911
A few years ago, the SO and I were in the car coming back from Atlanta when we saw a dog wandering down the median of the highway.
“Call 911,” he said. “We need to report this.”
“Report the dog?”
“Yes, report the dog. Call 911.”
Now, clearly I love dogs as much as the next person. If we could have stopped without causing an accident, I would have insisted on pulling over to rescue the poor thing. But call 911? I wasn’t so sure about that.
“Why aren’t you calling 911?”
“Are you sure we should call?”
“Yes, I’m sure we should call.”
“Really sure?”
“Really sure. Would you feel better if I called?” he said. “Even though I’m the one driving?”
“Yes,” I said, “I do think that would be better.”
The SO called 911 to report the dog, and then we had an extended conversation about why I wouldn’t call 911 and how I didn’t recognize that the dog could have caused a car crash at any second, etc., etc. (Sometimes I envy people who lived before the invention of motor vehicles because there was no such thing as being trapped in a car with someone – no matter how much you love and adore them. Not that I'm sure covered wagons going across the plains were all that much better, but at least you had buffalo, raids and other more pressing concerns to occupy your time. Incidentally, the car is also where my mother always chose to try and talk to me about sex, drugs and other teen issues.)
The problem I have is that ever since I can remember, I’ve had a terrible fear of calling 911.
In high school, I called 911 twice. Once because a woman in the store where I was working had a stroke and once because a friend and I drove by someone slumped over in his car. Both incidents required lots of cajoling.
In the first, an older man I worked with had to grab the phone from me and explain what was actually happening to the 911 operator. In the second, my friend and I agreed that if we drove by the same car twice, and the guy still hadn’t moved, we’d call 911.
On our second drive by, I made the call. “Yeah,” my 16-year-old self said, “there’s this guy in his car, and he’s like not moving or anything. He could be asleep or he could be, like, dead.”
“We’ll send someone to check it out.”
Then, I gave the female operator the address, and my friend and I went home.
It’s not that I was worried about the circumstances that could lead to such an awful call, or that I was afraid of accidents, it’s that I felt like the 911 operator would judge me if the reason I called wasn’t urgent enough or “emergency worthy.” I fear the judgment of a stranger on the other end of a phone line. Where this comes from, I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s related to my feelings about pizza orders and utility customer service.
“But it’s their job to take your calls,” the SO said. “And it’s their job to decide what to do in the situation?”
“Really?” I said.
“Really.”
Well, this little conversation was like being freed from a lifetime of 911 fear. I called 911 when I heard really loud noises outside my house at night. I reported a fighting couple outside of a housing project. I felt like justice was my mission and 911 was my weapon. I was on a tear.
Of course, like all good or bad things, this bent of mine eventually came to an end. This time it was after a particularly confusing conversation with a 911 operator.
I was driving home one night, when I saw a car pulled over in the parking area of a fire station that was being built. A man was laid out on the ground, and a woman was bending over him. (Now before you judge me for not acting in these kinds of situations, know that I don’t get out of my car for anything – especially after dark. It’d be lovely if we lived in a world where everyone could be trusted and no one used your desire to help someone in distress as a weakness, but we don’t. I’ll make a call for you, but I won’t unlock my door, at home or on the road.)
“911.”
“Hi,” I said, “I think there’s someone in trouble on 5th Avenue South.”
“What makes you think that?”
I described the scene.
“Where on 5th Avenue South did you see this?”
“Near 45th Street,” I said. “Across from that building …”
“What building?”
“Oh, it’s where’s 3rd Avenue and 5th Avenue split,” I said. “You know, where the new fire station is going to be.”
“Are you saying this man is going to be at this address?”
“No, the man is there. It’s the fire station that isn’t there yet.”
“When will this man be at the address?”
I had gone from savior to suspect because of what I’m hoping was a bad cell phone connection. In my best case scenario, she thought I was a drug user who was going to dump a friend having a bad trip. In my worst case scenario, she thought I was a murderer/mob king pin with a body to get rid of.
“The man is already there,” I said. “He’s there right now.”
“And where are you?”
That’s when I hung up, my fear of 911 returned and fully-realized yet again. I won't be rising to the title of the Savior of Avondale anytime soon.