Untouchable

He was a good-looking guy, late 30s, with a fresh haircut, tortoise-shell glasses, a cardigan, and expensive jeans.

He was drunk off his ass— so drunk, in fact, that the bar called 911, and asked us to take him away, because he was being a nuisance and wouldn't leave.

He is my hero.

Well not exactly. Of course, I don't want to be drunk, and I don't want to be so annoying that people have to call a specialist to deal with me, like I'm an elephant that escaped from the zoo.

But he was just so damn pleasant. Literally nothing could touch this dude, no matter how much people tried to give him the hint to leave, no matter how perilous things seemed later that night. It was like he was driving a car in a hailstorm while the rest of us were stuck outside walking, always getting pelted by negativity, while he just cruised along, unperturbed.

For me, what was most striking about him was how his attitude contrasted with my own. Lately I've been noticing how easily I get angered. The littlest things can set me off. Driving is the biggest culprit, whether in traffic or out of it. It seems there is always someone in my way. Even when I'm not in a rush, even when I'm not late— when a light turns red that should have stayed green, when someone is driving slow in the fast lane— I come unglued.

But it's not really about other people, because I can still get angry by myself. What's most absurd is that I get frustrated at the laws of physics, for making me spill my drink in the kitchen. Or maybe it’s God’s fault, for making me fumble the coffee pot and drop it to the ground, shattering into a million pieces. In these moments, I am absolutely enthused with rage, letting fly a string of curses that makes Eminem seem prude.

Why? For a long time, I didn't know. I didn't even realize how often I was getting angry. There was something deeper going on. It was like a boiling pot with the lid clamped shut, frothing just underneath the surface, but unnoticeable. Until someone jolts it, and then it spills forth its contents in a stew of scalding liquid.

Picking him up

Contrast that with my client, the man I described earlier, who I had to remove from the bar. Let's call him Eddie. Nothing could upset Eddie, even things that should have, or at least would have bothered most people. To a certain extent, that was his problem, which is why they called us to pick him up. He kept hanging around groups that hadn't invited him, kept sidling up to both men and women, trying to start a conversation, interrupting them.

After he was asked multiple times to leave, it was clear to management that he was too drunk to comply, so they called us.

Occasionally, instead of driving the ambulance and responding to 911 calls for medical issues, my shift entails driving the detox van and responding to calls for intoxicated parties. The van looks just like an ambulance, only it has four little compartments on the sides rather than one big compartment in the back. The shift is generally not as interesting as the ambulance— the calls tend to be less life-threatening, the clientele a little more irritating.

Still, it's an important service, as it protects people who have had too much sauce, posing a risk to themselves or others. This is especially true in the winter time in Denver, because many of our clients fall asleep outside, and would freeze to death without our intervention. And while back in the day most of these public drunks would fill up the jail cells, now we can get them what they really need— a safe and warm place to sober up, and after that, some resources to help them stay sober.

Despite our good-natured intentions, many clients are difficult to deal with. Unfortunately, by the time we are called, they are usually so sloshed that they have lost the legal right to make decisions on their own behalf, so either they can go to jail or go to detox. They can also go home, if they can get a friend to take them, but usually the establishment has already tried that before they call us.

So because of the state of things for them to have to call us, we can usually spot the client before the van comes to a stop. Usually these guys or gals are sprawled out on the ground, or propped up against a wall, outside the establishment.

But when we arrived at the bar where Eddie had been unsuccessfully trying to charm everyone, we were perplexed. Nobody around seemed to be an obvious candidate for the van.

We walked up to the bouncer to get directions. Next to him was a guy reclining comfortably in an Adirondack chair. As we approached, he looked at us with a warm smile and said, "Sup."

I said, "Hi." Then, immediately, to the bouncer, "Hey, where's our guy?"

"Right here," he pointed to the man in the chair.

"This guy?"

"Yeah."

"Sup," the man says, innocently.

"Hi," I say again. To the bouncer: "What did he do?"

"He was bothering a bunch of people. Then when we asked him to leave, he started looking into the windows of cars. He tried to break into my car."

"I thought it was mine," he explained, with no sense of shame.

"Ok," I said to the bouncer, "Can you help us get him up?"

He grunted in affirmation.

My partner, the bouncer, and I lifted the man up. He was completely unaffected by this embarrassing event, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You're coming with us," I said.

"Okay."

"What's your name?"

"Eddie." He smiled again. "Pleased to meet you."

"You too."

We walked him to the van, searched his person for weapons or other paraphernalia, then sat him in the compartment. Again, he was unfazed by this typically uncomfortable event.

"Ok, you're gonna have to scoot back and sit there for a little. We're going to detox."

"Alright."

The detox van is certainly not the most comfortable way to travel, especially when your senses are a little blunted by booze. Four hard walls and a hard floor, a little too compact to lay down, a little too large to sit without slipping around while the van is moving. Many clients protest, their dignity offended.

Instead, Eddie accepted his fate with no qualms, as if we were his hired valets, placing him in his private limousine.

"Thanks," he said.

"Sure thing." I had to laugh. That was a first.

Time out

That’s not the end of the story, but I wanted to pause to explain why I’ve been thinking about Eddie, even though I haven’t seen him in months.

Since then, I've had a lot of time to reflect. And a lot of time to be angry.

For years I’ve been working towards becoming a firefighter, and when I finally got the opportunity, I leapt at it. Once I was finally in the fire academy, a freak accident caused me to tear my labrum in my hip. So I had to drop out, and get surgery. Luckily, it got repaired and I should be smooth again sometime next year. But in the meantime I've had to become a babe again, learning how to walk. Needless to say, I was frustrated.

When healthy, I love to practice martial arts. It's a great way to blow off steam. My hobby is beating the ever-living shit out of a punching bag for 3-4 hours a week. That has always been a good way to sublimate my natural aggression, and I truly think it's healthy. That was my way of letting a little liquid out of the pot, so it wouldn’t spill over.

Except, the core problem remained — I was still boiling all the time.

Now, being unable to walk, unable to do much exercise at all, I've been left with just my mind. And lots of anger. And no outlets.

But something changed. I started to look at the state of things, with clear eyes. Yes, I was injured. But it was only temporary. I would walk again. I would run again.

Many of my patients on the ambulance are not so lucky. Some have had strokes, and not only cannot walk, but cannot smile, cannot use one half of their entire body, cannot even think straight. Others have had amputations, spinal injuries, or neurological diseases that likewise permanently handicapped them.

As I reflected on this, I began to count my blessings. On and on the list went. I wrote so many things that my wrist started to hurt. What did I have to be angry about? Looking back, I realized that I subconsciously always thought that the world "owed me" something. And therefore when anything uncomfortable or inconvenient happened, things were unfair. That the world or God or life itself was set against me, and for no good reason. No wonder I was so angry.

In the midst of all these reflections, I remembered Eddie, even though so much has happened since I met him. Something about his attitude infected me way back then, and ever since, I've wanted to emulate him. But I didn’t know how.

And then I connected the dots.

The punchline

Once we packed up Eddie in the back of the detox van, the dispatcher sent us to pick up a few more clients, so we could fill all four compartments before we returned to the detox facility.

The last last two clients had been a major pain in the ass. Two girls in their 20s (one was actually underage) had been absolutely plastered at a dance hall. There must have been some relationship drama as well that night, because the younger girl was inconsolable and unreasonably troublesome.

Like I said, some clients didn't take kindly to the van's cramped compartments, and she was no exception. I think she was also just generally pissed off that her "rights" were being "violated" as we took her away from the dance hall. Even though we really just wanted to take care of her, and help her get sober safely.

So she spent the entire ride from the dance hall to the detox facility in a temper tantrum. Screaming over and over again, "LET ME GO!" When that failed to produce results, she started kicking the compartment door. Not very smart, considering we were rolling down the road at 30mph. The door would hold, though.

All of these noises vibrate through the whole van, and it can be shockingly loud for clients in the other compartments. Poor Eddie, I thought, his whole zen state is ruined now. He had been back there for nearly 30 minutes at this point, bouncing around as we tried to deftly navigate Denver's bumpy roads.

When we pulled up to the facility, we processed the girls first. We had to use the assistance of the security guards, two gentle giants who can be intimidating when they want to be, but are generally very kind. They both had been linemen in high school, and had played a little college football too. Together they probably weighed about 800 pounds. Even with all these advantages, it was still a battle to get the girls to their rooms. Because of their belligerent behavior, they were placed in the "quiet rooms" — an egregious misnomer — so they wouldn't disturb the general population. At this time of night (around 3:00am), most of the others were sleeping soundly in their beds in the main room.

Finally, we got around to processing Eddie. I felt terrible for making him wait so long. We opened the compartment door, expecting a very pissed off and jostled man. Instead, we found him propped up against the wall with a serene grin on his lips, almost as if he were on the lay-z-boy in his living room watching the Grateful Dead perform live on TV.

"Sup."

"Hey Eddie, we're here."

"Okay."

It still took both of us to pull him to his feet, but he didn't seem to mind.

Once inside, he was greeted with a stark scene that should have been terrifying. Two huge men, both over six feet tall, grimaces on their faces after dealing with the two ferocious females. Bright fluorescent overhead lights that shined on whitewashed walls (this is a medical facility, after all). And a big iron door with a little window about 4"x4", a young girl peering out, screaming her head off and banging with her fists.

For the staff, my partner, and I, it was just another Saturday night. But I tried to imagine what Eddie must have felt like, still heavily intoxicated, unsure of what exactly was going on or where he had been taken.

It must have felt like he had arrived in Guantanamo Bay.

If I were in his shoes, my first reaction would have been to split at the first opportunity, to sprint in the complete opposite direction until my lungs were burning and my legs seized up.

Eddie mildly strolled up to the guards.

"Sup."

They started to pat him down, and he looked at the nurses.

"Sup."

I bit my tongue to keep myself from laughing. This guy was a hoot.

As they processed him, taking his vitals and getting his demographic information, the young girl continued to howl like a banshee from the “quiet room.”

Finally, she stopped, and he looked around them room, and said,

"She cray cray."

We all erupted in laughter.

My partner and I spent the final few hours of that shift in a great mood. We were tickled. We couldn't get over how absolutely untouchable Eddie was. In such a grim situation, I would have been scared out of my mind. But he didn’t seemed affected at all.

Most of our clients are in a drunken stupor, unable to really interact with us in any meaningful way. The remainder are hurricanes, like the pair of girls. A few are odd or interesting in some way, remarkable for their peculiarities.

But I’ve never met anyone like Eddie, neither before nor since.

Connecting the dots

Ever since I met Eddie, I've wanted to be like him. Obviously, I don't want to be drunk, I don't want to be a nuisance, and I don't want to be so subdued that I can't appreciate the gravity my situation. But I want to be imperturbable, and endlessly pleasant, like he was.

In some ways, Eddie reminds me of some of my favorite movie characters, like Ferris Bueller (Matthew Broderick), Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), and Matthew McConaughey's character in Dazed in Confused. All of these dudes are the epitome of nonchalance, supremely confidence, effortless cheer.

And then there is the biggest dude of all, The Dude Himself, The Big Lebowski (Jeff Bridges). Previously, I thought he was the chillest "person" of all time, even though he's fictional. But Eddie has now superseded him in my mind, for two reasons.

First, Eddie is real.

Second, and more importantly, Eddie was pleasant and unconcerned with himself. Lebowski is easygoing, sure, but he also is very self-absorbed, and can get pretty ticked off when interrupted. He just wants to be left alone so he can sit at home and piddle around with his own little hobbies, whether drinking white russians, smoking weed, bowling, or listening to music. Ultimately, Lebowski is selfish.

Eddie, on the other hand, had gotten into trouble at the bar because he was a little too interested in other people. These people were also complete strangers to him. And I think that's also why he kept saying, "Sup." He was genuinely interested in what was up with everybody around him.

We never really gratified this with a real response, engaging in conversation with him. But I can imagine that if I had let him, he would have talked with me for hours, listening with complete fascination, unable to be distracted by anything.

Most people who are under the influence— whether of alcohol, marijuana, or something else— tend to turn inward. Eddie turned outward. He genuinely wanted to interact, not for any selfish reason, but to connect with others. He sought to bridge the gap of isolation that has become our default these days. Or at least, that’s what I like to think about him.

I said that Eddie is my hero, and in some ways I'm being facetious. What little I know about him is not very inspiring. He was a drunkard (at least for one night, probably more), and he was annoying. If not to me, than to the patrons of the bar.

But if I could just extract that one quality of his— his complete serenity and affability, his ceaseless desire to connect with others rather focus on himself— if I could just apply that attitude to my life, I would be a totally different person, probably the best version of myself.

It is in that sense that Eddie is my hero. Nothing on this earth could touch him, his feet never touched the floor, regardless of whether he was sitting in an Adirondack under the starlight, or confined to a seeming insane asylum under fluorescent lights.

In the past few months, my rage has largely evaporated. The pot is no longer boiling all the time. I still get flustered, sure, but more and more I am able to release it before it turns to anger. It takes a lot of practice, and probably always will, but I'm getting better at it. I keep remembering how damn lucky I am to be alive, how fortunate I am to be able to walk again, and how many other countless blessings I have.

But letting go of rage is a negative thing— I’m removing something bad. It’s hard to do that without replacing it with something else. And the dots finally connected in my head when I remembered Eddie. Now I try to fill that gap with his attitude, or at least my version of it. I try to be nonchalant, confident, cheerful, amicable. I try to imagine how he would act of someone cut him off in traffic. What would he do if he dropped a plate?

For some reason, it’s easier to for me to imagine because he was a real person, and I saw him. I met him. All those fictional movie characters, all the heroes of history and philosophy are also good inspiration too, but just not as effective for me.

Conclusion

Life is hard. Doesn't matter who you are. There will always be more problems, though they currently lay beyond the horizon. And those problems will crop up at the worst possible time, when we're least prepared for them.

In the past, those problems used to frustrate me beyond reason. Now I try to have a different perspective.

Regardless of what happens, I'll be alright. Or if not, then I will adapt. I'll find a way to keep on living.

Or I'll die, and then that will be that.

Life or the world or God doesn't owe me anything. I've been given so much imaginably more than I deserve. And what a miracle it is to be alive! Out of nothing, there is something.

And there is more than just something. There is the entirety of the human experience to enjoy, all its highs and lows, all its secret joys and wonders and delights.

As I practice more gratefulness, as I release my rage, I also remember Eddie. And I try to embody his attitude. I start focusing on what other people need rather than what I'm owed. And gradually, I find myself feeling like I'm floating too. Like nothing can bother me. Like I'm untouchable.