By
Margaret-Anne Park and Carol Boyke

Bob Bellingham absently scratched his crotch, then sniffed his fingers as he pushed open the door to the locker room at Station 16. He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and greeted his partner. "Mornin’, Craig." Bob moved one hand to scratch his backside as he reached for his locker door with the other.

Craig Brice sighed and rolled his eyes. "Morning, Bellingham."

Bellingham opened the door and a flood of rumpled uniform pants and shirts tumbled out. He sorted through the mess. Bob selected his "shirt du jour", sniffed it cautiously, then set it on the bench beside his locker. He started unbuttoning his yellow-checked shirt, pausing a moment to pull a crumpled wad of paper from his torn left-front pocket. He tossed it onto the bench.

"Your paycheck?" Craig inquired as he finished buttoning his starched, immaculate shirt.

"Nope," Bob replied, discarding his yellow shirt onto the pile. "Headquarters screwed up again and sent me Belliveau’s check."

"Again?!" Craig shook his head incredulously. "You’d think they would have fixed that glitch by now. Belliveau transferred to 36's months ago!"

Bob shrugged and pulled on his wrinkled blue shirt. "Yeah, well, I guess the clerks in payroll can’t tell the difference between a dumpy old bald guy and a sharp-lookin’ dude like me." He winked at Brice and flashed a toothy grin framed by a bushy brown mustache. Bellingham kicked off his battered loafers, dropped his threadbare khakis and pulled a pair of uniform pants over his lanky frame.

Brice nodded in agreement. "Definitely a very inefficient way to run such a vital part of the department. If you want, I can call payroll for you later and help sort this matter out."

"‘Preciate that, Craig," Bob replied as he stuffed one of his shirttails into his pants. He failed to notice the remaining tail still hanging out.

Craig glanced at his watch. "Roll call is in one minute and sixteen seconds, Bellingham. You’re going to be late. Again." He closed his locker door, covering the rack of evenly spaced shirts.

Bob kicked at the pile of clothing on the floor. A loud pinging noise resulted. He stooped to pick up his badge. "You go ahead and save a place for me, Craig. Tell Cap I’ll be there in a sec."

*~*~*~*~*

"... Stevens, you, me, Anderson and Michaels are gonna check the hydrants on Walnut Street this afternoon," Captain Jeff Shelby informed his crew. He checked his clipboard, then looked up as Bellingham entered the room. Captain Shelby sighed. "Gee, Bob, glad to see you decided to join us."

"Hey, Cap," Bob flashed his boss a sloppy salute, then shuffled over to Brice’s side.

"Um, Bob..." Captain Shelby gestured at Bellingham’s shirttail with his pen.

Bob glanced at his waist. "Sorry, Cap." He shrugged and stuffed his shirt into his pants.

"Ahem," Shelby cleared his throat and continued. "By the way, Bob, you’ve been assigned dorm duty today. Don’t let me catch you dozing on the bunks again, or I’ll give you latrine duty and dorm duty for the next month. Got it?"

"Got it, Cap!" Bob winked.

Captain Shelby rolled his eyes, then flipped through the papers on his clipboard. "Oh – Craig, Bob – I got a memo from Headquarters this morning that concerns you. Ah! Here it is!" He stopped flipping when he located the memo. "Seems Gage and DeSoto from 51's are going to be at a conference for a few days. You two have been assigned to cover their next two shifts. Which are...," he paused and raised the clipboard closer to his face, "...this coming Saturday and Tuesday. Pat and Kel are covering your shifts."

Brice nodded curtly. "Yes, Sir." Let’s see... that would be the conference to develop a Paramedic training program in Santa Rosa County. October eight through October twelve.

Bellingham grinned broadly. "Cool! I love their dog!"

Craig glanced sideways at his partner. I bet you do. You probably love to swap flea stories with that drool-soaked mutt.

Captain Shelby smiled wistfully before continuing. I don’t know what I’ll miss more – Brice constantly reminding me of some obscure regulation or Bob’s underwear on my desk. "Craig and Bob – C-shift had a busy day, and they didn’t have time to re-stock their supplies. Take care of that first, boys."

"First order of business, I’d like you all to welcome Brice and Bellingham," Captain Hank Stanley began as he started roll call Saturday morning. "Craig and Bob are covering for Johnny and Roy while they’re at that conference in Santa Rosa." Hank stared intently at Chet Kelly. "Don’t pick on our visitors while your favorite pigeon is away. Be nice."

Chet started, then replied innocently. "Aw, come on, Cap! The Phantom wouldn’t do a thing like that!"

"Yes he would, and no back talk, Kelly, or it’s latrine duty for you for the next three shifts." Hank stared at Chet until he fidgeted, then continued. "Craig, you’ve got KP. Bob, help Marco in the hose room. Mike, you’ve got the dorm. Chet – latrine duty."

"But, Cap!" Kelly protested.

"Luck of the draw, Pal," Hank winked. "It was your turn this shift, anyway."

"Like heck it was," Chet mumbled. He’s still mad at me for accidentally hitting him with that Jell-O-filled balloon bomb. How come Holly can make those things work and I can’t?

"You say something, Kelly?" Hank put his hands on his hips.

"No, Sir," Chet hastily responded.

"Good," Hank grinned. At least it was strawberry Jell-O. I HATE that lime stuff. He patted his clipboard. "Let’s get started, men."

*~*~*~*~*

"So, whatcha makin’ for dinner, Craig?" Bellingham asked as he wandered into the kitchen.

Brice straightened his glasses and replied, "One of my favorites – ‘Paupiettes de boeuf’, from Julia Child’s book, The Art of French Cooking. I took the liberty of bringing the recipe with me on the sixteen point six percent chance that I would be cooking today. I’ll also have a tossed green salad and some vegetables to accompany the dinner. By my calculations, market prices being what they are, that should come to approximately four dollars and seventy-three cents per person." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Of course, I could be off slightly in my estimation. I’ll have to re-check my figures when I get the supplies from the grocery store. I believe ‘Danny’s’ is the closest. We wouldn’t want to be too far from our territory in case we get a call, now would we?" Craig stared at his list, then made a school-teacher perfect "3" with a clean, precise stroke of his pencil.

Bob rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, whatever. I’m done helping Marco with the hoses. Want me to collect five dollars from everybody for this ‘Poppity’ thing?"

Craig emitted a long-suffering sigh as he glanced up at Bob. "That would be very helpful, Bellingham, and it’s ‘Pau-pi-ette’ not ‘Poppity’. Why is it so hard for you to get the name right?"

Bob shrugged as he headed back out the kitchen door. "Beats me. Back in a flash with the cash."

Craig clenched his jaw and silently doubled-checked his list against the recipe.

A few moments later, Bellingham returned. "Got the money, Craig," he announced. Bob sauntered over to Brice and peered over his shoulder. "What the heck do you need all these fancy ingredients for?" He pointed to the columns of neatly printed items on Brice’s list. "And why do you have all these tiny quantities? ‘Two onions, three carrots, half a garlic bud, ten sprigs of parsley,’... Get a whole bunch of stuff. I’m sure we’ll be able to use it. Heck, just get a hunk of meat and chuck it in a frying pan, for crying out loud!"

Craig looked at Bob in disbelief, tinged with pity and exasperation. "Bellingham, haven’t you got even one ounce of culture in you? Just one iota?"

Bob shrugged. "Sure I do. Tell you what. Toss some onions in the pan, too." He tapped the words "two onions" with his index finger and grinned mischievously. "That’s pretty cultured."

Brice groaned and shook his head. Why me?

Mike talked softly to a bleary-eyed Chet as they strolled into the common room. "...And how long does it go on, Chet? One tiny whiff of my favorite foods and she’s queasy; just looking at my spaghetti turns her green! She’s seven months now – isn’t it supposed to stop? I’m sick of living on Oreos and pistachio ice cream!"

Chet yawned mightily.

"Gee, am I boring you?" Mike joked.

"Mike, morning sickness is nothing compared to what I’m goin’ through!" Chet moaned as he rubbed his face. "Tracy’s three months old, and she still hasn’t slept through the night!" He sighed heavily. "‘Colic’ is a four-letter word."

Stoker chuckled and smiled sympathetically.

"Hey, Bob," Chet continued as Brice and Bellingham came into view. "You should meet my daughter. She burps just like you!"

Mike and Bob laughed; Brice cracked a brief smile.

"Why, thank you, Chet," Bob grinned. "That’s quite a compliment!"

"Have you been giving her lessons on the sly, Bellingham?" Chet joked. "Her belches can be heard around the block."

Everyone chuckled again.

"Say, anyone wanna see some pictures?" Chet pulled out his wallet.

"I’m outta here – gotta polish the engine." Mike did an abrupt about-face. Oh, God! NOT the pictures again! I swear, when my son is born, I won’t try to shove his baby pictures in people’s faces every second of the day!

Chet stuck out his tongue at Mike’s retreating form. "Wimp," he muttered. Kelly opened his wallet, releasing a four-foot cascade of photos encased in plastic protectors. He walked over to Craig and Bob, then pointed at the first image. "Here’s my little angel crying – isn’t she cute?" And this one – she’s spitting up down Sandi’s back..."

Brice and Bellingham exchanged dubious glances.

"Doesn’t she cross her eyes adorably?" Chet asked as he pointed to another picture.

"Um, Craig," Bob interrupted. "Let’s go to Danny’s and get those ingredients you needed."

"Good idea, Bellingham," Craig agreed. He grabbed his partner’s elbow and bolted for the squad.

"Hey!" Chet shouted, "I wasn’t done yet!" He shook his head, then wandered over to the Naugahyde sofa. "Hi, Henry. Wanna see some pics of Tracy?"

Henry whimpered and covered his eyes with his front paws.

"Gee, thanks, Pal." Chet sighed heavily, then plopped next to the Basset Hound. "Well, I wanna look!" He smiled blissfully as he perused the rest of the photographs. She gets the most precious expression on her face when she’s filling her diaper...

*~*~*~*~*

When they arrived at the supermarket, Bob looked at the list Craig had given him. He furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his hair. "Are you sure you want all these small quantities?"

Craig nodded crisply. "It is wasteful to get more than the recipe requires. I know what I’m doing. You get those things," he tapped at items on Bob’s list with his number two pencil, "and one small head of iceberg lettuce – make sure it’s iceberg – and a celery stalk. Also, one red pepper." He checked over his own list. "I’ve already got the wine."

"Wine?! We can’t drink on duty!" Bob’s eyes widened in shock.

"It’s for cooking, not drinking!" ...Although you’d drive me to drink if I let you... "The alcohol content burns off as it cooks. I’ll get the meat and spices. I need very specific spices which I don’t trust you to get, Bellingham. Meet me in front of the checkout in ten minutes." Craig promptly spun on his heels and efficiently navigated his shopping cart towards the spice aisle.

Bob scratched the back of his head and stared at his list as he meandered towards the produce department.

*~*~*~*~*

"Thank you, Bellingham," said Craig as Bob returned with an armful of vegetables and dumped them into the cart. Brice glanced over Bob’s shoulder, noting a gooey chocolate cake on a nearby bakery display. His eyes widened in delight. "Hmm. By my reckoning, we have enough money left over to get a dessert." As he quickly trotted to the display, a huge smile spread over his face. I haven’t had a cake like that in at least fifteen years! Just like Grammie used to make. Craig grabbed the cake, clutched it protectively to his mid-section, then returned to the cart. He gently set it inside.

Bob blinked and rubbed his eyes. Whoa! Did Mr. Stiffness just pick up a sloppy dessert?

"Let’s get going." Craig consulted his watch. "We should be back at the station in about eight minutes, then it should take approximately forty-three minutes to prepare the dinner and get it in the oven. It will take a further hour and a half to cook. Ergo, we should be eating at precisely 1904, given the average number of runs we can expect today, and assuming that I can start preparations at once. Timing is everything," he finished pompously.

Bob shrugged. "Whatever." Well, he SEEMS his good ol’ rigid self.

*~*~*~*~*

The bleach-blonde cashier checked through most of their groceries with no comment, apart from the noisy cracking of her gum. She paused a moment to adjust the pen holding up her hair and scratch her black roots, then started when she spied the half-bud of garlic. She picked it up and examined it curiously. "Whaddya do to this poor garlic?"

"My recipe only calls for three cloves," Craig explained, "so I didn’t see the need to get a whole bud."

She shrugged, snapped her gum, and plopped the mangled bud into a paper shopping bag. "Well, it’ll still cost ya the price of a whole bud, fellah."

"Fine." Craig glanced at his watch. "Let’s just get on with it, Miss." He waved his right hand in a circle, motioning for her to continue.

The cashier proceeded to ring up the food. She stopped short and stared incredulously at the final item advancing down the conveyor belt. Eyeing Brice and Bellingham suspiciously, she gingerly picked up the lone stalk of celery. "Did you tear open a package and rip out one poor little stalk?"

Craig flushed as Bob answered. "Yup. Only needed one, right, Craig?" He elbowed Brice in the ribs.

The clerk glared at Bob and gestured at him with the celery. "Where’s the rest of the package? Ya might as well take it, ‘cause you’re paying for it!"

"It’s back in the produce department. More or less," Bob answered sweetly.

Uh oh, I’ve got a bad feeling about this... "Bellingham, you didn’t leave a mess, did you?" What am I saying?! Of course you did! Craig sighed heavily. "Go pick up the pieces, and here...," Craig reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a rubber band. He handed it to Bob. "Strap up the leftover stalks, and do it neatly!"

While Bob went to fetch the celery, the cashier totaled the bill. "That’ll be twenty-nine dollars and ten cents, please," she said mechanically. As she stared expectantly at Brice, she blew a large bubble with her gum.

Craig pulled out his wallet and opened it. He anxiously rifled the contents. Oh, no! Bellingham has the money! How did I let that happen?!

The woman popped the bubble, worked the gum back into her mouth, then repeated, "Twenty-nine dollars and ten cents. Please." She stretched out her hand with thinly disguised impatience.

"Er, my partner has the funds," replied Craig, a trifle non-plussed. "He should be back in a moment." He glanced nervously towards the produce section. "Ah, there he is!" Relieved, Craig pointed at Bob’s advancing form. "Pay her, Bellingham," Craig ordered as Bob reached his side.

Bob tossed the broken bunch of celery into their shopping bag, then patted his pockets. "Oh, no! Where did I put the money?!" he asked with feigned agitation. Let’s see you sweat a bit, Mr. Stiffness... heheh.

"Bellingham!!"

Bob cracked a smile at Brice’s obvious discomfort, then reached into his right pants pocket and brought out a crumpled wad of bills. "Here ya go, Toots!" He cheerfully handed the money to the clerk.

She smiled at Bob and crackled her gum. "At least you have things on the ball, and you know how to talk to a lady." She paused to adjust the pencil in her coiffure again, then placed Bob’s bills in her register and removed a few coins. She licked her thumb, then slowly counted the change into Bob’s palm. She glared at Brice out of the corners of her eyes. "You could learn a thing or two from him, ya know!"

Bob smirked. I may be a slob, but I’ve got it where it counts.

*~*~*~*~*

"Station 51, fire at The Tar Pit Night Club. 284 La Brea Road. Two-eight-four La Brea Road. Cross street, Compton. Time out, 1514."

"Station 51, KMG 365," Hank acknowledged.

Craig hastily tossed the meat into the fridge, then jogged to the apparatus bay with his partner. Man, we got those groceries put away in the nick of time!

Mike pointed out the location on the wall map to Brice and Bellingham, then the paramedics took their seats in the squad. Hank handed a slip of paper through the driver’s side window to Brice. Craig stared thoughtfully at the note a moment. Hmm... that address looks familiar. He passed the slip to Bellingham and started the engine.

Bob squinted at it, crumpled it, then threw it on the dash. He pulled a map from the glove compartment and consulted the list of streets. "Okay, Craig, turn left when you pull outta here. I’ll call the major streets as we get to them."

Brice sighed as he steered the squad onto the street. "I know where we’re going, Bellingham. I took the time to familiarize myself with our new territory before we got here. Didn’t you?"

Bellingham shrugged. "I have a pretty good idea where we’re heading. Besides, that’s why we have a map. And you know me, Craig – I’m a whiz with a map."

Brice sighed again, reluctantly. "As much as it pains me to admit it, you’re right, Bellingham. You are good with a map." Now, if only you were good with an iron, or soap and water.

*~*~*~*~*

When Craig and Bob pulled up in front of The Tar Pit, they found a very agitated man wringing his hands and looking up and down the street. He ran towards the squad. "I’m Larry Lamont, the club manager here. There’s a fire backstage – the electrical grid overloaded and exploded. It’s around the back of the building. Hurry!"

Holy mackerel! Larry! NOW I remember! "I know where it is," Craig said. "I used to play here..." ... a long time ago. His voice trailed off wistfully as he put on his turnouts. "Captain Stanley!" he called as the engine pulled up. "The fire’s backstage. There’s barely enough room for the engine, so we should leave the squad here."

"Right," agreed Hank. "Stoker, take the engine around the back. There should be a hydrant on the west side." He addressed the club manager. "Mister, is there anyone hurt back there?"

"Huh? What?" answered the distracted man.

"Is anyone hurt?" Hank repeated patiently.

"Well, the drummer kinda cut himself when he fell off the stage..." the manager muttered, looking toward the building.

Hank rolled his eyes. "Brice, Bellingham, check it out."

"On it, Cap," Bellingham answered crisply.

Hank shot him a startled glance. That’s a comment I’d expect from Brice, not Bob! He shook his head and climbed back on board the engine.

Stoker piloted the engine around the building while Brice and Bellingham gathered their equipment and entered the front doors with the club manager. When they reached the stage, they saw a group of people huddled on one side around a man who was lying near the stage’s edge. On the other side, flames crackled from what used to be a fairly sophisticated lighting network. Smoke poured from the control board, lit eerily by the work lights mounted in the grid high above.

Brice addressed the manager, "Let them in the stage-left exit. It’s closest to the hydrant."

"How do you...?" he stared hard at Craig. "Calypso?! Is that you?" he asked in astonishment.

Brice coughed in embarrassment, "Um, yeah, Larry. It’s me. Go let them in, okay?"

"I didn’t recognize you in the square threads, Man!" apologized Larry as he jogged to the door.

Bellingham stared at Brice, a smirk on his face and in his voice as he repeated, "Calypso?"

"Bellingham, stick to business," Brice replied in a pained voice. "We have a patient, remember?"

"Aye, aye, Captain Cousteau!" Bob teased.

While the engine crew quickly put out the fire, Craig and Bob treated the stricken drummer. Fortunately, the musician had just stumbled against the lights, and had not actually fallen off the stage. He had two jagged shallow cuts, five-inches long, on his right shin. As Craig dressed the cuts, Bob completed the paperwork.

The lead guitarist wandered over and carefully placed his Fender Stratocaster on a guitar stand just behind the spot where the two paramedics worked. He stared curiously at Brice. "My God! Larry was right! Calypso! What the hell happened to ya, Man? This getup of yours is too square to be believed!"

Craig blushed and cleared his throat as he put the finishing touches on the bandages. "Well, Mad Dog, people change," he replied, addressing the long-haired, bearded guitarist. The man wore tattered denim bell-bottoms and a shredded olive-drab tie-dyed T-shirt.

"But, don’t ya miss all this?" Mad Dog asked, gesturing around him.

"Sometimes," admitted Brice in a rueful whisper. He addressed the drummer, who sported a black leather vest, and skin-tight snake-skin pants. "You should really have this seen by a doctor. Are you sure you don’t want us to call an ambulance?"

"Naw," answered the drummer. "We have a lotta work to do gettin’ this stuff rigged for tonight’s gig." He absently scratched his bare chest

Mad Dog grabbed the drummer’s arm, just above his Cobra tattoo. "Hey, Snake. Remember me telling you about ‘Calypso’?"

The drummer nodded, tossing his stringy waist-length black mane in the process. He rose painfully to his feet and tested out his leg by limping in a tight circle on the stage.

"That’s him!" announced Mad Dog, pointing excitedly at Brice.

Snake, Hank, Marco and Chet gaped at Brice in astonishment.

"Hey, Calypso, show these guys how well you play," suggested Mad Dog.

"I can’t do that right now, Mad Dog, I’m working," replied Craig stiffly.

"Geez, Man, it’ll only take five minutes." Mad Dog turned to Hank, "Look, we have to test our sound grid anyway, and wouldn’t it be better to have you guys around to make sure that our engineer over there, ‘Dave The Wonder Twit’, doesn’t blow up the sound board in addition to the lighting board?"

Hank paused, considering. "That’s a good idea, but it’s up to him." He pointed at Brice.

Craig looked at the grinning faces of his crewmates, glancing last of all at Bob’s slightly mocking expression. He shrugged, "Why not?"

Bob reached eagerly for the Stratocaster. He suddenly stumbled into the stand.

"NO!!!" shouted Craig and Mad Dog in unison, both lunging for the precious instrument.

Craig executed a perfect rolling dive. He landed heavily on his back, clutching the musical treasure to his chest.

"Nice save, Calypso!" chuckled Bob.

"Bellingham, you idiot!" hissed Craig shrilly. "Do you have any idea how much this guitar is worth?!"

Bob shrugged. "A couple o’ hundred dollars?"

"A couple of hundred?!" repeated Craig, aghast. "Tell him, Mad Dog." Brice tenderly handed him the instrument.

Mad Dog took the guitar reverently, and minutely examined it for any damage. "Let’s see... the last time I had it appraised, and that was about three years ago, it was worth seven or eight thousand. Give or take ‘a couple o’ hundred’ dollars." He glared at Bob.

Bob gulped hard.

"Seems okay, Calypso," replied Mad Dog, carefully handing back the guitar. "C’mon. Show these turkeys your stuff."

"Sound board’s set to test!" called Dave from behind a tangle of wires.

Mad Dog bowed to Craig. "Okay, everyone, number six from the play list!"

A palpable hush covered the stage. Craig tuned the strings for a moment, then grinned widely and nodded. He stepped up to the microphone and started singing. "Now, since ma babee left me... I’ve found a new place to dwell... Down at the end of Lonely Street, at Heartbreak Hotel..."

The men from Station 51 gaped open-mouthed at the spectacle of the ‘World’s Perfect Paramedic’ performing the best Elvis impersonation they had ever seen, right down to the pelvis-grinding body movements.

Mike Stoker trotted impatiently inside. What’s taking them so long? He stared, transfixed. Well, well! Another one of us ‘quiet ones’ stuns the universe! Way to go, Craig.

"So if your babee leaves... and you have a tale to tell..."

Craig’s performance was interrupted by three beeps from Hank’s handie talkie. "Station 51, car accident, intersection of Stevens and Main. Intersection of Stevens and Main. Time out, 1548."

Hank pulled out his HT and reluctantly responded, "Station 51, 10-4." He turned to his crew. "Okay, fellahs, let’s get goin’."

Craig gently handed Mad Dog his guitar. "Thanks, Mad Dog." He sighed heavily. " It was great to relive the old days."

Mad Dog patted his pockets, took out a card, and handed it to Craig. "Here, Calypso. If you ever wanna sit in, give me a call. You haven’t lost the touch, and I’d love to hear you play some more. Whadda ya say?"

Craig grinned. "I’ll think about it. I never seem to have the time to play these days with all the volunteer work I’ve been doing."

"Okay, Bellingham, now that the onions are minced, cook them slowly in the butter while I mix up the meat. By the time I’m finished, the onions should be done," instructed Craig as he finished mashing a garlic clove. He scooped the clove into a mixing bowl, then added carefully measured spices and exact quantities of meat. After precisely seven and a half minutes, he added the onions from Bob’s skillet to the mixing bowl.

Bob watched, mesmerized, as Brice beat the resulting mixture exactly thirty-five times. Man, you’re a piece of work, Craig. Are your dreams measured precisely and "according to regulations", too?

"Bellingham, get me two sheets of waxed paper and the rolling pin," Craig directed as he cut the round roast into eighteen slices exactly one-quarter inch thick and three inches wide.

Bob carefully ripped off two sheets of wax paper, making sure they were the same size, and handed them to Craig. See? I can be precise, too, Mr. Stiffness! He stared raptly at his partner as Craig placed the meat slices between the wax paper, then pounded the meat to half its thickness with the rolling pin. What the hell are you doin’ that for? Why didn’t you just cut them thinner? He continued to watch as Craig removed the paper and lightly dusted the beef with salt and pepper. Brice divided the ground meat mixture into eighteen equal portions, then put one portion onto each thin piece of beef.

Marco, Mike and Chet paused in the door to the common area and watched in fascinated silence as Brice prepared the elaborate dish.

"Get me some string, would you, Bellingham?" Craig asked as he began to roll the beef slices into cylinders.

Without being asked, Bob cut two equal-length pieces of string for each meat roll and helped Craig tie them up. "Um, what temperature for the oven?"

"325 degrees, please," replied Craig. He heated some oil in a casserole and started lightly browning the meat rolls. After they were brown, he put the rolls on a plate, then tossed the vegetables into the casserole dish. When the vegetables had cooked for five minutes, he added some flour and browned it, too. "Bellingham, could you go to the locker room and get the bottle of wine? It should be on the floor of my locker on the left hand side, near the back."

"Uh, right," answered Bob, as he turned to leave.

"No, left," replied Craig absently, as he prepared a beef broth from some bouillon cubes.

Omigod, was that a JOKE? Naw, couldn’t have been. "Whatever." Bob shrugged.

Bellingham shouldered his way past Marco, Mike and Chet as the men quietly walked into the room. The guys settled into the furniture around the television set, still watching Craig cook.

Marco nudged Chet and whispered, "Isn’t this goin’ kinda overboard for a meatloaf?"

Craig’s voice floated over to them, "It is not a meatloaf, Lopez. It is authentic French cuisine."

"Geez, Marco, don’t you know the difference between meatloaf and ‘authentic French cuisine’?" Chet teased.

Marco growled.

Bob, meanwhile, opened Craig’s locker and stared at the contents a moment. Something’s wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. He pushed aside two shirts that decorated the bottom of the locker and felt around the left side. Hmm... Craig said the wine was on the left. Bob lifted a wadded pair of ripe socks. It’s not here! Craig ALWAYS remembers where he puts things! He rummaged around on the right side. Ah ha! Found it! He tossed a crumpled potato chip bag out of the way and retrieved the bottle. Yep, there’s definitely something weird going on here.

Bob trotted back to the kitchen with a perplexed look on his face and the wine in hand. "Here ya go, Craig." He handed Brice the bottle.

Craig smiled. "Thanks, Bellingham." He expertly popped the cork, then liberally poured the wine into the casserole dish. "That’s about a cup, I guess." He ignored the surprised expressions of the others and said, "Hmm... a little more won’t hurt." Brice dumped in another generous quantity, then set the two-thirds empty bottle down and laid the meat rolls back inside the casserole. He added the stock, and threw in a small gauze square into which he had placed additional herbs. Craig softly began to sing. "You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog..." He turned the heat back on the burner and stirred the mixture. "Cryin’ all the time..." Oblivious to the looks of shock that the other firefighters exchanged, he shut off the burner, picked up the casserole and gyrated his way over to the oven. "You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, cryin’ all the time." He opened the oven door. "Well, you ain’t never caught a rabbit..." He shoved the casserole into the oven and slammed the door shut with a vigorous thrust of his hip. "And you ain’t no friend of mine!"

Before anyone could comment, the station tones sounded. "Squad 51, man down. FAO Schwartz toy store. 321 Midway. Three-two-one Midway. Cross street Culver. Time out, 1727."

"Shit!" swore Craig emphatically, then turned to Stoker. "Mike, can you take care of dinner? It needs to be basted about every half hour, okay? Turn the heat off after an hour and a half."

Mike smiled and gestured towards the bay with his head, "10-4, Craig. Get goin’."

*~*~*~*~*

"Thank God you got here fast!" greeted the security guard from FAO Schwartz. "These kids are starting to panic!"

"Kids?" repeated Brice. "Dispatch said an adult was down."

"Yeah, but this guy was chaperoning a group of children. They were on some sorta school field trip," the thin, grey-haired guard explained as he led Bob and Craig up the escalator to the stuffed animal department. "Hurry up. This way."

When they reached the second floor, chaos greeted them. A huge display of Disney characters had toppled, covering the floor with Bambis, Thumpers, Dalmatians, Winnie the Poohs, Tiggers, Rabbits, Kangas and Roos of all sizes. In the midst of this fake-fur jungle lay a middle-aged man with thick, curly black hair. He tossed his head side-to-side and moaned incoherently. A dozen or so children around the age of seven milled anxiously nearby.

"He was fine when they arrived," the guard continued, "but then he started acting real crazy, like he was drunk or somethin’. Started smashing things..." The guard shook his head. "Next thing I know, he attacked that poor display."

"Look out! The Tiggers’ll eat you!" the delirious man screamed as Brice and Bellingham knelt beside him. "And the rabbits! Death awaits us all with nasty big pointy teeth!" The man shuddered with fear, then went limp.

"Bellingham, call Dispatch and have them send an ambulance, then contact Rampart," Brice instructed as he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around the man’s right arm. Weak, rapid pulse; cold, clammy skin... I have a feeling... "How long did you say he was acting strangely before he collapsed?" Craig asked the security guard. He completed the blood pressure reading, then placed his right palm on the victim’s ribcage, silently counting the man’s respirations.

"Oh, not long at all," the guard pursed his lips. "Maybe five, ten minutes at the most."

"Ambulance is on the way, Craig," Bob interrupted. "Got Dr. Early on the horn, too." He held out the biophone for his partner. "Want me to set up for an IV?"

Craig nodded. "D5W. I think we’ve got a case of insulin shock, Bellingham." He reached for the biophone.

"Um, mister," a tiny brown-haired girl with two pony tails and large tortoise-shell eyeglasses tugged on Brice’s shirt sleeve. "Um, Mr. Salter has a special bracelet I thought you should know about." The child clutched a Roo doll tightly to her chest as her shaky hand pointed out the bracelet on her chaperone’s left wrist. "Is our teacher gonna be all right?" Her large brown eyes gazed beseechingly at Brice. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her forearm.

Craig stared mesmerized into the child’s eyes a moment, shook his head, then stooped to peer closely at the engraving on the bracelet. "Insulin-dependent diabetic." He bobbed his head once. "Confirms my suspicions." Brice sat up and gently held the little girl’s hand. "Thank you, um..."

"Gina. My name’s Gina. Is he gonna be all right?" The corner’s of Gina’s mouth started to quiver. Tears gleamed in her eyes.

"Gina, we’re going to take good care of your teacher, and thanks to you, I think he’ll be okay." He wiped a tear from the child’s face, then took the biophone from Bob’s outstretched hand. "Rampart, this is Squad 51. We have a male victim, approximately forty-five years of age. He became aggressive and agitated, then collapsed about ten minutes ago. His skin is cold and clammy, pulse is weak and rapid. BP is 90 over 60, respirations 18. He’s wearing a Medic-Alert bracelet stating he is an insulin-dependent diabetic. Request permission to start an IV of D5W."

"Is the victim conscious, 51?" Dr. Early’s voice came over the frequency.

"Negative, Rampart. The victim was semi-conscious and disoriented when we arrived, and is now unconscious," Brice reported.

"Go ahead with the IV of D5W, 51, and start a second IV of Lactated Ringer’s. Also, administer one ampule of fifty percent Dextrose. Is an ambulance there yet?"

"Negative, Rampart, but one has been dispatched."

"Okay, 51, let me know if the victim regains consciousness, and transport as soon as possible."

"10-4, Rampart." Brice set down the biophone and reached into the drug box. "You do the D5W and the Dextrose, Bellingham. I’ll get the Ringer’s."

Bob nodded as he swabbed the man’s left arm and inserted the cannula.

Gina hovered tensely nearby, throttling her Roo doll in a nervous embrace. "This is all my fault!" she blurted unexpectedly.

Brice stared up in surprise at the little girl as he completed the IV. "Now, Gina, this isn’t your fault! You didn’t make Mr. Salter sick."

"Yes I did!" she insisted. Tears cascaded down her freckled cheeks. "I forgot my lunch, and he gave me his! Teacher ‘splained to us that he has to eat when he takes his medicine. He didn’t eat ‘cause of me!"

"Gina?" Mr. Salter ran a hand over his clammy brow, then tried to focus on the little girl. "You okay, sweetie?"

"Mr. Salter! Oh, Mr. Salter! You’re all right!" Gina plopped onto her teacher’s chest and hugged him fiercely.

"There, there, now, honey." He lightly patted the child’s back. "I’m feeling much better." He lifted her chin with his fingers and smiled at her as the ambulance attendants guided a stretcher out of the nearby elevator. "Looks like my ride’s here, Gina. They’ll take me to see a doctor just to make sure I’m all better."

Brice picked up the biophone. "Rampart, this is Squad 51. The victim has regained consciousness, and the ambulance is on scene."

"10-4, 51. Transport immediately, and continue to monitor vitals," Dr. Early instructed.

"10-4, Rampart," Brice acknowledged. He set down the biophone, then lightly touched Gina’s arm. "Gina, we have to take your teacher to see the doctor now."

"Okay, Mister." Gina nodded and clambered to her feet.

"Craig, my name’s Craig." Brice smiled tenderly at the child.

"Thank you for saving Mr. Salter’s life, Craig," Gina replied between sniffs. She stuffed her Roo doll under her armpit and reached into the pocket of her purple shorts. "Here, take it." She handed Brice a slightly dented orange Duncan yo-yo. "It ‘Walks the Dog’ pretty good, but it’s a little lopsided on ‘Around the World’, so don’t stand too close to anyone when you try that."

Brice took the yo-yo hesitantly from the girl’s outstretched hand. Buried memories of childhood disappointments overwhelmed him. I’ve always wanted one of these! A smile crept unbidden to his lips; a tear glistened in the corner of his eye. He grinned broadly as he stood and bounced the yo-yo up and down a few times.

Bob stared in disbelief at his partner. What’s goin’ on with him? Is this some kinda joke? Maybe he’s trying to get back at me for substituting itching powder for his foot powder last week.

"Bob, I’ll ride in with the victim," Brice stated as he expertly executed a ‘Rock the Baby’. "You can drive the squad."

Bellingham’s eyes widened in shock. He called me "Bob", and... and... he said I could drive?! Okay, I get it, Craig. I’ll lay off the jokes for a while. "Um, sure, Craig. Whatever you say. By the way, who’s gonna take care of all these kids?"

Brice snapped the yo-yo crisply into his palm, then pocketed the toy. He studied the security guard’s name tag a moment, then replied, "I’m sure Clancy, here, will take good care of them." He smiled and patted Clancy’s shoulder encouragingly. "Come on, Bob, let’s get going."

Clancy stared open-mouthed at the exiting convoy. He glanced down when little Gina tugged his sleeve.

"Mr. Clancy?" she asked urgently, squeezing her legs together and hopping from foot to foot.

"Uh, yes, dear?"

"Me and Roo’s gotta go potty real bad!" Gina bit her lower lip and grimaced.

Clancy gulped hard. Uh oh.

*~*~*~*~*

Craig sniffed his gourmet creation as he took it from the oven. Hmm... looks and smells great, as usual. He set the dish on a towel, then cut the strings and removed them. After arranging the Paupiettes symmetrically on a large platter, he garnished each roll with a precisely positioned stem of parsley. He carried the platter to the table and deposited it in the exact center.

"Great salad, Craig," said Bob as he flipped a Paupiette onto his plate.

Craig inclined his head. "Why, thank you, Bob." He picked up the empty salad bowl and placed it in the sink.

Hank’s eyes popped; his fork clattered to his plate. Did Brice just call his partner "Bob"?! He poked his index fingers in his ears and wiggled them around. Must be hearin’ things.

While Craig’s back was turned, Bob reached for a nearby ketchup bottle and shook it vigorously.

"Bob!" hissed Marco, jerking his head toward Brice’s back.

"What?" Bob asked innocently as he squirted ketchup on the meticulously garnished meat roll. I WAS gonna back off for a while, but I CAN’T resist! It’s SO fun to torture you, Mr. Stiffness! Heheh.

"You can’t!" gasped Mike, aghast at the desecration of the gourmet dish.

Bob shrugged, sliced off a portion, and stuffed it into his mouth. Oh, yes I can!

Hank shook his head. Oh no, that’s all we need. Brice will have a fit!

"I’ll say one thing for ya, Craig," mumbled Bob, ketchup dribbling from the corner of his mouth, "you sure make a great meatloaf!"

Brice returned to the table carrying a small pot. "Here’s the... sauce..." his voice trailed off as he glimpsed Bob’s plate with the half-eaten Paupiette covered in ketchup.

All eyes were on Bob’s plate, then on Craig as he wordlessly set the saucepan on the table.

"Hey, no need for that sauce, partner," Bob spoke cheerily. "Ketchup does a real nice job of bringing out the flavors."

Craig sank numbly into his chair. The lid for the saucepan clattered from his fingers onto the floor. His mouth dropped open, and his jaw moved up and down like a fish plucked from water.

Bellingham unceremoniously dumped one of the Paupiettes onto Craig’s plate and added a hefty dose of ketchup. "C’mon, Craig, give it a try. I bet the ketchup tastes better than that cream sauce." He squeezed one more dollop onto the exact center and grinned cheesily. Another victory for "Bob the Slob".

Stunned, Craig stared at his plate. The parsley garnish slowly surfaced from the lake of ketchup, then sluggishly drifted along a stray red stream and slid onto the plate. My masterpiece! What have you done?! He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow with thought. On the other hand, a tomato sauce might be more interesting than that cream sauce. I’ve never really liked cream sauces, anyway. What can it hurt to try? I don’t want to waste good food. Slowly, mechanically, he cut himself a slice of his creation.

Five pairs of eyes watched as Craig hesitantly brought the morsel to his mouth. Five men held their breath in utter stillness as he cautiously chewed.

Craig’s eyes widened in surprise. This is good! He took another, less hesitant bite. This is REALLY good! With a noisy gulp, he finished off the Paupiette. "Great idea, Bob! It does taste better with ketchup! Dig in, everyone," he gestured to the others with his fork.

In moments, five hungry firefighters wolfed down the Paupiettes. Bob sat in his chair and stared on in bewilderment as Craig enthusiastically poured even more ketchup onto another Paupiette. Now, wait a minute – he should’ve been pissed! He frowned. Aliens. Must’ve been aliens. I can see the headline now: World’s Perfect Paramedic kidnapped by Martians to alphabetize the universe – film at eleven.

Bob sighed and rubbed his temples. He put a second meat roll on his plate, then reached for Craig’s forgotten cream sauce. SOMEBODY has to eat this dish properly. He glanced at his grinning companions, his gaze lingering on his partner. He watched in disbelief as Craig picked up the meat roll and stuffed it into his mouth with both hands as if it was a hot dog. How uncouth! He OBVIOUSLY needs to learn good manners! Bob put a dollop of cream sauce on his last Paupiette, lifted his pinkies, and delicately began to eat.

*~*~*~*~*

"Station 51, unknown-type rescue, 2507 Rowat. Two-five-zero-seven Rowat. Cross street, Hammond. Time out, 0027."

Hank groaned sleepily, then acknowledged, "Station 51, 10-4. KMG 365."

*~*~*~*~*

Craig clenched the steering wheel and stared silently out the windshield. He paid no attention to his partner as Bob called out the streets. I already know the address. This could get very... awkward.

Back in the engine, Chet asked with a yawn, "What was that address again, Cap?"

Hank checked the slip and repeated, "Twenty-five oh seven Rowat. Why?"

"I know that place. It’s a repertory theater. Sandi and I go there all the time," Chet replied.

"Oh, really?" Marco grinned.

"Uh, yeah," stammered Chet, blushing. Better shut up while I’m ahead.

*~*~*~*~*

When they arrived on scene, Chet jumped from the engine and led the way towards the theater entrance. "Hey, Phil," Chet hailed the house manager near the ticket booth. "What’s goin’ on?"

"Man, I’m glad to see you guys!" answered a tall, thin, pasty-skinned man dressed in black pants and a tailed black topcoat. He adjusted the hump strapped to his right shoulder under his jacket as he spoke. "One of the dancers keeled over, unconscious. She’s really burnin’ up."

"Brice, Bellingham," directed Hank, motioning for them to follow Phil.

"Right, Cap," answered Craig as he and Bob reached for their equipment. He gulped nervously. Maybe no one will recognize me with my glasses on.

"Probably overheated, what with this weather," Bob commented as he and Craig hurried through the lobby. The engine crew followed close behind. "It’s gotta be about ninety degrees, and it’s after midnight!" He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "Feels like the AC’s out, too."

"Who is down?" Brice asked Phil as they passed the concession stand.

"It’s Magenta, er, Jan Morris," replied Phil anxiously.

"Jan Morris?!" exclaimed Marco, stunned. He grabbed Chet’s arm. "Not my Jan Morris?!" he pleaded.

"Probably, Marco," Chet responded sympathetically. "She works here, too. This is the first place I ever met her." And I’ll never forget that meeting! Hope this is nothing serious.

"Madre de Dios," Marco softly responded. She never told me about this! Hope she’s okay.

From the light of the movie, patrons, some in elaborate corsets, some dressed like chorus girls or bikers, could be seen. The firefighters wended their way down the aisle towards the front of the theater. Crumpled newspapers and rice crunched underfoot. A large group of people, just under the glittering screen, danced and posed like the images being projected. Suddenly, the whole audience got out of their seats, dashed into the aisles, and started gyrating and singing.

"I remember... doing the Timewarp!"

"Excuse us! Move out of the way, please," shouted Hank with growing irritation and impatience. "Can’t you turn the movie off?" he demanded of Phil.

"Not a chance!" Phil replied. "We’d have a riot on our hands! Come on." He pushed a few people out of the way. "She’s down here." He pointed to an area away from the dancers.

At one side of the screen, near an exit door, they could see a tall man wearing glittering white and black platform shoes, black fish-net stockings and a black corset. He knelt over a prone woman in a skin-tight maid’s outfit and frizzy red-haired wig. The man lightly patted the woman’s cheek with one hand and rubbed her wrist with the other, trying to revive her. "C’mon, Jan," he murmured. "Snap out of it. The show must go on, and all that," he joked.

Craig cleared his throat. "A...hem. Excuse me."

The kneeling man looked up, startled. His brown eyes were framed by gobs of black mascara and grey-black eyeshadow. He pursed his blood-red lips and squinted at Brice. "Craig? Is that you? It’s not your gig tonight. What are you doing in that weird costume?"

Damn. I was hoping no one would recognize me. Brice cleared his throat again, this time in embarrassment. "Hi, Bill. My partner and I are paramedics with the Los Angeles County Fire Department. Please step back and let us take care of Jan."

Bill tottered onto his heels, stepped back and glanced at the screen. "Oh, geez, gotta make my entrance! As usual, Rocky, your timing’s perfect." He smiled appreciatively and winked at Brice. "See ya later, stud." Bill quickly sashayed away, hastily tying on a cape as he went.

Chet stared dumbfounded at Craig. "Omigod! You’re Rocky?! Wait’l Sandi hears this!"

Craig, pointedly ignoring Chet, knelt next to Jan and started to examine her.

Bob shook his head and smiled slightly as he opened the drug box and set up the biophone. You sure are full of surprises, Brice! What next? Are you a drag queen on your days off, too?

Marco hovered anxiously, getting in the way until Craig snapped out, "Kelly, get him to back off! We need some room!"

Chet grabbed Marco’s arm and hauled on it. "C’mon, Marco, let the man work." Chet pulled Marco back a few feet.

"Thanks," sighed Craig gratefully. He reached under Jan and started unfastening her costume.

"Hey!" protested Marco. "Do you have to do this in front of everyone, Brice?!"

"Easy, Pal!" Chet soothed. "He’s being discreet. No one’s gonna see anything."

Marco eyed Brice skeptically a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I guess you’re right, Chet." Just make sure it stays that way, Brice, or you’re burrito filling.

Bellingham looked at Brice. "Heat exhaustion or heat stroke?" he asked tersely.

Brice felt her forehead and forearms. "Heat exhaustion, at this point. She’s flushed, but diaphoretic, and her skin is warm, not hot. It could easily escalate, though." He removed the red wig, causing Jan’s sweat-drenched blonde hair to tumble out.

Bob nodded and turned to the manager. "Get me some ice and some cold water right away." Bellingham snapped when he saw Phil hesitate, "Do it now! Seconds count!" He looked around and pointed at Chet and Marco. "Take them with you, and get back as soon as possible."

"But..." stammered Marco.

"The faster you get the ice," Hank offered reasonably, "the quicker she’ll recover."

"C’mon, Marco," urged Chet, tugging on his friend’s sleeve. "Lead the way, Phil. Hurry!"

Brice watched the three men hasten up the aisle. "Thanks, Cap." He quickly undid the rest of the ties on Jan’s costume. "Bob, pass me the BP cuff and the thermometer, please."

"Here ya go, Craig." Bob handed over the equipment. "Cap, can you request an ambulance?"

"Right away," Hank nodded as he pulled out his handie-talkie. "LA, Station 51. Respond an ambulance to our location."

"Station 51, 10-4," the dispatcher acknowledged.

Bob picked up the biophone, "Rampart, this is Squad 16, er, correction, this is Squad 51. We have a female victim, aged twenty-five..."

"She’s twenty-seven, Bob," Craig corrected as he pumped up the BP cuff.

"Rampart, that’s twenty-seven years old," modified Bellingham. "She is unconscious, suffering from heat exhaustion. Stand by for vitals."

"Standing by," responded Kel Brackett.

"Okay," Craig reported, "pulse is 104 and bounding, respiration is 20 and shallow. BP is 110 over 80, and skin is flushed, warm and diaphoretic. Temperature is 101.5 by axilla," he added after removing the thermometer from Jan’s armpit.

Bob repeated the vital signs to Rampart. Chet, Marco and Phil returned with some popcorn tubs filled with ice and cold water a moment later.

"Great!" Brice quickly opened some dressing packages and passed them to Chet and Marco. "Soak these in the ice water, then give them to me."

"Rampart," Bob informed Dr. Brackett, "we are applying cold compresses."

"Squad 51, start an IV with normal saline, continue with the cooling measures, and give us another set of vitals."

"10-4, Rampart." Bob set down the biophone and prepared the IV.

"Phil – why don’t you go outside and direct the ambulance attendants here?" Hank suggested. "They’ll need someone to show them through this crowd."

Phil nodded. "Good idea."

As Phil jogged back up the aisle, Craig applied cold compresses to Jan’s forehead, armpits and wrists. He watched her mumble and move her head from side to side. Good, good. Come on, Jan, wake up... Craig lifted the bodice of her dress and reached between her breasts to lay a cold compress under each one.

Jan smiled slightly and murmured, "Mmm...Marco!"

"Brice!" Marco blurted indignantly as a slow flush traveled up his face.

Chet passed Brice another compress. "Down, Pal! He’s just doin’ his job, remember?" He slapped another dressing package into Marco’s hands as Craig shot them an apologetic look.

Brice reached under the hem of Jan’s dress to lay cold compresses between her legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lopez clench his jaw.

"Oh, my!" Jan eyelids flew open in surprise. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the ring of firefighters gathered around her. "Wha... what happened?" She tried to lift her head, only to have it restrained by Craig.

Bob grinned and picked up the biophone. "Rampart, this is Squad 51. The victim has regained consciousness. Stand by for vital signs."

"Standing by, 51."

"Heeeey, Craig," slurred Jan. "You’re not on tonight, are ya?"

Craig smiled reassuringly. "No, Jan. Next Saturday night. How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy, and... like I’m gonna throw up." She belched softly and held a hand to her mouth. "What happened?" she repeated, trying once more to sit up.

"You passed out from the heat," Craig explained, pushing her gently flat again. "Just lie still and relax while I take your pulse and blood pressure, all right?"

"Okay." She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Suddenly, she chuckled. "For a minute there, I thought you were Marco."

Marco flushed an even deeper shade of crimson as Chet stifled a laugh.

"But he’s got a much better touch." She grinned cheesily. "No offense, Rocky."

Marco coughed in embarrassment. "Um, I’m right here, Jan. How’re you doing?"

Jan’s eyes popped open. "Oh, lordy! Uh, Marco," she said with a nervous giggle, "I guess I never told you what my other job was, did I?" She smiled sheepishly at him.

Marco’s shoulder’s shook with contained laughter; relief washed over his face. "No, no, you didn’t, but we can worry about that later. Glad you’re feeling better." You scared me!

A moment later, the ambulance attendants made their way down the aisle, guided by Phil. As the stretcher reached Jan’s side, she commented defiantly, "I’m not getting on that thing! I’m perfectly all right now, and I’ve got a show to do!" She quickly sat up, and the top of her dress promptly fell down.

Marco pulled it back up, blushing furiously.

"Gee, Marco," Jan said coyly, "I didn’t know you could pull a dress up so fast. I sure know how fast you can pull one down!"

Marco held up the bodice of the dress with one hand while he reached behind her and fastened the back with the other. "You are getting on that stretcher, Jan, and you are going to the hospital. I insist!"

Jan balled her fists and planted them on her hips. "Oh, you insist, do you?" she said belligerently.

Marco nodded firmly. "Yes, I do. If you don’t," he grinned teasingly, "I’ll never cook for you again."

Jan’s expression softened. She smiled affectionately. "Okay, Stud Boy, you win – this time, anyway."

Marco put her arm around his shoulders and helped her stand. She took a wobbly step, then sat on the stretcher.

"I’m afraid you have to lie down, Jan," Craig instructed.

"I don’t wanna lie down!" Jan replied defiantly. "I feel fine!" Well, not really... whoa... damn... dizzy again... "Tell ya what, Craigie. You show this ‘substitute Rocky’ here," she pointed unsteadily at an embarrassed blonde surfer in gold spandex swim trunks, "and poor Chet...," she paused to wink at Kelly, "how to do a pelvic thrust properly, and I’ll go quietly." Jan reached for Marco’s hand and patted it. "Don’t worry about my good buddy, Marco – he’s got it down pat."

"Jan!" Marco blurted. He shook his head at her mock-innocent expression.

"But..." began Brice.

"Aw, c’mon, Craigie!" Jan wheedled. "Just one teenie tiny demo? Pleeeease?" She batted her eyelashes.

Brice groaned and rolled his eyes. This is NOT my day! At least I don’t have to work with any of the guys from 51's after the next shift, and NO ONE at 16's will believe Bob. IF he tells them, that is. Who are you trying to kid, Craig? Of COURSE he’ll tell them! "Oh, all right, Jan, but I’ll remember this next Saturday!" He wagged his right index finger at her.

Jan smiled. "Thanks, Craig." She winked at Kelly again. "Sandi will thank you, too, Chet. Take notes." She chuckled as Chet squirmed in embarrassment. "Pay attention, Keith," she addressed the surfer. "You can learn much from the master!"

Craig sighed. "It’s going to be a really short lesson, Jan. We have to get you to the hospital."

"Two minutes. Tops," agreed Jan. "Go to it, Hot Stuff!"

"Okay, Keith, and,er... Chet," Craig grinned at Kelly’s discomfort, "the secret, believe it or not, is in the knees. You have to keep your knees touching each other, and make sure they are slightly bent," he demonstrated. "That supports your weight, and allows you to let your butt hang loose. Then," he turned sideways to show them, "you sort of drop your butt down and quickly snap it forward while clenching your buttocks."

Bob looked at Craig in astonishment as he attached the IV bag to the pole on the stretcher. My God! He’s actually enjoying this! Bellingham watched closely for a minute, then nodded approvingly. He’s pretty damned good, too.

Suddenly, a dancer dressed in a gold top hat, sparkly gold tailed topcoat, and sequined black corset and shorts forced her way through the crowd. Her tap shoes clapped harshly on the floor as she rushed to Craig’s side. She grabbed Brice’s arm and whirled him around. "What do you think you’re doing, Tinsel Tush?" she demanded.

Craig blushed to the roots of his hair. "Uh, hi, Mary. I was just, uh... showing Keith how to, um... improve his portrayal..." his voice trailed off.

"Oh, Tinsel Tush!" she whined nasally. "You promised you’d never show anyone that ‘secret’ move!"

Craig kissed her swiftly and whispered in her ear, "I haven’t, Glitter Buns. That will always be our secret!"

"Well, okay, then," she pouted, mollified.

Craig smiled at Mary, then turned to Jan. "Okay, I fulfilled my end of the bargain, Jan. Let’s get going."

Jan obediently lay on the stretcher. "All right, boys," she said to the grinning attendants, "time to go cruisin’!"

"Jan!" Marco crossed his arms and stared disapprovingly at her. As she impishly winked at him, he shook his head smiled slightly. What am I going to do with you, Wild Thing?

Bob, meanwhile, glanced down at his nametag. Yes, I’m still me, but who the HELL is my partner?

*~*~*~*~*

"You guys are in for the treat of your life!" Chet commented as he stirred the contents of a large stock pot. He had pulled KP duty on Tuesday, Bob and Craig’s second shift with 51's, and was busily preparing lunch. Chet reached over to a saucepan and lifted the lid. "Ahh! Perfect! Ready your taste buds, gentlemen." Kelly picked up a plate and began assembling his creation.

This oughtta be interesting. Bellingham smiled wickedly as he watched Chet dump a sloppy ladle full of greasy-brown chili over a hot dog. Brice NEVER lowers himself to eat something as common as chili dogs. He even keeps vichyssoise in the fridge at 16's in case of "emergencies" like this. No vischyssoise here today, Craig! He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. But after how he acted on Saturday, I wonder...

Chet sprinkled some chopped onion over the chili, then walked to the kitchen table. "Company first. Enjoy, Brice." He plopped the plate in front of Craig. Chet crossed his arms over his chest and winked at Marco, who returned his wink with a grin. This is the most disgusting batch of chili I’ve ever made.

Brice stared at the grease pooling around the plate and soaking into the hot dog bun. He put his hands on the edge of the table, leaned over and sniffed deeply. Omigod! That smells just like the chili dogs Dad used to buy me at Dodger Stadium when I was a kid. Man, Kelly, you have real talent! He grinned, picked up the hot dog and bit off a large chunk. Grease and chili juice ran down his chin. A piece of chopped onion clung to the corner of his mouth. His smile broadened and his eyes twinkled with pleasure as he chewed. Not waiting until he’d swallowed his first mouthful, Brice chomped off another large bite. "‘S wunnerful, Kelly," Craig mumbled with his mouth stuffed. "May I have ‘nuther, please?" He swiped at his chin with the back of his hand.

Bellingham gaped at Brice in astonishment, as did Mike, Hank, Marco and Chet.

Marco nudged Chet in the ribs and whispered, "I thought you said he’d hate this stuff!"

"Well, that’s what Bob told me, Marco," Chet whispered back, "but Brice has been acting so strange since he came here, I’m not sure what to expect anymore!"

"I hear ya," Marco nodded soberly.

Chet wandered back to the stove and dished up another chili dog. He set this plate next to Brice’s other plate and stepped back to watch. Craig swooped on the second dog and wolfed it down as enthusiastically as the first. Well, I’ll be damned. "Okay, guys, um... help yourself. There’s plenty." At least I THINK there’s plenty. The way Brice is scarfing this stuff, I’m not so sure. "And, since I have you all here, anyone wanna see the pics I took of Tracy on my days off?" he asked excitedly as he reached for his wallet.

"NO!!" everyone, including Brice, shouted vigorously in unison.

Chet sagged his shoulders in disappointment. "Aw, c’mon, guys!"

The station’s tones sounded. "Station 51, structure fire. 164 Penrod Drive. One-six-four Penrod. Cross street, Rainsbury Avenue. Time out, 1231."

*~*~*~*~*

Poor old lady – what was her name? Brice stopped poking at the charred remains of the home’s family room and closed his eyes in concentration. Smith, I think she said. Cheryl Smith. He sighed, opened his eyes and continued to sift through the debris with his hook, searching for hot spots. That gas explosion did a thorough job of leveling her place. She said she’d lived here for over forty years. It must be awful to lose a lifetime of memories in one fell swoop. He paused to brush at the sweat and grime on his face. Well, at least no one was home when it blew.

Craig glanced over to the curb where Hank was busy trying to comfort the distraught woman. A station wagon pulled up beside them, and a woman in her early thirties jumped out, along with a sandy-haired boy about eight years old. Must be her daughter and grandson. The toe of Brice’s boot bounced off something buried under a pile of less-charred rubble. What the?! He stooped and moved aside fragments of wood and plaster, revealing a black rubber ball about two inches in diameter. That’s a Superball! He smiled broadly as he picked it up with his gloved hand. These things are a BLAST! I remembering trying to calculate their trajectories when I was a kid. With a wistful sigh, he shoved the ball into his turnout coat pocket.

Craig’s handie-talkie beeped. "Squad 51, man down on the football field. Carson High School. 23000 Main Street. Two-three-zero-zero-zero Main Street. Cross street, 223^rd Street. Time out, 1446."

Brice pulled out his HT. "LA, Squad 51, 10-4." He called over to his partner, "C’mon, Bob, we’ve got a run!"

*~*~*~*~*

"What happened?" Bellingham asked the harried football coach as they hurried towards the playing field. Bob carried the biophone and defibrillator while Craig toted the drug box, trauma box and oxygen.

"We were doing a scrimmage, red shirts against white shirts, when Mel got sacked real hard. Here, let me carry something for you." The coach paused and took the trauma box from Craig. "He went down like a rock – out cold. Hasn’t moved since."

"Thanks. Did you see exactly where he got hit?" Craig asked as they approached a small, anxious crowd of players and cheerleaders. He could just make out the school’s star quarterback on the ground in the middle of the huddle.

The coach shook his head. "No. All I can tell you is he got hit somewhere. It happened so fast!"

"How long has he been out?" Bob continued.

The coach glanced at this watch. "Um, about five minutes. Maybe a little longer."

"All right, everyone, step back," Craig directed firmly as he shouldered his way through the on-lookers. "Give us some room, here." He broke through the mass and stared down at the injured player. An attractive, buxom brunette, dressed in a very tight, and very short, red cheerleader’s uniform, knelt beside the young man, holding his hand and blubbering. Brice, as well as Bob and the coach, set down the equipment.

"Mel, wake up. This joke’s gone on long enough, ya big faker!" The young woman reached out to slap Mel’s cheek.

With lightning speed, Brice snagged the woman’s arm. "Easy, there, Miss." Craig gently moved her aside. "He might have a neck injury. Moving his head could injure him further."

"C’mon, Jane, let them check Mel out." The coach pulled Jane back a little further, then raised his voice to his team, "Enough staring already, men! Time to run the bleachers!" He rolled his eyes at the resulting belly-aching. "Now, now, none of that. Move it!" As his team obediently stormed into the stands, the coach put his hands on Jane’s shoulders. "Let’s go sit down, honey." He guided her to the nearby players’ bench. Jane never took her eyes off her boyfriend as the coach gently sat her down.

Bob and Craig knelt beside the quarterback.

"Airway’s good. Respiration’s normal," Craig reported. He waved his penlight in the young man’s eyes. "Pupils are equal and reactive."

Bob nodded. "Pulse is normal. I’ll check his BP." Bellingham reached into the drug box and retrieved the blood pressure cuff.

"I’ll put a C-collar on him, then we can take his helmet off," Brice continued.

"BP’s 110 over 70, Craig," Bellingham reported as he removed the stethoscope from his ears.

"Good," Craig commented as he finished securing the cervical collar around Mel’s neck. He unhooked Mel’s chin strap and very cautiously removed his helmet. Brice gently palpated the young man’s head. "He has a slight bump on his forehead, Bob. I bet he just has a mild concussion." Craig efficiently examined the rest of the young man’s body. "No other apparent injuries. Why don’t you get Rampart on the line while I get the smelling salts? I have a feeling that’ll bring him around." Craig reached into the drug box for the ammonium chloride as Bob set up the biophone.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51, do you read?" Bob asked as he keyed the handset on the biophone.

"Read you loud and clear, 51. Go ahead," Dr. Brackett’s voice replied.

"Rampart, we have a male victim, approximately...," Bellingham paused and shouted over to the coach. "How old is he?"

"Mel’s a senior. He’s eighteen," the coach yelled back.

"The victim is eighteen years of age," Bob continued. "He was knocked unconscious while playing football and has been out approximately five minutes. Respirations, pulse and BP are all normal. Pupils are equal and reactive. He has a minor contusion on his forehead. We have put a cervical collar on the victim, and are about to attempt to wake him up with smelling salts."

"Sounds good, 51. Let me know how he responds, then give him an IV of Normal Saline, and transport."

"10-4, Rampart," Bob acknowledged. He extended the antenna on his handie-talkie. "LA, this is Squad 51. Respond an ambulance to our location."

"10-4, 51," the dispatcher acknowledged.

Bob slapped down the HT’s antenna, then reached into the drug box for the Normal Saline. "Ready to try the smelling salts, Craig?"

Brice nodded, then cracked the ampule under the youth’s nose. "Okay, big guy, time to wake up."

"Whoa! What is that shit?!" Mel’s eyes popped open, and he batted Craig’s hand aside. "What happened?" He felt the collar around his neck with both hands and glanced warily at the paramedics. His eyes widened when he saw the IV. "What’re you guys trying to do to me, huh? You gonna stick that crap in my arm?! I don’t do drugs, Man!" Mel ripped the C-collar off his neck and sat up.

"Easy there, Mel." Craig put his hands on the quarterback’s shoulders and tried to push him back down. "We think you have a concussion. You were unconscious for a few minutes. We need to take you to the hospital to have you checked out. The IV and the collar are just precautions. You may have a more serious injury that we aren’t aware of yet," he explained in a soothing voice.

"Well, I say there’s nothin’ wrong with me!" Mel replied angrily. He slapped Brice’s hands off his shoulders and glared threateningly at him. "And I ain’t gettin’ no needle in my arm! You can’t take me to your stupid hospital, either. I have a scrimmage to finish!" He glowered at Craig.

"Are you saying that you refuse treatment?" Brice asked levelly.

"That’s right, Mister. That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ ya!" Mel bellowed.

"I’ll tell Rampart," Bob cut in quietly. He picked up the handset again. "Rampart, the victim has regained consciousness, and is refusing treatment."

"51, have you advised the victim that he may have a serious injury?" Dr. Brackett asked.

"Affirmative, Rampart," Bob confirmed.

"Well, then, I guess there’s nothing you can do. Let me know if the situation changes," Brackett added, disappointment evident in his voice.

"10-4, Rampart." Bob sighed and hung up the biophone.

"Oh, Mel!" Jane gushed as she dashed over from the players’ bench. "You’re all right!" She stooped, grabbed Mel’s cheeks with her hands and pecked his bruised forehead. Jane stood and turned to Brice, her eyes misty with tears of gratitude. She ran a hand through Brice’s hair, knocking his glasses askew. "I want to thank you for saving poor Mel," she said breathily. Jane grabbed Brice’s face and planted a deep, passionate French kiss on his lips.

Bob shook his head in wonder. If she keeps that up much longer, she’s gonna give him an oxygen-deprivation buzz.

Mel, still sitting on the ground, watched in mounting fury as Jane enthusiastically smooched Brice. "You makin’ a move on my woman, Four Eyes?" he growled menacingly and staggered to his feet.

Craig glanced sharply at Mel. NOBODY calls me Four Eyes and gets away with it! He broke off Jane’s embrace and stared at Mel’s towering form through eyes narrowed to slits. A dangerous smile curled his lips. Not taking his gaze off the quarterback, he gently lifted the cheerleader’s hand and bussed it lightly. "You are most welcome, Jane."

Mel exploded in fury. "Arrrgghhhhhh!!!"

Bellingham looked up from packing the biophone in time to see Mel rush his partner. "Brice! Look out!"

In one fluid motion, Brice released Jane’s hand, made a fist and swung outward, connecting audibly with Mel’s lower jaw. He continued to pivot, allowing Mel’s limp body to fall to the ground at his feet. "Bob, he’s out again." He shook his right hand vigorously and cringed. That hurt, but, boy, that felt good! Heheh.

"Jeeeesus, Brice! Are you okay?" Bob ran to his Craig’s side.

Brice nodded and rubbed his knuckles. "Yeah, Bob, I’m fine. I think."

Bellingham gently grasped Brice’s hand and examined it. "Well, it doesn’t look like you broke anything." He released Craig’s fingers and glanced down at the crumpled figure of the quarterback. "Man, how are we going to explain this to Dr. Brackett?"

"I’ll handle it, Bob." Craig walked over to the biophone, knelt and snapped its antenna back in place. He picked up the handset. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

"Go ahead, 51. What’s up? Did the patient change his mind?" Dr. Brackett responded, puzzled.

"Um, not exactly, Rampart. The victim became combative, and... was struck in the lower jaw during attempts to restrain him."

"Is the situation under control, 51?" Brackett asked, concerned.

"Affirmative, Rampart, but the victim is unconscious again."

"Well, I guess that’s good," Dr. Brackett chuckled. "Looks like we’ll be able to treat him after all."

*~*~*~*~*

Bob and Craig wandered wearily into the kitchen.

"Hey, guys, how’d the run go?" Chet asked from the sofa where he sat polishing a nozzle on Henry’s belly. Henry’s back foot thumped rapidly back and forth with pleasure.

Bellingham and Brice exchanged glances.

"Routine. Broken arm," Bob replied. Man, I’m beat! We’ve gotten one call after another all day! And Brice has been acting weirder and weirder with each run. This is REALLY starting to get to me.

Chet nodded. "Cool." He examined the nozzle closely a moment, then buffed off a remaining smudge with Henry’s ear. "Well, we already ate dinner, but I kept some leftovers in the oven for you. They should still be warm. Help yourself." He gestured towards the oven with the nozzle.

They walked to the oven, and Craig opened the door. "What’s this?" He pulled out a cookie sheet lined with several three-inch-long brown strips, and marshmallow-sized brown lumps.

"Looks like fish sticks and Tater Tots to me, Brice." Bob grinned. Good job, Chet! If the chili dogs didn’t disgust Brice, than these are SURE to do it! He glanced over his shoulder at Kelly and winked.

Chet winked back.

"Hmm... fascinating." Brice set the sheet on the stove top, leaned over and examined it closely. "This is food?"

"Yeah, Brice," Bob replied, "and it, um... goes good with ketchup." Oops – maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Well, we’ll see. Bellingham opened a nearby cupboard and selected two plates, then opened a drawer and retrieved two forks. "C’mon, Brice." He nudged Craig’s arm and handed him a set. "Dig in before they get cold."

Craig shoveled several fish sticks and Tater Tots onto his dish, then sat down at the table. Bob joined him a moment later. "Pass me the ketchup, would you, Bob?"

Bellingham handed over the requested condiment and watched as Brice created a space in the middle of his plate and filled it with ketchup. He arranged the fish sticks around the red puddle like flower petals, then used the Tater Tots to make a smiley face. Craig then picked up one of the fish sticks, poked an end into the ketchup and popped it into his mouth. He grinned with delight as he chewed. Bob’s eyes widened in shock. NO! You CAN’T like these, TOO! I’m gonna cry.

Marco strode into the common room and spied Chet on the sofa. "There you are!" He sighed and shook his head. "What’re you doing, Chet? You know how Cap hates it when you polish nozzles on the dog!"

Chet shrugged. "Hey, what can I say? I can’t get the same sheen with a rag."

The tones sounded. "Station 51, multiple injuries due to fallen glass at the Boogie Nights Discothèque. 241 Atmore. Two-four-one Atmore. Cross street, Martinshire. Time out, 2012."

"Fallen glass?" Chet repeated, puzzled.

"We’ll find out what it means when we get there. C’mon," Marco gestured for his partner to follow as he headed for the apparatus bay. "And don’t forget the nozzle!"

Craig and Bob pushed back their chairs and dashed out the doorway behind Lopez. Craig’s lips became a thin, grim line. Oh no – NOT the Boogie Nights Club!

Chet shoved Henry off his lap and jogged after them. As he passed the kitchen table, he glanced at Bob’s untouched meal. Bellingham had lined up his food in a pattern: three Tater Tots, followed by three fish sticks, then three more Tater Tots. SOS? Chet shook his head and trotted to the engine.

*~*~*~*~*

Glass crunched under their shoes as the men from Station 51 entered the Boogie Nights Discothèque.

"Where did all this come from?" Bob stared at the floor, completely puzzled. "The windows aren’t broken."

Wordlessly, Brice pointed to the center of the dance floor where the remains of a large glitter-ball lay like a fallen scoop of ice cream. Strobe lights and colored spot lights glinted off the thousands of mirror shards that had exploded outward when the ball hit the floor. Several club patrons dressed in slinky, sparkly dancewear sat on the floor, gripping various body parts dripping with blood. The shards had struck them like shrapnel.

"Brice, Bellingham, get your gear," Hank instructed. "Marco, Chet, give them a hand."

Moments later, they all returned and started treating the injured people. Marco and Chet handled people with minor cuts, while Craig and Bob handled those with more serious gashes.

"There ya go, Miss," Craig said as he finished bandaging a petite red-head’s forearm. "Make sure you see your doctor, or stop by the hospital. You’re gonna need a few stitches." The woman smiled gratefully at him and nodded. Brice shuffled over to the next victim sitting on the floor beside her. "How’s it going, Bob?" he asked his partner as he examined a young man’s lower leg.

"All minor injuries, Brice," Bob replied as he placed dressings over several shallow gashes on a woman’s right arm. "Rampart’s interns are gonna get a lot of suture practice tonight." He secured the dressings in place. "These folks were pretty lucky." He smiled encouragingly at the brunette. "I don’t think any of those will require stitches, Ma’am. Be sure to keep them clean, though."

She nodded, smiled and headed for the coat-check room. Bellingham watched her backside appreciatively as she left.

Craig nodded. "I’ll say!" He glanced over his shoulder at the shattered ball. If that had fallen on someone. He shuddered. "All set, young man." Brice helped the lithe blonde dancer to his feet. "Like I told the young lady, you’re probably gonna need stitches."

The young man mumbled his thanks, then limped over to the exit.

Brice stretched wearily. He glanced about. "Is that it?"

Bellingham closed the trauma box. "Looks like it, Brice." He picked up the biophone, which, fortunately, they never had to use. "I’m gonna put this stuff in the squad. Back in a sec. Cap wants us to help Chet and Marco clean up some of this glass."

Craig nodded. "Okay, Bob. I’ll find some brooms."

Both men suddenly froze.

A dark-eyed bronze-skinned beauty with waist-length, shimmering black hair slunk over to Brice. All evening, she had been discreetly watching him work from her vantage point at the bar. Her royal blue spandex dress strained to cover her ample figure as she moved. Fringe on the handkerchief hemline slipped enticingly between her muscular thighs with every step. Bellingham stared open-mouthed as the woman walked right into Brice, crushing her prominent breasts against his chest.

"So, Bricey Baby," she whispered huskily, "you gonna boogie with me tonight?"

"Sorry, Rose," Craig replied, staring into the woman’s cleavage, "I’m, um, working." Damn. I was hoping you weren’t here tonight. No such luck, though.

A slim, athletic blonde in a sequin-encrusted, fushia body suit stormed over from a far corner. She grabbed Rose’s arm and pulled her away from Brice. Her hands became a blur of gestures as she swore at Rose in sign language.

Omigod! You’re here, too?! This could get ugly. "Betty, Rose! Down girls!" Brice signed his words at Betty as he spoke. "I promise to dance with both of you next time I’m here."

"I don’t wanna wait until next time!" Rose demanded. "I wanna dance with you now!" She grasped Brice firmly around the waist and dipped herself over his thigh, supporting her weight over her bent right leg. In her reclined position, Rose’s cleavage threatened to burst out of her dress.

Betty fumed at the sight. She grabbed the front of Brice’s shirt and heaved, dislodging Rose’s arms in the process. Rose flopped unceremoniously onto her backside; the front of Brice’s shirt tore off in Betty’s hands, revealing Brice’s undershirt. Betty dropped the cloth fragments, grabbed Brice’s face with both hands, and kissed him passionately, smearing her hot pink lipstick all around his mouth.

Rose flushed with fury. She exploded to her feet and grabbed Betty’s hair, jerking her face off Craig’s; Brice’s glasses flew off and clattered to the floor. Rose cocked her right arm and slapped Betty’s left cheek hard.

As she put her palm against her stinging face, Betty’s eyes smoldered dangerously. She knotted her right hand into a fist and punched Rose in the stomach. An all-out cat fight ensued.

"Ladies, ladies!" Hank stepped between them and placed his palms firmly on their chests. He grunted with effort as he tried to shove them apart. "Calm down!"

Betty extended her right middle finger in a universal gesture even those who didn’t know sign language could understand.

Hank cleared his throat. "Hey, now! There’s no need for that. I’m sure we can settle this in a civilized manner."

Chet leaned over to Marco and whispered, "Should we help him?"

Marco whispered back, "He seems to be, um... holding his own," Lopez winked. "Let’s give him a couple minutes."

Chet nodded and grinned mischievously.

They set down their brooms, pulled up two chairs, and sat down to watch.

Brice, meanwhile, dropped to his knees and blindly swept the dance floor with his hands, trying to locate his glasses. He heard a metallic clink. Ah ha! The spectacles fumbled from his grasp a few times before he successfully captured them. Craig slipped them over his ears. Well, they’re a little bent, but at least the lenses aren’t broken. He looked around and sighed. Those two are ALWAYS trouble. Better give Cap a hand.

Craig walked over to the staggering blob that was Hank and the two women. He began to sign and speak, "Rose! Betty! C’mon, now! Enough’s enough!" Brice put his hands on their shoulders and pushed, finally separating them and freeing Captain Stanley. "If you two can’t stop this ridiculous fighting, I’ll have to find myself some new dance partners!"

The women abruptly ceased their brawling and paled visibly.

"You... you don’t really mean that, do you, Bricey Baby?" Rose responded, stunned.

Betty signed a similar response.

Brice nodded soberly. "I most certainly do."

"Oh, we’ll be good, we promise!" Rose pleaded desperately.

Betty earnestly nodded, placed her right index finger at her mouth, then quickly placed her right open palm against her left fist – the sign language gesture for ‘promise’.

Craig crossed his arms over his chest and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "Weeeell... okay. You two can dance with me. Thursday night."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Rose bussed Craig’s cheek, leaving a burgundy stain on top of the hot pink lipstick smudge. "C’mon, Betty, let’s go freshen up."

Rose and Betty linked arms and headed for the Ladies Room, chatting, signing and giggling the whole while.

Bob shook his head, amazed. Now I’ve seen everything. Still clutching the trauma box and biophone, he slowly turned and headed out to the squad.

*~*~*~*~*

As they returned to the station, Craig flopped out his left arm and rested it on his turnout coat, which lay in a wadded mass between him and Bellingham. His hand brushed against a round lump in the coat’s pocket, and his eyes widened. "Oh! I almost forgot I’d put that in there!" Brice excitedly rummaged in the pocket and pulled out the ball. He smiled and tossed it lightly from hand-to-hand. "It’s a Superball, Bob. Ever have one of these?"

Bellingham glanced sideways at Craig as he drove. "Sure, Brice. I had balls when I was a kid. What’s so special about this one?"

"This." Brice bounced the ball hard against the dash, causing it to ricochet rapidly about the interior of the squad. It thumped dully off Bob’s forehead, then hammered back-and-forth under the dash a moment before coming to rest under the brake pedal.

"Shit, Brice!" Bob fumed as he frantically kicked the ball away from the brakes. The traffic signal in front of them had just changed to red. He successfully dislodged the ball with the toe of his shoe, then stomped on the brakes with both feet. Bellingham took a shaky breath, released his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, then hunched under the dash and retrieved the wayward orb. Rubbing his bruised forehead, he sat up and gestured angrily at Craig with the toy. "I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Brice, but whatever it is, get a grip on yourself, man! This infantile phase you’re going through almost got us killed!"

Craig shrugged and took the ball from Bellingham’s hand. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bob. I’m acting the same way I’ve always acted." He grinned at his partner, then began to toss the ball back and forth again. Just more publicly than I used to do it.

Bob shook his head resignedly. Yeah, right. You’ve become a real nut-case if you ask me. The light turned green, and Bob stepped on the gas.

*~*~*~*~*

"Sooo... bummer that the engine got another call, huh, Bob?" Craig commented, trying to break the palpable silence.

Bob steered into the station’s driveway. "Yeah," Bellingham agreed quietly. He checked his side mirrors and carefully backed into the apparatus bay. "I’m sure they’re as beat as we are."

Good. He’s talking again. Man, Bob, you take things too seriously sometimes. Craig nodded wearily and opened his door. Ball still in hand, he jumped out of the squad and wandered over to the locker room. "I don’t know about you, but I sure need to freshen up." He glanced at his torn shirt. "I at least need to change."

Bellingham examined his soot-covered hands and shirt as he walked beside his partner. "Yeah, me, too, Brice. We never had a chance to clean up after that fire."

They pushed open the locker room door and headed to their respective lockers. As Craig opened his, a flood of rumpled shirts and pants tumbled out. He stooped and retrieved a relatively clean shirt and sniffed it. Setting it and the ball on the bench beside him, he began to unbutton his shredded uniform. Working at 51's these last two shifts has been like a breath of fresh air! I used to try to keep my off-duty activities a secret, but now that everyone knows about them, I feel so... free! And the MEMORIES working here brought back – I’d forgotten how much fun it was to lighten up and really goof-off like I did when I was a kid. I’ve been trying to impress people with my knowledge and preciseness for TOO LONG! Gotta stop and smell the roses more often, Craigie! Brice buttoned up his new shirt, shoved the pile of dirty clothing back into his locker, then pushed on the door until it latched. He retrieved his Superball from the bench, then headed for the door. "Bob, I’m going to the common room for a bit."

"Sure, fine, whatever," Bellingham commented flatly as he selected a clean shirt from the evenly-spaced offerings in his locker. "I’ll be there in a minute." One minute and 45 seconds, to be precise. As Craig left the room, Bob shrugged out of his soiled shirt, hung it neatly on an empty hanger, then buttoned up his clean, starched one. Brice has gotten so "free and easy" he’s a real menace! I think I can finally appreciate the importance of regulations. Without a means of checks and balances, people like Brice can destroy the whole department! I HAVE to stay sharp for the both of us, now. He walked to the sink and began meticulously to wash the soot from his face and hands. The man’s a complete loon. Bob dried himself with a paper towel, carefully folded it, then deposited it in the trash can as he exited the room.

Bellingham worked his way across the apparatus bay and over to the kitchen. He perused the papers spread out on the kitchen table a moment, then selected the morning’s sports section. He crisply snapped the section open and began to read.

A weary Brice, meanwhile, face still stained with soot and lipstick, and glasses slightly bent, sank into the common room sofa. He gratefully sipped a cup of coffee. Henry suddenly jumped onto his lap and slurped at the lipstick on his face, spilling coffee onto Craig’s lap in the process. Brice chuckled. "Henry!" He scratched the dog’s ears. "There’s a good boy! Say, let’s go play catch out back! I’ll even show you a few of my yo-yo tricks!" Craig quickly rose, dislodging a shirttail from his pants in the process. He swiped absently at the moisture on his crotch, then plopped his mug on the table beside Bob. Craig motioned for Henry to follow him. "C’mon, Boy!" Henry bounded off the sofa, and they both happily exited the room.

Bellingham, too stunned for speech, watched open-mouthed as Brice made his way over to the parking lot door, humming "Staying Alive" and teasing Henry with the ball. He’s¼he’s going outside to¼to PLAY?! Bob shook his head sadly. My suspicions are confirmed. He’s a nut-case. Bob sighed and neatly closed the sports section. After sharpening the folds with his fingertips, he placed it in the exact center of the kitchen table. Bellingham picked up Brice’s mug and frowned. And a slob, to boot. He walked to the sink, washed and dried the mug, then returned it to the cupboard. Bob then strode purposefully over to the squad. He opened the side compartment and pulled out the drug box. Bellingham caressed the lid of the box a moment, smiled tenderly, and opened it. Somebody has to take care of you, Baby. He softly began to sing. "A, b, c, d, e, f, g¼"