Let's start from the beginning. The night in July, over six years ago when I, a twenty-two-year-old paramedic trying to play grown-up, answered the call that would change my life. It was a late-night call; police already had the gunman in handcuffs, we just needed to get the victim to the nearest public hospital. On the floor was a Caucasian male; blonde hair, blue eyes and missing half his jaw.
He made no effort to move or respond to commands. I assumed this was due to shock. On the way to the hospital, he had a seizure. I was forced to create a hole for a trach, so my colleagues would have a way of getting air into his lungs. Although the man could no longer speak. His blue eyes were wide with terror, pain. Even if he had wanted to die, this was not the way. I held his hand for the entire ride. Even as the ER crew checked him in. Only when he was moved on to a gurney and taken in to surgery, did I leave. (After getting his first and last name.)
I figured I could tell the night staff nurses he was my cousin, (that is if anyone even gave a crap.) At the public hospital, I could roam the halls for hours without speaking to a single member of staff. This was SF general, or Zuckerburg hospital. `So very kind of Mr. Facebook to pay for the place where 99% of our calls are diverted to.' Among other things it got first responders a nice workout room, with lockers and showers. (The perfect place for all kinds of illegal shit.)
So, it came as no surprise when I walked in on my roommate, co-worker, and boyfriend (the one person I'd trust with my life) getting fucked against a locker. I had suspected as much, (for well over a year.) Most of my stuff was already in my car. I'd just been waiting for the end of the month to be able to legally abandon my lease. "Yo, Greg!"
Since he was facing away from the door, it took him a second to realize the situation. Once he did, the thirty-year-old fuck boy muttered a string of profanity as he rushed to pull up his pants. "Jeff? Man, wait!"
"Take your time I'll be out by the end of the week." I stood in the doorway, looking for a reaction from his fuckbuddy. He was a younger guy from a different ambulance team. What did Greg promise him?
"Hey!" Greg grabbed my arm, directing me to the toilets, for a measure of privacy. "You know I can't afford that place on my own."
"No." This was not up for debate. I shoved him off of me, and turned to leave, walking in the direction of the elevators. "Not my problem."
"What if I know something that can cost you your job?"
Everyone in the department knew what he meant. If you are actually caught having sex or getting high in the magical Facebook funded locker room there would be severe punishments. "I plan on living out of my car, anyway."
"Or living off the funds from your OnlyFans page?"
"F--k you."
"No. It's you Jeff, who will be royally fucked." Greg always spoke like he was so much older, more mature than me. He acted like he wasn't the one who supplied the drugs. Knowing I could go for women as well as men, he would pimp me out to some of the richer physicians, making sure to take plenty of photos for blackmail. (San Francisco is an expensive city. He would always claim the extra money went to groceries. And I'd lived with that bullshit ever since I was nineteen.)
"Whatever, man." When I was nearly down the hallway, Greg turned, heading back in the direction of the locker room. For whatever reason my mind was overrun with rage. I sprinted back in his direction.
"What?" Greg turned to me. I assume he had been expecting me to continue to argue. Instead, I gripped his neck slamming him against a wall.
I punched him, over and over. Eventually he fell to the ground. I kicked him in the stomach for good measure (one kick for every time he stole from me, cheated on me, hurt me.) And then I ran for the stairs.
I headed to the roof, making sure to pick a nice hidden space to light up a cigarette. Greg could have all this; the job, the hours, our apartment, even our friend group. I would find someplace else. Someplace where I would not have to rely on people like him.
I passed by three patients, one of whom asked me for a light, while another asked if I could spare a smoke. Taking this as a sign, I handed over my entire pack. "Be cool, alright? I didn't see you and you didn't see me."
"No problem brother." The man nodded, thanking me for my generosity. Yes, we were brothers in the war of survival, as I soon would be a part of the homeless population. It was either that or move back to New Jersey.
`F--k New Jersey.' I crossed my arms, wishing I could have taken one last smoke for myself. My parents kicked me out when they found out I was a faggot. I'd been on my own for as long as I can remember. But it still hurt. Loneliness burrowed into my heart like a knife. I looked out at the dark, moonless night. I wanted to jump. I took one step and then another.
`No.' Then Gregg would have won. Or at least he would assume he did. And my parents; they would assume I killed myself because I was a good boy, living a life of sin. So, with nothing else to do, I decided to make my escape. I went down one flight of stairs, then another, before I got stuck and head to back up via a different exit.
'This place is a damn maze.' I picked a door and went for it. Walking down the hall, I was fully prepared to abandon my shift, when I heard a strange tapping. It sounded like a pen being stabbed into a plastic surface. Checking my watch, it was well after three in the morning. My superstitious catholic blood wanted me to run as fast as I could, but the heartbroken, soon to be unemployed paramedic welcomed the chance at a paranormal death. "Hello?"
The sound became louder; it was a series of three pen hits, followed by three knocks or punches, and then three more pen hits. This repeated over and over. I followed the noise to the patient ward. "Hello? Does someone need help?" The nurse's station was empty, but that wasn't uncommon at this time of night.
A figure sat up in bed. On his lap was a plastic tray and a pen. I figured he had tried to press the nurse call button, but got no answer. It was also a little strange that he still had his food tray. The light from the doorway reflected off the patient's face. His head and neck were in a brace and his jaw had been wired shut. This would make it impossible to speak (and as far as I knew) there was no way for a non-verbal patient to call for a nurse. Usually, such cases would be kept in the ICU. "Angelo Desilva?"
Glancing at the dry erase board present in every room, I saw I was correct. He seemed to be annoyed, but otherwise completely conscious. (This was likely why he was not placed in intensive care.) The middle-age man had been given a cheap pad of line paper to communicate.
"Do you remember me?"
Angelo turned his head. There was a look of joy in his eyes, almost a smile. He nodded, blinking back tears.
"What's wrong?"
He picked up the notepad, holding it where I could see. Previous notes were about his physical limitations and his ability to care for himself if and when he was discharged. At the bottom was a number for adult protective services. Angelo ripped off the page and angerly wrote the next line.
'They want to send me to a senior center.' I knew where he was referring to. It was a rather isolated place located next to a mall and a cemetery. "It's actually a recovery center, for physical therapy and whatever."
Angelo was still noticeably upset. He shook his head, writing something. The man paused for a moment, before scribbling it out, and adding a different question. 'What's your name?'
'Jeff Conner,' I wrote as clearly as I could. I laughed for a moment, realizing I could have just as easily said the words out loud. My eyes glanced at the previous statement, the one he crossed out. From what I could tell, it said something about having to close his restaurant. `Yeah, that would be a pain in the ass.'
There was a moment of silence before Angelo wrote the real reason, he had been calling me (or anyone) towards his room. 'I think I pissed myself.'
Since he had just come out of surgery, I assumed he had a catheter for urine. I checked the floor and, just as I thought, the catheter had disconnected. My first instinct was to remove it completely. Clearly it had been placed incorrectly and the ER surgeons were just lucky that the patient didn't urinate all over the operating room.
"Just lie back and relax." I removed his thin blankets. He wore a stained fabric hospital gown. It was the kind that tied in the back, but thankfully Angelo had left his open, allowing me to remove it. "I hate these gowns. I know it's better for the environment or whatever, but it's creepy AF." I tossed the soiled gown into the plastic bin meant to collect laundry. I would not want to wear something that I knew someone died in. At least paper gowns went into the trash.
I examined Angelo's body. He had several burns on his arms and bruising on his hands. I was surprised there were no injuries to his chest and stomach. If I was to guess; he went down and stayed down, waiting for the police (or death) to come. Each room had wipes and towels. I used the bath wipes to clean off his lower stomach, down his moist, sweat covered thighs. His manhood was flaccid, giving the illusion that he was not into men (or not into me.) I removed a second wipe and began to clean him. I gripped his shaft, mentally preparing to clean his foreskin. I can't help but work slow making sure to clean thoroughly.
That was when he gasped. With the bandages and headgear, the sound was nothing more than a whimper. With my hand still on his groin, I patted his shoulder. "Are you good?"
He placed his hand on mine, drawing my attention to his shoulder. Angelo leaned back, letting his head sink into the pillow. His chest was heaving. I let him guide my hand lower, to the path of dark blond hair that traced his muscles, gracefully caressing his stiff areola. I kissed his lower lip, looking deeply into his blue eyes. If his face hadn't been restrained, there was no doubt he would have smiled.
"Do you want me to stay?" I didn't verbally reveal that I had lost everything that night; that I was nursing a broken heart, and a damaged soul. Angelo was just as broken. He nodded, opening his lips to force a breathy, "Yes."
I kissed his neck, down his collarbone. His body was thin, but with the musculature of a man who worked a blue-collar career in manual labor. He tasted like sweat and soap; salty and clean. It was a flavor I would grow to crave.
I cupped his face. Even with the headgear I could feel his breath. Angelo was something more than human; he was a gift from God, a miracle sent to save me. I kissed his chest, over his heart, taking a moment to lick his tender erect nipple. Every touch made him tense, arching his back with an intense surge of passion. Without hesitation, I took him in my mouth. The taste of his precum was like sugar to my aching soul.
I could feel Angelo run his fingers through my hair, gripping my scalp. He was gasping, moaning, begging me not to stop. I knew his type; it had been so long since someone had touched him, he was starved for sensation. His body was quivering coming to the brink of climax. That was when I learned; his legs still worked, and his arms were just as strong as they looked. He was fucking my throat. I turned my head to be able to breathe. Then, holding on to the back of his legs I made out with his cock, licking sucking, until I swallowed every drop like the good fuckboy that I am. Every part of me wanted to do more. I had whipped out my dick on more than one occasion. Perhaps that was why my heart wasn't fully into the idea.
Angelo was special, he was beautiful, a man too good for this world. Instead, I took off my work clothes and spent the night by his side.
In the morning I awoke to the scream of a nurse. This was probably due to my state of undress. (And the fact that I had slept with my head on Angelo's shoulder, making it appear as if we were sharing the small hospital bed.) Knowing how long it took to attempt to call security I grabbed the notepad.
I knew to write down my phone number under my name. But in case the pad went missing I also wrote it on his hand, and again on the dry erase board, with the name 'cousin J.'
I took a walk all the way back to where my car was. Safely in the parking garage, I reclined in my front seat, awaiting the inevitable. That was when I noticed a mark on my lower abs, just above my hip. Angelo had written his address and phone number on my body. I tried to imagine a moment when he would have had the chance to do such a thing. It had to have been when I was sleeping and that was so unbelievably hot. I copied the message on to my hand. I recognized it as the address of the pizza place. With the last remains of my tank of gas, I drove back over there.
North Beach had never been an easy place to find a parking space. After thirty annoying minutes, I made the decision to park, blocking the alleyway. I figured if the trash collector needed me to move, I'd be able to hear them honk their horn.
Suddenly my phone pinged, I had a text message. 'nurse let me use her phone. i gotta make this quick,' the message was entirely in lowercase letters with noticeable spelling mistakes. 'key under third tile.'
A key? To his restaurant?
'apt is 2nd floor.' 'if this is a mistake, it will still be one of the best in my life.'
I got out of my car and walked to the door. Next to the door were a series of tiles, that formed the image of the Virgin Mary. I pressed the tiles, one at a time, until I heard a click. A series of rocks fell in the ground, mixing with the rest of the trash on the sidewalk. One of the rocks had a seam. It easily clicked open to reveal a bright silver key. I guess that was my first test.
I opened the door and let myself in, making sure to lock it behind me (last thing I wanted was for someone to think the restaurant was open for business.)
I located the restroom and next to it was an unmarked door with a crucifix. I tried the key, and it worked. there was a staircase that looped around a corner, leading to the second floor. This was Angelo's living space. There was a small kitchen, useful for food storage and late-night snacks.
Near the sink was a coffee maker. It was a cheap, old-style model. 'Property of M---' the well-worn sticker on the bottom seemed to indicate this was stolen from a motel back in the seventies. Wondering if it still worked, I looked for some coffee. Above the sink was a tin of Folgers. The bright red was calling to me. There were no coffee filters, but rather a napkin from the restaurant had been used in the coffee compartment (and never, ever removed. It was pretty gross.)
I washed the coffeemaker with hot water (since Angelo didn't appear to own dish soap,) and then set it up to brew a pot of much needed coffee. Thankfully it seemed completely functional. Soon I saw a trickle of brown liquid, and was subconsciously reminded that I needed to use the restroom.
The bathroom was located next to the kitchen. The small sink and bathtub were in desperate need of cleaning, but the toilet flushed and I even located a bar of soap. All was good. When my coffee was done, I poured a cup, looking out of the window at the beauty of San Francisco's North Beach. Now all that was left was the bedroom.
This was the largest of the rooms, even bigger than the living area. The bed was easily a queen size (or two twin beds pushed together.) I reclined on top of the blankets. The sun was filtering through the dust covered window.
I pulled my dick out, letting my shaft press against my stomach as I called up my supervisor. "Hi, this is Jeff, my employee number is 5987338" That was the way to get patched through to the dispatch manager. I was, of course, put on hold. I was half tempted to masturbate to the annoying syn-pop music when a voice answered.
"Hello? Are you calling out sick?"
"I fucking quit. And no, I'm not giving my two-week notice."
I found where I belonged. Even if I did end up getting a parking ticket.