Roger Phillips article deserves to be a book in its own right, and that is probably the only way I could read it in its entirety. Hey, Earl, edit it and put it up on Lulu as a paperback. I’d buy a copy. (Loved the shot of you as a proud father, by the way. You haven’t changed a bit--he chortled unconvincingly.)   Mike is wrong on several counts: I never had a Fender Precision Bass, and I forget what the other count is. Oh yes, “Star Cruiser” was never that great a song—but I think Mike was being ironic if not post-ironic. And, oh yes, you might have photoshopped and cropped that picture of me at Corflu so that it cut out Ted, and perhaps enhanced it so that I was remotely visible.

                              --Graham Charnock, Inthebar

#

I need to send a note if only to mention how much I enjoyed the brilliant bit by Mike Moorcock. I’d almost say it inspired me to try some faanish writing, but on second thought it convinces me to never, ever even think about wasting my time on something that would pale in comparison. And I wasn’t at the convention and am only vaguely familiar with a lot of his references. I guess this is the sort of writing that played a big part in attracting me to fanzines -- stuff that was just fun.

#

Wednesday May 2, 2007:

W. Paul Ganley is still involved in some areas of fandom in Buffalo, New York. He was the publisher of Weirdbook, he is still involved with the Buffalo Fantasy League, and is usually involved to some degree with Joe Fillinger with the staging of Eeriecon in Niagara Falls, NY.

                        --Lloyd Penney

Sunday June 10, 2007:

I finally finished reading the April eI last night and had some comments.  I’ll pass on saying anything about the extensive excerpt you included by Luis Ortiz from his Emsh book since, after all, I bought and have read (and needless to say, enjoyed) the book itself.  Moorcock’s breezy piece on his time at the Austin Corflu made for an entertaining read, but it’s the stuff about Rog Phillips and “The Club House” that was by far the highlight of this issue for me.

As I’ve written before a number of times, I discovered fandom before I discovered fandom thanks to Rog’s columns in Amazing.  When I was twelve going on thirteen my parents sent me to learn judo at the Hollywood dojo operated by Bruce Tegnér.  If you Google for him you’ll find a lot of information about his interesting personal history, including that he operated that school from 1952 to 1967.  I was there every Saturday for six months in 1955 during my personal golden age for reading science fiction, and afterward I would walk up from Sunset Blvd. (near Western Avenue) to Hollywood Blvd., where there was a huge used bookstore, Larsen’s, whose mustiness overpowered you but in a good way once you opened the door and went inside.

Larsen’s had a wall of pulp magazines running from ceiling to floor and extending maybe 15-20 feet, and that was my paradise on those Saturday afternoons.  It was where I discovered the Shaver mystery and read some of the stories.  But before long, what most caught my attention in the hundreds of magazines neatly arranged by title and date was the various fan columns and the letter sections.  I read Sarge Saturn.  I read what to me were incredible letters from various individuals—the same ones kept cropping up from issue to issue—raving positively and/or negatively about stories in the magazines and taking issue with other letter writers’ comments on the same stories.  And of course I read “The Club House.”  I learned of someone complaining that FAPA (or was it SAPS) shouldn’t be sending mailings to Phillips because Amazing carried Shaver’s writing.  I read about conventions happening in far off places.  And I read reviews of magazines with names like Dream Quest and Fandom Speaks. 

How interesting, I thought, but at the age of thirteen I never made the leap that although what I was reading about had taken place back in the ’40s—an incredibly long time ago for someone so young—it might still be happening.  I wasn’t reading most of the current science fiction magazines (all digests by then) except for the leading ones like F&SF and Galaxy, so it wasn’t until the summer of 1958 that—attracted by the cover blurb, “Special Science Feature: What We Will Find On Venus”—I picked up the October 1958 issue of Imagination and was dumbfounded to find Robert Bloch’s “Fandora’s Box” column in which fanzines were being reviewed.  (It also didn’t hurt that Bloch preceded his reviews in that column by a long polemic about how amateur magazines were a bastion of individual expression in an ever more corporatized media landscape.) I bought the magazine and promptly sent away for a few of the fanzines.

As I later learned, that was the final issue of Imagination and the final installment of Bloch’s column.  If not for my curiosity about Venus, I might not be writing these words today.

So much of what Mike Deckinger quotes from Rog’s columns is completely familiar to me because I didn’t just read them once—I made many visits to Larsen’s and read them many times.  I don’t think I read them all, though, and it occurs to me that a wonderful book could be made by reprinting the entire run.  Some stuff would be dated, to be sure, but they’re so full of Phillips’ enthusiastic and knowledgeable  comments and insights about fandom that I believe such a compilation would be a joy to read (and, I suspect, not just for those of us who either got into fandom through them or saw them in old pulps long ago).  A possible Advent project?

Since one of my sons lives outside Taos, New Mexico, I was quite taken with Rog’s writing after his visit with Mack Reynolds and Fredric Brown—who were living there when he saw them in 1951—that it’s an inexpensive place to live because you can pick up an acre of ground and a two-room adobe house for $600.”  That’s no longer the case, of course, but it’s still true that “There were places where the landscape might have been a Bonestell painting of a scene from the surface of the moon.”

This quote from one of Phillips’s columns caught my attention:  “‘Also reported is the formation of the SFWA (Science Fiction Writers of America) at the fifth annual SouWestercon in San Diego late in June 1952. About five hundred writers will be asked to consider joining the organization. The three aims of the SFWA are (1) to improve the financial status of sf writers by bettering the conditions of rights and rates (2) to enable sf writers to know each other and to compare their work and experience in the field, and (3) by publicity, awards, and other methods of promotion, to improve the prestige and standing in the eyes of the general public.’ Inquiries go to Forrest J Ackerman.”  Since according to its own Web page and all references I can find, the SFWA we know (now SFFWA) was founded by Damon Knight in 1965, apparently this was an earlier effort that not only failed but of which all knowledge other than this paragraph has been lost.

I enjoyed your and Earl Terry’s homages to Rog Phillips as well—excellent accompaniments to Deckinger’s long survey of the “Club House” columns.   And of course “Christ: An Autobiography” had to be included here to complete the picture.  About his work published in book form, Terry writes that “these three paperbacks represent a very short list of his better-known works. The paperbacks are difficult to find, and expensive to collect. His one and only hardbound also goes quickly to collectors.”  However, because this issue got me interested in reading his science fiction, I found inexpensive copies of all the books via Bookfinder and have sent for them.  I look forward to checking them out.

                       --Robert Lichtman

Shift to the kitchen for the next photo (below left). Jon Stopa, Earl (again), an assortment of Grennell and Kemp kids around the table, Buck draining a pop can, and Jean Grennell keeping an eye on everything, per normal.

All in all, it was not a Chinese curse, though it WAS an interesting time. (For one thing, the little farm house was due east of a SAC base, and every so often those enormous birds, no doubt loaded to the gills with nukes, would be lumbering toward us, climbing ever so Sloooowly and banking. I tended to stand out in the same front yard where picnickers enjoyed themselves and make golfer’s “English” “up, up, up, and take it over thataway” motions, chivvying them toward Fort Wayne—if they decided to crash.) But fannishly, all of us—even the traditional family types fans—were in a sort of extended adolescence, making it up as we went, sharing a love for the same game, following one of my favorite axioms: We may, eventually, have had to grow old, but very few of us were going to allow ourselves to grow up. I haven’t, and I hope those in these photos who are still with us feel the same way.

Finally I take a break and join in for a little music.

All photos in this article courtesy James O’Meara Collection.

The three [There are four issues, numbers 1, 2, 3, and 5, in the Bruce Pelz Collection, University of California, Riverside. –Robert Lichtman] issues were sort of spiffy (not as spiffy as Twig) because they came enclosed in two-color George Barr covers. Knockouts. Among the contributors were Greg Benford, Marion Zimmer Bradley, and Robert Bloch.

All fanzine cover scans in this article courtesy Robert Lichtman Collection.

By Victor J. Banis

Every trace of Alley Thing had been destroyed: records, samples, slides, compact discs, even the hard drive from the computer. The laboratory counters and the floors were littered with broken glass and shredded paper. The sinks were filled with the ashes of burnt documents and journals. Blood samples, sera, everything liquid, had gone down the drains. The room positively reeked with the acrid stench of chemicals and smoke and electrical short circuits.

Janet did not know exactly what it was that Caleb had done that had so angered Melissa. The telephone connection had been broken before Melissa could tell her that. She did know, however, that it had been Melissa’s intention to destroy the project. That much Melissa had managed to tell her on the phone. “I’m going to destroy everything, every trace of Alley Thing,” she had said. “There must be nothing left of our research for Caleb to find. The formula will exist nowhere but in my mind, where he’ll never find it.”

Janet had vowed to an unconscious Melissa that she would carry out her wish. She had done so with a vengeance. Two years of diligent, seemingly endless work, all those nights working late here in the lab, had been erased, destroyed completely. But it was worth it to Janet just to imagine when the loathsome Caleb Wald came here later, as she had no doubt he would do, and discovered what she had done.

“Take that, you bastard,” she muttered aloud. “You’ll reap no profits from my Melissa’s misery.”

Only two things were left for her to deal with: She Cat, watching with intense interest from her cage, and the vial with the last of their B test serum, the serum that had caused such startling changes in the creature.

She found a syringe in a drawer and carefully filled it with the remains of the serum. For just a moment she hesitated. She knew that she was taking an enormous risk, without any clue as to what the final consequences might be. The serum had never been tried on a human subject, and certainly, the results with She Cat were enough to give one pause. How a human would react to it was anyone’s guess.

To her way of thinking, however, she had no alternative. She had a job to do, and that job was going to require something more than her ordinary woman’s strength. She had made the unconscious Melissa another promise as well.

“I swear to you, I will get him,” she had vowed while she wept silently, holding her beloved’s hand. “I will find this Drag Thing, and I will make him pay for what he has done to you.”

Just thinking of her darling, lying helpless and unconscious in a hospital bed, made her heart ache with anguish. Was she in pain? Was she aware of her surroundings? Did she hear my vows?

“I must go to her,” she said aloud. “I must tell her that her wishes have been carried out.” As soon as she had finished here.

But first…she put the tip of the syringe against her arm. Her hand shook. She paused, contemplating in dread what she was about to do. There was no telling what would happen, no way of knowing what the serum might do to her, and no way of undoing her actions once they were done. They had never yet even thought of an antidote to the serum. She knew that Melissa would tell her she was being rash, reckless even, courting unknown danger.

I must, she swore silently. It’s the only way. I must do this.

She gritted her teeth with determination and resolutely plunged the syringe into her arm. There was an immediate sensation of heat, starting at the injection site and spreading swiftly up her arm. It felt as if her veins were on fire, a blaze that shot up her arm and her shoulder in quick succession, and through her entire body.

Oddly, she welcomed the burn even as it flamed through her. Whatever happened to her, she was confident of one thing: she would be far stronger afterward than she had ever been before, stronger and more aggressive, and she would need that strength, and that disposition, to do what she had to do. Even as she thought that, she seemed to feel stronger already, physically more confident, as if she could tackle anything, anyone.

“Now then, Miss Drag Thing,” she said aloud, grinning fiercely, “Let me tell you something, bitch: you can swap your frocks and you can trim your tresses, but you can not hide from me. You are out there somewhere and I will find you, I swear it. I will make you pay for what you have done.”

There was one last thing still that she must do. She had put it off for as long as she could, but she could avoid it no longer. Tears welled up in her eyes as she turned to She Cat’s cage.

From within the cage, She Cat watched her warily. Oddly, for the first time in all these months, Janet regarded the animal with a sense of affection. The cat had been Melissa’s. In a sense, She Cat was the child of Melissa’s brilliant research. Destroying her seemed almost like a betrayal, and so cruel.

She could not leave the cat here, however, for Caleb Wald to find. Whatever he was up to, and she had no doubt he was up to something nefarious, his schemes must be thwarted.

Looking at the cat, a vague memory stirred in her mind. What was that poem she had always liked as a child? She thought a moment, dredging her memory. A cat…a pussycat…pussy….

It came to her in a flash, and she recited in a loud voice, “The owl looked up to the stars above, and sang to a small guitar, O lovely pussy, O pussy my love, what a beautiful pussy you are, you are, what a beautiful pussy you are.”

Sudden inspiration struck her. No, she would not destroy the cat. She Cat had been Melissa’s child, her brilliant creation. Now she would be her creator’s avenger.

“You are going to help me find him,” she told the watching beast. She opened the door of the cage. Instead of attacking the way she usually did, She Cat sat unmoving, as if she had understood Janet’s words and was waiting to see what would happen next.

Janet reached inside with the vial and upturned it, and sprinkled the last few drops of the serum over the cat’s head.

“I christen thee Missy,” she intoned in a somber voice. “That was my darling’s suggestion, do you remember, Missy? From this moment forward, you will be Missy Hyde.”

Far from being annoyed by the drops that fell upon her, the newly named Missy Hyde seemed to understand and approve of what Janet was saying. She licked a droplet from one whisker and made a sound that might have been a purr or the distant rumble of a subway train.

On an impulse, Janet seized the cage from the counter and, hugging it to her bosom, spun around lightly. “What a beautiful pussy you are, you are, what a beautiful pussy you are,” she sang. Missy Hyde added an enthusiastic yowl to the chorus.

Janet paused to crush the now empty serum vial under her foot with a pop and took one final glance around. It felt to her like she had already grown taller. She seemed to be looking down on things from a different perspective, and the cage that had been heavy a moment before now felt as light as paper. Overflowing with newfound confidence, she strode briskly to the door.

“Ready or not, Drag Thing,” she said, flinging the door open with a violence that sent it crashing against the wall, “Here come Dr. Jackle and Missy Hyde.”

But first, she must tell Melissa what she had done, and introduce her to Missy Hyde. She must go to Melissa—to the hospital.

#

Gladys Kravitz—Nurse Kravitz here in her domain—came along the hospital corridor with a full bedpan in her hands and saw that the light was on in room 812, a faint sliver of yellow showing under the door.

That’s odd, she thought. That patient’s in a coma, why would she have a light on in the wee small hours of the morning? Besides, she was sure the light had not been on when she had gone by just a few minutes earlier. The door had not been closed then, either, as it was now. As it should not be. A violation of hospital regulations, regulations it was her sworn duty to uphold.

She pushed the door open and stepped cautiously into the room. It was only the bedside light that was on, and its pale yellow glow left most of the room in shadow. At first, she did not see anyone. Then with a start she realized that there was a man in bed with the patient, cradling her in his arms. As she gaped in astonishment, he sobbed softly and whispered something to the unconscious woman.

“What are you doing?” Nurse Kravitz demanded angrily. She brooked no hanky-panky on her shift and it was well past visiting hours.

He half sat up. It was not a man after all, she realized belatedly, but a woman, an enormous woman—indeed, a devilish parody of womanhood in huge baggy overalls and a voluminous sweatshirt that for all their considerable size both nevertheless managed to look too small for her immense body. Her hair was a wiry tangle of copper, her angry eyes flashed in the dim light with green fire. Nurse Kravitz’ flesh crawled as those eyes fell upon her, and the bedpan sloshed in her hands.

“Get out,” the woman said. “Leave us alone.”

“I will not,” Nurse Kravitz replied stoutly, summoning her resolve. Years of nursing often-irascible patients had made her steadfast in the performance of her duty. She had weathered every possible type of crisis and she was not about to be intimidated, not even by this ferocious gargoyle.

“Don’t make me show you my pussy,” the woman on the bed said, her voice a raspy snarl.

Nurse Kravitz’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t be crude,” she snapped, but even as she said this, something stirred in the darkness by the bed. “What’s that?” she demanded. She sniffed the air. “Have you brought an animal into this room? Hospital regulations forbid….”

A chain clinked noisily and a shadow separated itself from the other shadows on the floor and slunk toward her. A cat, Nurse Kravitz thought—or some kind of feline, but it was far too large, she realized at a second glance, to be an ordinary house cat. It was the size of a small collie, its unkempt fur orange and white and black. And it smelled, it positively reeked, the ugly scent of wet, dirty hair and something else. The smell of blood—the unsettling thought jumped into her mind.

The animal advanced a step or two further in her direction. The chain that tethered the monstrous beast to the bed clinked again as it reached its full length. Nurse Kravitz stared, frozen in horror as the monster cat regarded her with eyes a malevolent yellow-green.

The woman on the bed sat up and grinned wickedly at her. “I warned you, you pestiferous old bitch,” she cried. “Here you are, Missy, go show the nurse lady what a beautiful pussy you are, you are, what a beautiful pussy you are.”

She laughed and reached down to unclasp the chain. In happy anticipation, the cat curled her lips back to reveal teeth that would have done a shark proud and crouched, ready to leap.

With a shriek of terror, Nurse Kravitz dropped the bedpan she was holding and ran for her life. A mocking laugh and a beastly howl pursued her along the corridor.

#

It had been a first for EMT Luis Cordero, losing his ambulance.

“Thirty years, and we’ve never lost one,” his dispatcher said with an angry shake of his head.

“Listen, it wasn’t just us,” Luis had pointed out. “Don’t forget, Saint Maria Alfonso lost a patient.”

“Well, that’s too bad for them, but they lose patients by the carload, every day of the week at that joint. The difference is, they don’t get their paychecks docked, like we probably will. Do you have any idea how much an ambulance costs? You’ll be paying forever. We both will. Till we’re old, old ladies.”

Nevertheless, the emergency workload in San Francisco was too heavy to have a driver just sitting on the bench. An hour later, Luis was on the streets again, in another vehicle—and none too soon, either. He was barely behind the wheel when he got a call on an emergency appendectomy.

He made it to the scene in no time flat. He had his record to think of. If he got no more demerits, the company might give him a break and write off the missing ambulance. More than that, there was his reputation to consider. Plus there were the wounded and the sick to consider as well. You couldn’t altogether ignore them.

They had barely shoved the patient into the rear of the ambulance before Luis was behind the wheel and they were moving, headed once again for Saint Maria Alfonso.

“Hey, wait a sec,” his paramedic shouted. “I haven’t even got this guy strapped down yet.”

“No time,” Luis called back. “You said yourself this one was critical. Just hold on to him, why don’t you? It’s only a couple of miles. We’ll be there before I could stop and help you get him fastened down. Okay?”

“Well, okay, I guess so,” was the somewhat reluctant answer. “But step on it, okay?”

“Trust me,” Luis said. “You won’t know what hit you.”

“Please,” the patient moaned in a feeble voice. “I’m really….”

“Don’t you worry now, sir,” Luis called to him, “You’re going to get a ride you will never forget.”

They had gone no more than a couple of blocks, however, when Luis saw flashing red lights in his mirror and heard the wail of a siren. A police car—his immediate thought was that they must have caught the call on the emergency, and were here to give him an escort.

“All right,” he said aloud, grinning broadly, and speeded up. With a squad car clearing the way for him, he’d be at the hospital quicker than ever. A couple of record-time trips and he might even make Employee of the Month. Let them try to fire him then. More than likely, he’d get a raise. For sure a commendation. Everyone would forget all about that missing ambulance. It was just a woman in a coma, after all. Who was she going to complain to?

The police car caught up with him and pulled alongside on the left and the officer on the passenger side waved out the window. Luis waved back, encouraged, and shot ahead. The ambulance rocketed around a gaggle of cars. The black and white fell behind, then came alongside again, the officer waving all the more frantically.

“Go to the side,” he shouted.

To Luis, with the wind noise and both sirens screaming, it sounded like, “Go for the ride.” He laughed with delight and gave the man a thumbs up. “I’m with you, man,” he shouted in reply. It was times like this that made it all worthwhile.

“What’s happening, bro?” the paramedic asked from the rear. The vehicle was bouncing and tilting frenziedly as it whipped around traffic. “You’re going awfully fast, aren’t you? I’m having a helluva time trying to hang on to this guy.”

“Hold on to your jockstrap. We’re going to set a new land speed record,” Luis called back.

“Uh oh. We’d better. I think we just lost him.”

They jounced violently over a railroad crossing, the ambulance airborne for a few seconds before it crashed to the pavement again with a mighty groan.

“Urgh,” the patient cried, regaining semi-consciousness.

“That brought him back,” the paramedic shouted, “but it’s touch and go. Maybe a minute, two, even, but I think that’s the max.”

“We’re almost there,” Luis cried. “Hold on to him.”

Shots rang out. Holes suddenly appeared in the vehicle’s rear doors.

“What’s that?” The paramedic, a black man, grew visibly paler. “What’s happening, man?” he yelled in a panicked voice.

“I…I think…” Luis said, disbelieving. The black and white pulled alongside once more. This time, the officer on the passenger side had his gun in his hand. He fired again.

“Jeez, they’re shooting at us,” Luis said.

“Shooting at us?! We’ve got a dying man back here. This is no time for cowboys and Indians. Wait, I’ll bet they’re white asses, aren’t they, both of them? Man, I hate when those honkie bitches start playing that macho shit on us. Can’t you explain things to them?”

“How can I explain anything to them at eighty miles an hour?” Luis asked, careening around an old lady in a Ford Taurus. The driver of the car, startled out of her wits, lost control and crashed into a pair of parked vehicles, metal shrieking in agony and sparks flying.

“Stay where you are, ma’am. We’ll be back for you in a couple of minutes,” Luis shouted out the window at her. That would be another quick trip. That commendation was beginning to look more and more like a sure thing. Except for the pesky guys in the black and white….

The cop started shooting again. It crossed Luis’ mind in a flash that maybe these weren’t even real cops. In San Francisco people dressed up all the time. And tomorrow night was Halloween. The fact that they were in uniform proved nothing. He knew half a dozen queens who, when they got in uniform, looked more like cops than the real thing. If there was anything gay men understood, it was dressing up.

The fact that they were in a black and white proved nothing either. If they could steal ambulances, who was to say they couldn’t steal cop cars, too. Besides, he’d already had one ambulance stolen out from under him this evening. Maybe this was another attempt at a theft, an elaborate scheme to hijack him. Maybe ambulances had become the hot new commodity on the stolen vehicle market. Sure, that was it. Had to be.

“I’ll bet those punks think they’re taking this baby to their chop shop in the Mission,” he muttered to himself. Or it was on its way to Tijuana. And he’d have two of these busses to pay for. Caramba! He’d be eating canned frijoles for the rest of his life.

“Well, they can just think again, they won’t get another one off me,” he declared sternly. He wasn’t falling for their ruse, however cleverly they had planned it. Faux uniforms and stolen black and whites? What did they think he was, some kind of a Rican dummy?

“No way, José.” He gripped the wheel ferociously and leaned over it with a determined set to his chin, his eyes fixed on the street ahead. He’d been driving ambulances for fifteen years. The cop had not been born yet who could out-drive him.

The black and white tried to get in front of him, to cut him off. “Hah!” Luis scoffed. “You’ll have to do better than that, Jack Off.”

He jerked the wheel violently to the left, and his front bumper caught the squad car, sending it skidding with a squeal of tires on the pavement. Watching in the mirror, Luis chortled. Probably they thought he was some kind of sissy. That would show them.

In the lead again, he goosed it, pedal to the metal. Checking the mirror, he saw another set of flashing lights in the distance. They must have called in back up. Man, this was some elaborate set up. Two stolen squads. These guys must want ambulances really bad. Maybe there was some kind of crisis in Mexico. Drugs, he’d bet. Or hookers. Think about it, hookers operating out of ambulances, a portable bordello—it was diabolical. His thoughts drifted. He wondered briefly how that might work in the Castro. Say you had a line up of hotties…it would definitely cut down on commute time….

He made a corner on two wheels, the rear of the ambulance catching a utility pole with a loud crunch of metal and bringing his attention back to the moment. More shots rang out. A crack like a giant spider web appeared in the windshield. They bounced over some more tracks.

“Awk,” the patient cried from the rear. “Aieee!”

“Fuck! I’m hit,” the paramedic yelled. “They got me, man.”