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Disclaimer: The E! characters do not belong to me. They have been borrowed strictly for fun and not for fortune.
"Getting Into the Swing of Things"
By Ross
"How much you wanna bet this turns out to be a total waste of time?" Roy DeSoto irritatedly pondered of his partner. The peeved paramedic flicked their rescue squad's lights, siren—and wiper blades—on and then swung the vehicle right, onto the rain-swept street in front of LA County Fire Station 51.
John Gage logged the call in and turned to his flustered friend. "What makes yah say that?"
"O-Oh, I don't know," DeSoto sarcastically answered. "Maybe the fact that it's pouring rain...and we just got called out to the 16th hole—at a golf course?"
Gage cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully, but refrained from any verbal comment.
Squad 51's passenger was still silently contemplating its driver's dire prediction over, when they pulled up to 'The Alameda Country Club' six soggy minutes later.
DeSoto parked in front of the Main Clubhouse and cut the lights and siren.
They sat there for a few more moments, staring out at the steady downpour and dreading having to leave the dryness of their truck's cab.
"People out playing golf—in weather like this—can't be the sharpest crayons in the box," the senior paramedic further predicted, before reluctantly killing the engine and exiting the vehicle.
They began pulling side compartments open, but, before grabbing any medical gear, the already helmeted firemen donned their canvas turnout coats.
"Got a cart waiting," a rain-slickered ground's keeper called out, as he came splashing across the parking lot.
The equipment-laden medical team followed the man over to where their mode of transportation awaited.
"What's up?" DeSoto demanded, when they'd finished piling their cases and their carcasses into the extremely cramped for space, but canopied, contraption.
"One of the members got clunked pretty hard on the top of the head," their driver replied, over the whine of the cart's electric motor. "Wayne found him...unconscious."
"What 'clunked' him?" the paramedic's curious partner inquired.
"Wayne didn't say."
Several damp minutes later, they pulled up to the 16th Hole and parked, just off the green...which appeared to be the accident scene.
One completely drenched fellow was lying on his back and struggling to sit up.
Another, equally saturated, gentleman was standing there, trying to keep the guy on the ground on the ground.
The two were having a very lively, and colorful, discussion.
"Oh! For pity's sake!" the guy on the ground exclaimed when he caught sight of the firemen. "Who in the heck called them?"
"I did," the other answered. "You were out cold. For all I knew, you could a' been dyin'!"
"Yeah? Well, I ain't out cold anymore! And, I sure as heck ain't dyin'! But, if you don't let me up off of this wet ground—this instant—I swear, you will be!"
The guy on his feet looked a bit panic-stricken and turned to the two firemen for help.
The paramedics dropped themselves, and their equipment cases, onto the soggy green beside the...uh...victim?
The driving water droplets seemed to be descending harder than ever.
DeSoto blew the raindrops from his lips before speaking. "Hi there!" he declared and mustered up as much cheer as their miserable circumstances would allow. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Wayne, here, won't let me up!"
"That's because he found you lying here—unconscious," the paramedic patiently explained. "We heard you took a pretty good blow to the head."
"That was nothin'! I'm perfectly fine now! Trust me, I've been hit a lot harder."
"What hit you?" John wondered, as he began his initial patient survey.
"A driver!" their patient impatiently replied, and pushed the paramedic's penlight away.
Gage glanced around the rain-soaked golf course. Any vehicle traffic would have left deep ruts, and there were no tire tracks visible. "What was he driving?"
"A driver is the wooden club you use to drive the ball off the tee!" the golfer replied with a contemptuous sneer.
The fireman nodded thoughtfully.
"Speaking of clubs...Wayne, if you don't let me up, I'm gonna crack you in the shins with my putter!" the victim vowed and made a frantic grab for the only club within his reach.
Wayne's eyes widened. He let go of the guy on the ground and quickly stepped back out of swinging range.
"You really should let us examine you," the senior paramedic advised, as he and his partner helped the golfer to his feet. "Loss of consciousness is a seri—"
"—I'll seek my own treatment!" the surly fellow assured them. "Wayne, grab my bag!"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Regent!" Wayne snappily replied and complied.
Roy turned to his partner with a 'What did I tell you?' look on his rain-streaked face.
"You sure we can't get you to change your mind?" Gage asked their now vertical victim.
Mr. Regent nodded. "What's this?" the grumpy guy growled, as the disappointed paramedic handed him a slip of paper.
"It's a release form," DeSoto explained and passed their ex-patient a pen, "telling how you refused treatment."
The golfer gladly signed the soggy document. Then he grabbed his golf bag and grumbled, just beneath his breath, "Freddie, get me out of this rain!"
The two firemen finished gathering their gear and glanced up, just in time to see their ride disappear over a little rise in the course.
"Hey! He-ey! Come back here!" Gage called after the vanishing vehicle.
"A total waste of time!" Roy repeated.
The three of them began walking—er, splashing off...in the direction of the Clubhouse, with Wayne leading the way.
"What exactly happened out here, anyway?" John wondered.
"Mr. Regent and Mr. Delaney were on the 16th Hole of the third round of a best two out of three match," Wayne obligingly replied and kept right on walking. "It was all tied at 1/1, with Mr. Delaney leading by five strokes—when it started to pour. Mr. Regent wanted to call off the match and Mr. Delaney didn't. Mr. Regent refused to play another hole. They had quite a heated argument. Mr. Delaney got extremely upset...grabbed one of his golf clubs...and clobbered Mr. Regent over the top of the head with it! Then Mr. Delaney panicked...threw his clubs on their cart...and took off...leaving poor Mr. Regent lying there—out cold!"
"Sheesh! No wonder Mr. Regent was so tee'ed off," Gage realized.
DeSoto smiled at his friend's unwittingly witty remark.
They trudged—er, splashed on in silence for several minutes.
Then something else suddenly occurred to John and he glanced back over his shoulder. "Roy, for the record...does this make that guy the victim of a hit-and-run driver?"
Roy smiled—again—and gave his grinning partner a pronounced roll of his eyes.
The saturated trio started down a little slope.
John slipped on the wet grass and fell on his—butt. "Ah-ah shi—shee-eesh!" he exclaimed and struggled, in vain, to regain his footing on the golf course's slick, slanting, water-logged surface. "Ah-ah, man!" the paramedic further bemoaned and began crawling towards the base of the slope, pushing his heavy equipment cases ahead of him. "I'd rather be bowling."
His partner just stood there at the top of the rise, pursing his wet lips...and shaking his helmeted head.
The paramedic team returned from their 'wild goose chase' run in relative silence.
In fact, they got within three blocks of the Station before either of them said anything.
DeSoto finally glanced in his uncharacteristically quiet friend's direction, saw the fogged up window and wondered, "What's on your mind?"
His partner snapped back to reality. "Huh? Oh...I was just thinking how miserable a wet...seat can make you feel. I was also wondering why you couldn't be more like me and be wrong, once in awhile."
Roy thought John's comment over for a few moments. "To be more like you, I'd hafta be wrong more often than just once in awhile."
Gage gasped in exasperation.
Shee-eesh! His infuriating friend was even right about that!
The End