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“Hey!” someone shouted, pulling me away from my musings. I turned toward the voice. A man with a tight black t-shirt and sweat dripping down his temple threw up two fingers. His lips puckered to form a ‘b’ and judging by the way they remained flat, I knew he’d just asked for two beers.
“Coming right up,” I said and grabbed the bottles. If they didn’t specify the brand, I always chose domestic.
I worked without a break for the next three hours, shuffling around Sam and avoiding the other two bartenders so we didn’t crash into one another. I also kept my attention away from a particular table to the left.
When the DJ announced ‘Last call’ at two in the morning, I was ready to go home. Shortly after two-thirty, the room cleared out and the music shut down.
I was mopping up the steel bar, scrubbing the sticky spills, when a loud crash sounded from the backroom. Then someone screamed.
It was Sam’s voice.
I dropped the towel onto the floor and ran to the back. Sam was crouched on the floor, shaking an unconscious man on the ground by the shoulders. I recognized him as one of the bartenders that started this week. I didn’t even know his name yet.
She slapped his face, but he didn’t respond. His lips had a purple tinge to them. I immediately dropped to my knees in front of his face and checked the pulse on his neck. His heart beat strongly next to my two fingers, but when I moved my hand underneath his nose, I felt only a faint breeze against my skin.
“Someone call 9-1-1,” I said, lifting his eyelid and noting his small pupils. I ran my hand along his face and felt his clammy skin. I didn’t think we had much time.
“Sam,” I called in an even but loud voice. “Get my bag from my locker. Hurry.”
My instructions sent Sam running toward the lockers behind us. She knew my combination as I knew hers. She opened my knapsack and placed it next to me on the ground. I rummaged through the contents, moving aside extra clothes and books, and finally found my makeup bag. I pulled out an unopened bottle of nasal spray.
“What’s that?” asked Sam in a hushed tone.
“It’s Naloxone,” I explained. “It’ll counteract whatever drug he took and keep him alive until the paramedics get here.”
I tilted the guy’s head back and administered the spray.
“Come on,” I muttered as I waited for any sort of response.
The room fell silent. No one moved or said anything. There was only the beating of my heart pounding in my ears.
Two beats, three beats, four.
A gasp of air penetrated the silence. The guy took another strangled breath, and the room exhaled in unison. But I knew he wasn’t completely out of the woods yet. The Naloxone would only last a few minutes, and I would need to administer another dose if the ambulance didn’t arrive soon.
In the meantime, I moved him to his side, placing his right arm underneath his temple to support his head. “You’re going to be all right,” I whispered in his ear. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t open them. His cheek was smooth, with not much stubble, even this late in the night. He was probably eighteen years old, ten years younger than me.
I checked his breathing again and it seemed less shallow. I closed my eyes and prayed. God, he’s just a kid.
I stayed next to him for the next several minutes, my eyes closed and people whispering behind me.
Someone ran into the room. “The ambulance is here,” he shouted. I stood and stepped back when two paramedics dropped a gurney onto the floor.
“I administered Naloxone about five minutes ago,” I said. “I was just about to give him another dose.”
“That’s good,” she said. “You probably saved his life.”
I nodded but didn’t feel any better. My heart still raced and my stomach rolled with nausea as the last few minutes reminded me of the first time I’d kneeled next to someone on the ground in jeopardy of overdosing and praying they’d be OK. I was just as terrified of messing up today as I was then.
Another wave of nausea slammed through me, and I ran to the bathroom and threw up whatever dinner I ate six hours ago. I washed my mouth and splashed some water on my face. When I came out of the bathroom, Sam was there waiting for me.
She pulled me into her arms and rubbed my back. I sighed into her hair and squeezed her tight. I didn’t let go for several minutes.
“You did great back there,” she said, smoothing my long hair away from my face. “How did you know? I thought you were studying social work, not medicine…”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Sam,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Both Sam and I had an understanding that we didn’t talk about ourselves very much, especially our past. She pulled me back and studied my face. “Can I drive you home?”
