SquidgeWorld Archive

Behind The Mask

By GCS

DISCLAIMER: "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. and Universal Studios. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. This is a work of fiction. This story is only written for entertainment. No financial gain is being realized from it. The story, itself, is the property of the author.

I don't know what to say.

What can I say that would make a difference anyway?

The thing is whatever it is that needs to be said, I'm not saying it.

He's not saying it either.

It's odd. Neither of us is saying anything and yet everything is being said.

Somehow without saying a word we're able to have a conversation anyway.

That's how it's been with us for a long time now.

He just knows what I'm thinking.

I know what he's thinking and right now I'm not sure I like it.

He claims that he's happier than he's ever been in his whole life, but behind all that happy he's miserable. I can see it even if no one else can.

As soon as I can get him alone he'll talk about it. I'll get him to talk about it. He'll tell me. He always tells me everything, eventually.

That last run was really bad. We both knew that woman wasn't going to make it, but we had to play along, make her feel safe. We had to try to get her to Rampart. We hoped maybe the doctors could do something that we couldn't.

I knew he was devastated when she coded in the ambulance. We were both there working on her frantically pumping in the medications Brackett ordered. They just didn't help. He had promised her that she would be okay. He knew deep down that she wouldn't, but losing is hard for both of us.

I know he's upset. I can see it in his eyes. I think the guys know too. At least they suspect. He hides it so well. His face set in that protective mask.

He's sitting over there sharing a story with the guys about the last time he went bowling. He tells a good story. Has everyone laughing at the way he describes Dwyer's bowling technique, and how Dwyer kept getting gutter balls every time the ladies bowling next to them giggled. But he isn't really enjoying himself telling that story. He's just entertaining the guys, so we won't notice what's behind the mask.

He once told me how he learned to wear that mask. He told me about the "talk his father gave him when he was a boy.

"Sit down on your behind, Johnny, because I'm about to tell you the rules for working in white man's world."

I was twelve at the time sitting there in my mother's kitchen at the simple wooden table my dad had made, staring at the pound cake cooling in the window and thinking about how hungry I was. My dad grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me to look at him instead of at the cake. He wanted to be sure I was paying attention to what he had to say. All I could hear was the growling in my stomach, but I tried real hard to listen to him. I hated the reservation. I wanted to get a good job out in the world that would take me far away from that place.

"First thing you need to remember is your business is your business. You keep your mouth shut about our business. They don't want to hear about your problems and you don't want them knowing about our ways. So keep your mouth shut." He jerked my chin back around to face him, because I had turned back to the cake. "Johnny, you have to pay attention. This is important. Next you never sit down on the job. Always keep busy. Even if the people you work with are sitting down you keep working unless you fall out or something. White men think we are lazy and worthless. If you're lucky enough to get the job then you have to prove to them you want to keep it. Okay?"

I just wanted him to hurry so we could have lunch. I'm half white, so why did all this apply to me? I can get along with anybody. I know how to work hard. I always got my homework and school work done fast and always got an A. I just didn't understand why he thought it was so important to tell me all of this.

What I didn't know at the time was things were different at the middle school I would be going to the next fall. It was not on the reservation. It was in town and most of the kids were white. Man, I sure learned quickly what he meant.

"And Johnny don't speak in our language. Always speak proper English. They will respect you more if you do. And keep your tongue. Don't lose your temper. It will only get you into trouble. Always follow the rules."

I looked at him. I know he could see how confused I was. I always did what he told me to do. I almost never got in trouble. It kind of hurt me that he said that. Funny though, I could feel the anger welling up at him. I had to keep my mouth shut or I might have said something bad to him right then and there. I guess that's when I first did that. You know keeping emotion out of my face. Not letting him know what I was thinking. Holding back with everything I had in me not to show anything on my face. It's kind of funny how that really helps me now when I know a victim probably won't make it, but they need to think I can make a difference. It's assuring to them that they can't see anything in my face.

I didn't know how difficult it had been for him growing up on the reservation. He rarely talks about it. One thing for sure it was harder for him than anyone else, because being half Indian and half White he never really fit in anywhere until he moved out here to California.

His father would be proud of him for using his teachings. Even if it does cause him to hide his real feelings from those of us who want to help him deal with them.

Johnny's my best friend. He doesn't have to hide his true feelings from me.

As I look over at him right now sitting at the station's kitchen table picking at his lunch I see behind that mask. I know what he's thinking. He knows it too. That's why he keeps looking at me.

"Roy would you pass the ketchup?" Johnny reached across the table distracting the others from seeing the flash of anger in his eyes. He's upset because he knows I know the truth. It bothers him that he can't fool me. I hand him the bottle. "Thanks Pally." He grins, but that grin doesn't fool me. It doesn't reach his eyes. Johnny's eyes are so expressive. I know he's hurting.

"Hey Johnny after lunch we need to make a supply run." He knows it's an excuse. We were just at Rampart after that run.

"Uh, Roy, we were just at Rampart." He chuckled.

"Yeah, I know, but I forgot the Ringers." I popped a fry in my mouth and smiled back at him. I know that aggravated him to no end, but he won't let anyone else know that.

"Oh…okay, I guess, if it's all right with Cap." He looked at Captain Stanley in hopes he might have something else in mind for us to do.

"Fine by me," Cap said between bites of his hamburger. "As long as you finish the dishes before you go, since the kitchen is yours today, John."

"Ah, sure, sure Cap, I'll get it done." Now he's uncomfortable. He's fidgeting; his knee is bouncing under the table. He knows I'll have him cornered. He knows he'll have to talk.

Everyone finishes up their burgers and fries. Chet and Marco head out back to hang hoses. Mike starts clearing the table. "Uh, I'll get that Mike."

"It's no problem Johnny." Mike continues scraping the plates into the trash. Then he rinses the plates and sets them in the sink. He turns and looks at me. He flicks his eyes to the back of Johnny's head and nods his understanding, and in that moment, Mike let me know that he thinks that Johnny needs to talk. Then he leaves the room to go work on his assignment. Mike has the latrines today. That's highly unusual, but he was the last one here this morning. Cap has a rule that the last man here does the latrines unless Chet has gained the right again from one of the Phantom's pranks.

I slide my chair back and take my own plate to the sink and put in the stopper, squirt in some detergent and turn on the water.

"What are you doing, Roy?" Johnny asks through gritted teeth as he comes up beside me.

"I'm helping you with the dishes, Junior." I look at him out of the corner of my eye. "The quicker we finish the quicker we can get that ringers."

"You know we got it already." He grabs the sponge and starts washing the dishes.

"I don't think we got enough." I shrugged.

"Whatever. I have nothing to say, Roy, nothing at all that can change that she died. There's no point in trying to get me away from the others. I have nothing to talk about."

He knows. He just confirmed to me that he is upset about her death. I didn't bring it up. He did. He really gets me sometimes. He can put that mask in place and then turn around and give himself away to those of us who really know him well, with his words. It's that streak of anger that he just can't quite get a handle on. It always gets the best of him.

"Okay Junior, but we're going." I whisper to him just before I turn to Captain Stanley. "Can I get your plate for you Cap?"

He slid his chair back from the table eyeing Johnny and me the entire time. "Sure you can Roy. Why don't you guys finish up and head on over to Rampart?" He winked at me. He knows too.

"Okay Cap." I grabbed his plate and scraped it into the trash.

As soon as we pull out of the station I feel the tension filling the cab of the squad.

Instead of going to Rampart I detour to the park. Before I can even get the squad in park, he's out of the truck and walking away. I grab the HT and slowly follow him. He went over to a picnic table and sat on the table top propping his feet on the bench. He leaned back and placed his hands on the table behind him and stared up at the clouds.

I watch him for a few minutes. He's still wearing his mask, pretending not to "feel" anything. But the stress is evident around his eyes and mouth and in his stillness. One of the few times Johnny is still is when he is deep in thought about something.

He can't hide from me behind that mask of his.

I join him on the table top.

We sit together in silence for a long time. The only sounds we hear are the announcements coming over the HT and the leaves rustling along the sidewalk in the breeze.

"It just doesn't seem right." He said, almost in a whisper.

There he started talking. I knew he would if I gave him the time and a place where he could open up. "What doesn't seem right?"

"All of our training; all of the training the doctors and nurses have and none of it made any difference today. Why do we do this?" He sat forward and leaned his elbows on his knees propping his chin in his hands. Moisture is welling up in his eyes.

"What, why do we do what, Johnny?"

"Dang it Roy, you know what I'm talking about." There's that anger again. He got up, wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and walked away.

"Johnny, wait a minute. You know why we do it. We do it for the ones that we can save. You know that. I know that. It's for the saves."

He stopped walking away. With hands on his hips, he turned to face me. "Yeah…yeah, you're right." He ran his hand through his hair and nodded. "The saves."

"Johnny what is it about that run today that has you so upset?" I know the answer. He's upset because he lied to her. Johnny hates lying. We had a conversation once about whether it is better to be totally honest with a patient or to only give them some information to protect their feelings and keep them calm. We decided that sometimes it's best to not be totally honest. It is up to us to determine when to be completely honest and when to say whatever is necessary to keep the victim calm.

He tilted his head to the side and his forehead creased. Then he began pacing back and forth in front of the was trying to put the mask back in place. He knew why he was bothered, but he didn't want anyone else to know. Not even me. He stopped with his back to me, so I couldn't see his face. He looked up to the sky. "You know why, Roy."

"Do I?"

He looked back at me over his shoulder and the mask finally completely slipped away. "I hate lying like that. I know it's best to keep 'em calm, but why do we give them false hope? Why do we do that?" He turned back toward the table, and after a slight hesitation he re-joined me sitting on the table top bumping my shoulder; nudging me for an answer.

"You know why." I give him a minute to think about it, and then I go on. "If we told them the truth they would give up. Even though there isn't much hope we need them to fight, to get to the hospital, in case there is something they can do. So we can give them and their families a chance to see each other one more time; so they can say goodbye." I look over at him. The lines around his eyes and mouth have eased. His eyes look brighter. My best friend is back with me again.

Behind that mask there are many layers that make up my best friend. The one that makes him the most special is the one of compassion.

"I guess we had better get over to Rampart for that Ringers." He slid off the table.

"We already got the Ringers." I smile at him and pat his back as I pass him on the way to the Squad.

He stands there in the park staring at me with his mouth hanging open and his hands on his hips.

"Oh yeah and Cap said he wants chocolate syrup." I snicker as I climb into the driver's seat.

"What?"

"To go with the ice cream."

"What ice cream?" He asks while sinking into his seat.

"The ice cream he told us to pick up at the grocery on the way back from the park, if we didn't get called out." I laugh, because I know he's stewing about the idea that Cap knew.

"You told him?"

"Nope…Mike wants some nuts to go on top. Oh and Marco and Chet want cherries and whipped cream." I look at him out of the corner of my eye. I know he's flabbergasted now.

"You mean…?" He didn't even have to finish the question, because I know what he's thinking.

He finally sits back and stares out the passenger window.

It's odd. Neither of us is saying anything and yet everything is being said.

Somehow without saying a word we're able to have a conversation anyway.

That's how it's been with us for a long time now.

He just knows what I'm thinking.

I know what he's thinking.

And right now he's thinking about ice cream sundaes.