Some call for some lame-sounding complaint at a pricey address. Like, multi-million dollar homes behind fancy gates and stuff. A sick 80 year old or something like that.
Fancy house. Lots of stone work. Intricate windows. Maserati in the driveway. Elevator to the left after going in the front door, just behind the dining room that nobody will ever use. Complete with full place settings, too.
I recognize the jerseys framed on the wall in the hallway which contains the elevator. From high school, college, and several professional teams. I’ve seen this jersey on television many times, and have seen this jersey play in championship games.
I wonder where the rings and the trophies and autographed balls are.
Slimm shoots me a glance. He knows, too.
We make our way to the room with the lady in question in bed, wet rag on her forehead and all. A delightful lady, a generation younger than the patient, is in the room with her.
“My mother has been sick for a few days. We just can’t take care of her any more. Do you think you could run her over to Saint Catholic’s for us?”
A quick glance at my watch, a few quick calculations in my head… this could be the last call of the shift if we play our cards right.
“Sure, we would be happy to do that.”
We move her over to our bed, and head out. No sign of the athlete so far.
He meets us on the first floor, just inside the foyer.
“Hey fellas, lemme say bye to my momma real quick.”
He says his goodbyes, and looks at us expectantly. Waiting for us to acknowledge his greatness or something.
“Don’t y’all know who I am?” he asks.
“Sure we do.” Slimm replies.
“Y’all want an autograph or something?”
“Naw.” nodding in the direction of the patient on the stretcher.
“We are kinda busy right now. Maybe next time.”