I always knew San Francisco was filled with the rich and famous, but I never thought I’d meet them in the course of my duties as often as I do. Worst part is I can’t tell you which comedian’s neighbor I’ve been to and looked into his living room or which movie actor almost choked on a fish bone. Oh well, until I can figure out how to clearly hide the events in details and time passed, I wait. However, one night on the ambulance I had a run in with a very rich old woman who…well…let’s just say we had a good laugh.
Code three for the fall.
Again we’re upgraded to meet a stopwatch, and arrive on scene of the swanky apartment building to the usual cadre of managers waving for us to quiet down. Odd how they want us there immediately, but demand we keep the noise down because “this is a quiet neighborhood.” Whatever dude…
After explaining very clearly that we will not be parking around the back, then walking back around the front to the elevators, we are led to the top floor. You know the one, where the elevator requires a key and opens directly into the apartment. No, that’s not the right word. Palace. The top three floors of this building belong to one person and it looks like it was redesigned sometime in the early 70’s then left for us to find. Almost like a time capsule except for the giant flat screen TV and staff scurrying around on cell phones advising someone of the impending transport of their elderly boss.
In the staff kitchen on the interior of the space (yes, there is a staff kitchen separate from the main kitchen) sits a woman in her late 80’s dressed for a party sitting in a chair at a small table. Half a dozen folks in black shirts and ties are explaining what happened, not one of them starting at the same point in the events so I distract them by telling my partner was in charge and they shifted their attention to him.
Crouching down to say hello I’m met with an embarrassed smile and an introduction. Her name is Mable and she stumbled over a rug in the hallway helping the staff clean up from this evening’s fund raiser. At her age she shouldn’t be getting her own coffee, let alone clearing dishes especially with a hired staff on hand but “…it’s my house and I can do what I want…” she reminds me as if we’ve had this discussion before.
There is no injury, she has no complaint, she simply stumbled coming down the hallway and dropped a tray of glasses. Everyone panicked and we got involved. They carried her to the staff kitchen and told her to sit tight until we arrived.
She asked to stand and go have a martini and I was obliged to allow it, but only after I finished my chart. As I confirmed her name my pen stopped and I said “How do you spell your last name?”
“Oh, Levi*, like the jeans.”
“Yes, like the jeans.”
Holy crap. I looked around. Not like the jeans. The jeans. She laughed and so did I. Unfortunately I had to decline the offer of the martini. No gifts you know…
*not her real name, but the real one was just as bitchin’, I assure you!