Chapter 13: Novel Solutions

West Covina, California

August 25, 1995

Paramedic Jim Ramos was sitting on the rear bumper of the Ford ambulance in the bay of Kaiser Hospital. A battered metal clipboard which opened up to store paperwork inside sat on his lap and he was composing a patient care report—called a “tag” in the vernacular of the job—about the patient he had just dropped off. It had a been a routine call—a lifelong smoker experiencing shortness of breath from his chronic lung disorder—and it was a routine tag. Jim had been in the paramedic business for nearly fifteen years now and most of his mind was elsewhere as he put the words to the pre-printed form.

Jim was thirty-six years old. Tall, thin, and lanky, he filled out the Southern Medical Services summer uniform of dark blue slacks and a light blue polo shirt reasonably well. He was considered a veteran medic at his seniority level and, though he had certainly not seen it all in his fifteen years, he had seen a lot of it. Working at SMS was, for many paramedics and EMTs, a springboard to higher paying jobs at one of the local fire departments, but, unfortunately, family genetics had cursed him with a case of stubborn, early onset hypertension that required a regimen of three separate medications to keep under control. And, since heart disease and cerebral vascular disease were both considered presumptive work-related maladies for firefighters under the civil service rules, and since hypertension was a huge risk factor for both of those diseases, no fire department wanted to have anything to do with hiring Jim. Of course, they never came out and said that was the reason they weren’t hiring him—oh no, that would be a violation of several anti-discrimination statutes—but it just seemed like he never placed very high on any of the lists once his preliminary medical report was taken.

He had given up even trying for a fire department job several years ago, tired of the frustration. Instead, he settled himself into SMS and, as a result, he felt himself to be in a bit of a rut these days. He loved being a paramedic, but he was now maxed out on seniority raises and there was really no room for advancement within the company itself. His was not an uncommon story among the ranks of private paramedics and EMTs.

“West-Co Medic Six,” his portable radio suddenly blurted. “Priority traffic.”

“Goddamn it!” Jim barked in frustration. Priority traffic could only mean they had another call for him and Carla, his EMT, who was currently inside the ER talking to the crew of the Pasadena Fire Department ambulance parked next to them, undoubtedly trying to coax one (or both) of them into a little hose coupling drill after her shift was over.

He pulled the portable radio from his belt holder and keyed it up. “West-Co Six,” he said, not bothering to hide the pissed-off tone in his voice. “Go ahead.” He lifted up his tag so he could write the latest call information on the log sheet taped to the front of the clipboard.

But they were not getting another call. “West-Co Six,” the dispatcher said. “We’re placing you out of service for a special assignment. Landline the West-Co supervisor for details.”

Special assignment? What the hell? This was certainly not a routine occurrence at SMS, where the philosophy was to have as few crews as possible running as many calls as possible at all times. He thought about asking the dispatcher for more details and then quickly reconsidered. She probably did not know anything anyway. He keyed up again. “West-Co Six copies we’re out of service. Will landline the sup.”

He thought about finishing his tag first, but curiosity got the better of him. He put the portable radio back in its holder and then, clipboard in hand, walked into the ambulance entrance of the hospital. He saw that Carla—a hot brunette with large, jiggling boobs and full, sensuous lips (called DSLs by the many firefighters who had experienced her skill with them)—was indeed chatting up the Pasadena crew, making all sorts of hair-twirling, eyelash batting, giggling signals of mating readiness toward them. She did not even notice his entrance. He walked over to an empty portion of the nurse’s station and picked up one of the phones there. He dialed nine, listened for a dial tone, and then dialed up the supervisor’s office number.

“Southern Medical Services, West Covina,” a male voice chirped. It was Steve Marx, a twenty-five-year-old ass-kissing up and comer who was padding his resume in the supervisor position under the assumption it would help him land a position with LAFD.

“Hey, Steve. Jim Ramos. Dispatch told us we’re out of service for a special assignment or something?”

“That’s correct,” Marx said and then, infuriatingly, said no more.

“So ... you gonna tell me what this special assignment is all about?” Jim asked him, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Oh ... right,” Marx said with a little laugh. “I guess you do need to know that, right?”

“Right,” Jim agreed, shaking his head a little. His suspicion that Marx might have a bit of a difficult time passing the general knowledge test for the LAFD occurred to him, not for the first time.

“Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when you ran that call on Matt Tisdale?” Marx asked.

“Uh ... yeah,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “I do seem to recall that call.” Do I remember running a call on Matt fucking Tisdale? Yes, he remembered it well. Tisdale and his band—who were supposed to be releasing their latest CD early next week—had been rehearsing for their upcoming tour at a warehouse over on the west side of the city when Matt had an episode of SVT and got short of breath and hypotensive. One of the band members called 911 and Jim and Carla had gotten the call, along with Engine 4 of the West Covina Fire Department. The engine arrived first, but it was not a paramedic engine, so they had been able to do nothing but confirm that Tisdale’s heart had been beating at 240 beats a minute and his blood pressure was 86/38. The guitar player looked like absolute shit when Jim first assessed him and told Jim that this had happened to him before and that Jim should ‘just light me the fuck up if you need to’. Jim determined that he needed to, but that Matt was not so unstable that he couldn’t start an IV and give him a little Versed for sedation and amnesia first. He did that, cardioverted the guitarist successfully after only one shock, and then transported him with lights and sirens to West Covina Medical Center. Since Jim was an Intemperance fan—and he kind of liked what Tisdale had done on his last CD—the call was a brightly glowing orb in an otherwise drab last few years of his life. Almost as cool as Ted Duncan, who worked over in the Pomona Division, playing drums for Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez. But what did Matt Tisdale have to do with the special assignment he was getting now?

Marx told him what it had to do with it. “Tisdale wants you to go back over to his warehouse so he can thank you for what you did.”

“Go back to the warehouse?” Jim asked. “You mean right now?”

“Right now,” Marx said. “As soon as you can get there.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. “You’re taking us out of service for this?” he asked in disbelief. SMS management did not like for units to go out of service. When they were out of service, they could not make the company any money. Everyone knew the story of when Julie Streng’s mother had died unexpectedly one winter night and the on-duty supervisor had tried to get her to work out the rest of her shift because: “it’s not like there’s anything you can do about it now, is there? And it’s really hard to get a replacement medic to come in for only half a shift.”

“That’s right,” Marx said. “This came from Bruce Graham himself.”

“No shit?” Jim said, whistling appreciably. Bruce Graham was the big guy, the CEO of SMS’s southern California operations from the Mexico border all way to Kern County. Jim had seen him in a mandatory meeting once a few years ago, spouting the company line, but other than that, he was nothing but a creature of legend.

“No shit,” Marx said, his voice almost awed. “He called me up not ten minutes ago and told me to take you out of service and send you over there. He said to keep you out as long as necessary and for this division to cooperate with Tisdale in any way possible. I’ve already let dispatch know what’s going on. I want you to drop whatever you’re doing and head over there now. Do you remember where it’s at?”

“Yeah, we remember where it’s at,” he said, giving another eye roll. “We’ll clear the hospital and go now.”

“You do that,” Marx said. And then, after a moment. “I wonder if I should head over there as well ... you know ... just to have a supervisory presence?”

“Were you specifically invited?” Jim asked.

“Well ... no.”

“Then I don’t think you should be there,” Jim said.

“But...”

“I’ll let you know how it goes, Steve,” Jim told him quickly. “Catch you later.”

He hung up before Marx could say anything else. He then went to go pry his partner out of the grip of the two firefighters.

Carla parked their rig in front of the rehearsal warehouse twenty minutes later, just a few minutes before four o’clock. In the parking lot was a limousine with a uniformed driver in front, two transport buses, and several higher end vehicles parked haphazardly. There was no signage or anything else to indicate that this building was Matt Tisdale’s rehearsal warehouse. Jim and Carla had been quite surprised when they had entered it on that fateful day. Today, however, Jim was more than a little awed knowing they were soon going to be talking to the legendary (and notorious) guitarist. Carla, on the other hand, was less than thrilled with their mission. She was not a music fan in general, and believed that Matt Tisdale in particular was a slimy, disgusting pig of a man. All in all, she would rather be back in service where she could be running calls and talking to more male firefighters about hose coupling drills.

They exited the ambulance, both of them instinctively carrying their portable radios with them despite the fact that they were out of service. They walked to the same man-door they had entered and exited through on their last visit. Then, it had been chocked open. Now, it was closed and locked. Jim knocked on it and a moment later it was opened by a large, tattooed man who introduced himself as Jack Ferguson, head of tour security. Jim had noticed the man hovering around when he had been here to treat Tisdale but had not been introduced to him on that occasion.

“Nice to meet you,” Jim said, shaking hands with him. “And you remember my partner, Carla?”

“I do,” Ferguson said with a smile.

Carla did not shake with him. She was looking at him with an unshielded expression that was half fear and half disgust. Ferguson seemed unoffended. He led them through the door and into the warehouse. As had been the case last week, the stage and all of the lighting were in place, though everything seemed to be powered down now. Longhaired men in t-shirts and jeans were everywhere. Some on the soundboard, some wandering around the stage area, many just sitting in chairs and talking. Most were drinking bottles of Corona beer. More than a few were smoking cigarettes, imparting the place with a haze of fragrant smoke.

Matt Tisdale was sitting on the edge of the stage just in front of one of the microphone stands. He was looking a lot better than the last time Jim had seen him. His skin was still a bit on the pale side, and he looked generally unhealthy, but nothing near the almost dead, sweaty mess he had been. He had his own bottle of Corona next to him and was munching on a fried chicken breast. His eyes lit up when he saw the EMS crew being led toward him.

“Hey!” he said happily, setting down the chicken on a plate and hopping down onto the warehouse floor. He wiped his hands quickly on his shirt and then headed over to meet them. “It’s the two people who saved my ass! How you motherfuckers doing?”

“Uh ... pretty good, Mr. Tisdale,” Jim said, holding out his hand for a shake.

“Fuck that ‘Mr. Tisdale’ shit,” Matt said, grabbing Jim’s hand and shaking with him. Jim could feel the chicken grease on it. “Call me Matt. Anyone who saved my ass gets first name privileges.”

“All right,” Jim said, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his uniform pants. “Matt it is. And I’m Jim. Jim Ramos.”

“Ramos huh?” Matt said with a nod. “You a beaner?”

Jim blinked a little. “Uh ... no, not really,” he said. “My family originally came here from Brazil, but that was three generations ago.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you looked like a wetback,” he said. He then turned to Carla. “And you’re Jim’s partner. Carla, right?”

“Yes,” she said tersely, refusing to step forward far enough for Matt to offer his hand to her. “I’m surprised you remember my name.”

“I didn’t,” Matt said. “That corporate motherfucker I talked to on the phone earlier looked it up for me.” He let his eyes look her up and down for a moment. “You know, I was a little too busy getting lit up like a fuckin’ car factory in Sarajevo to notice this before, but you’re kind of hot.”

“Uh ... thanks,” Carla said slowly, showing absolutely no sign of being flattered by this declaration.

“Just callin’ it like I see it,” Matt said. “Now then. Can I get you two anything to drink? We got some beer and a full wet bar set up over here by the soundboard. Or maybe you’d like a couple lines of coke?”

Jim looked at him to see if he were joking. It certainly appeared he was not. “Uh ... no thanks, Matt,” he said. “We’re uh ... you know ... on duty.”

“Oh ... right, of course,” Matt said, nodding. “I guess you don’t do that shit on the job, huh?”

“No,” Carla said evenly, her eyes now looking at Matt as if he were a bug. “We do not.”

“I can respect that,” Matt said. “I don’t get fucked up before performing either. I guess it’s the same for you guys.”

“Right,” Jim said slowly. “We try to stay away from the cocaine when we might have to drive a five-ton rig through heavy traffic and then make life and death decisions when we arrive where we’re going.”

“Understood,” Matt said with a nod. “Anyway, the reason I asked you two to come here, first of all, is to say thanks for saving my ass. This is the third time now that one of you paramedic motherfuckers has helped me out when my heart started doin’ that shit, the second time one of you had to light me up. And you’re the first one to use that Versed shit on me. That was all right, my man! I don’t even remember you frying my ass, don’t remember you putting them paddles on me, don’t remember screaming like some fuckin’ bitch who saw a spider. Not only that, it was a halfway decent high too. So ... from the bottom of my fuckin’ heart, thank you both for what you did.”

“No problem at all, Matt,” Jim said with a genuine smile. Perhaps Matt’s speech of gratitude wasn’t the most poetically expressed in the world, but it was a sincere thank you, something that was few and far between in their line of work, and Jim appreciated the sentiment.

Carla did not seem so impressed. She merely grunted.

Matt glanced at her, his eyebrows going up a tad, and then he seemed to shrug it off. “Anyway,” he said, “having said that, I’d like to actually show the two of you how grateful I am.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jim. Was he going to try to give them some money? It would be a shame if he did, as they were ethically and legally not allowed to accept it.

But money was not what he had in mind, not really anyway. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I own a motor yacht. It’s an eighty-nine-footer and I have it docked over at Marina Del Rey.”

“Uh ... no, I didn’t know that,” Jim said, although this news was not particularly surprising. Tisdale had to be almost as rich as God.

“It’s the shit, my man,” Matt said. “It’s got a full bar, a hot tub, and five bedrooms, not including the master suite and the crew quarters. There’s even a place to land a helicopter on it—a small helicopter, you know—but I haven’t got me one of those yet.” He shrugged. “Maybe when the royalties start flowing in from this next album. Anyway, I hired up a whole crew to run this boat for me. I got some dago captain who used to drive cargo freighters or some shit like that, a chef and an assistant chef who used to work in some snooty French place, two beaner motherfuckers to work with the captain and keep everything running, a couple of old gook bitches to clean the rooms and pick up all the trash and shit, some fuckin’ kraut marine mechanic to keep the engines running, and a couple of dick-smoking professional waiters from restaurant row to serve the food and make the drinks.”

“Wow,” Jim said slowly since some reply seemed necessary. He wondered why Tisdale was telling them all of this. “Sounds like it costs a lot of money to run this boat of yours.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt agreed. “The gooks and the faggots and the frogs only come aboard when we actually take the boat out for more than a day. The wop and the kraut and the beaners, however, they’re full-time on my payroll to keep things running and maintained and all that shit, even if the boat is sitting in dock. And not only do I have to pay them, but I have to pay for all this fuckin’ work comp insurance and their fuckin’ healthcare plan and bullshit like that. So ... yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ expensive, but hey; I can afford it. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this shit is that we’re taking the boat out tomorrow afternoon. Me and the boys just finished up with tour rehearsal this afternoon and we’ll be hitting the road for the first show in Seattle in ten more days. Since we got those ten days to kill, we’re gonna scrounge up some slutty bitches here in LA, sail down to my pad in Cabo, maybe do a little fishing, maybe have a few parties with some local gash down there, and then cruise back home. It’s gonna be one long, continuous fuckin’ party.”

“Sounds like fun,” Jim said, trying to picture the drunken debauchery of a Matt Tisdale yacht party. His imagination was not quite up to the task. It was like trying to wrap your brain around the Theory of Relativity.

“Like I said,” Matt told them, “it’s going to be fucking epic. And, since the two of you saved my ass, I’d like to invite you both to come with us.”

Jim was a little surprised to be issued such an invitation, and a little flattered, but his instinct was telling him that this was a jerk-off invitation that Tisdale did not really want or expect them to accept. Not that they could accept it even if it were sincere. “Uh ... that’s very nice of you to offer, Matt,” he said, “but I’m afraid we won’t be able to do that. We just started our work rotation and we’ll be twelve-on twelve-off for the next three days.”

Matt shook his head, smiling. “Nope,” he said. “You’re both off for the next two weeks, starting at the end of your shift today.”

Jim wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “How’s that?” he asked.

“What do you mean we’re off for two weeks?” asked Carla suspiciously.

“I arranged for you both to have some vacation time,” Matt said. “I talked to that corporate asshole of yours and he agreed to grant you emergency leave starting at seven o’clock tonight.”

“You did what?” Carla asked, anger in her voice now.

“Emergency leave?” asked Jim. “I can’t afford that, Matt. I only have about twenty hours of PTO in my bank. I can’t cover two weeks off.”

“You don’t have to cover it,” Matt said. “I covered it for you.”

“Huh?” Jim asked. He had covered it for them? What did that mean?

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Carla.

“It’s simple,” Matt said. “Kind of, anyway. I told that suit that I wanted you two freed up for my boat trip. He hemmed and hawed and started spewing a bunch of corporate bullshit at me, but you know what they say. Money talks and mine was speakin’. I funded a so-called ‘EMS conference’ in Vegas for his ass and just like that, he’s making sure you’re both pulled from the schedule and good to go. Of course, he wasn’t going to pay for you to have those two weeks off, so I’m paying for it for you. I was just going to give you the money—cash in fuckin’ hand, you know what I’m sayin’? —but Mr. Suit said I can’t do that. Some ethical bullshit apparently. But I can donate money to fund your paid time off banks. Apparently that shit isn’t unethical.” He shook his head. “Who comes up with these fuckin’ rules anyway? It’s okay to send him to a first-class hotel suite in Vegas, pre-pay for a couple of hookers to slurp his schlong for him, and call it an EMS conference; it’s okay to donate money to your time off fund; but I can’t just give you cash? What the fuck?”

Jim was still trying to process that he had just been given two weeks off with pay. Was this some sort of joke? Carla, on the other hand, was clearly offended by what she had just been told.

“You ... you paid for us to have two weeks off so we could go on your yacht with you?” she asked, her voice cold and steely.

“That’s right, baby,” Matt said with a grin. “I bet you look smokin’ hot in a bikini.”

She gritted her teeth a little and took a deep breath. “And ... and ... you just assumed that I ... that we would go with you?”

“Well ... yeah,” Matt said. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Oh ... I don’t know,” she said sarcastically, “because I’m not a fan of being plied with booze and God only knows what kind of drugs and subjected to gang rape by degenerate musicians in international waters?”

Matt chuckled. “Would you prefer to have it happen in territorial waters?” he asked.

Carla actually shuddered for a moment, her fists clenching, her mouth opening to say something that her mother probably would not approve of.

Tisdale headed her off at the pass, however. “Don’t sweat it, baby,” he told her, giving a shrug. “If partying with me and the boys for a few days ain’t your flavor of bongwater, that’s cool with me. Nobody was gonna rape you or anything like that, but I’m not here to try to force anyone to have a good time if they don’t want one. I’m still giving you those two weeks off though, whether you want them or not. I repay my debts, you dig?”

Now Carla was not sure how to react. “Uh ... well ... yeah, I dig.”

“And check it out,” he said. “Since you don’t want to party with us, and since you got the next two weeks off anyway, how about I set you up with something else to occupy your time?”

Carla shook her head, “No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course it’s not necessary,” Matt scoffed, “but I want to do it anyway. Let’s see ... how about Vegas? You like Vegas?”

“I’ve only been there a few times,” she said. “Really, Mr. Tisdale...”

“Matt,” he corrected. “Call me Matt. And I’m determined that you have some fun for helping to save my ass. How about this? I’ll get one of my limo drivers to cruise you and a guest to Vegas. I’ll book you a suite at that new place they just built ... the MGM Grand on the strip.”

You could see Carla thawing out by the second. “A limousine?” she asked. “A suite?”

“Fuck yeah, a suite,” Matt said. “It’s the only way to go. Four days, four nights and then the limo will bring you back home. Any drinks, any food you want, you just fuckin’ sign it to your room and it’s covered. And how about ... oh ... say twenty grand in casino chips? Ten for you, ten for your guest. That do you for four days and four nights?”

“Uh ... well ... yeah,” Carla stammered, looking a little dazed and confused now. “That should be enough.”

“All right then,” Matt said, smiling at her. “It’s settled. Just let my man Jack over there—he’s that big, scary looking motherfucker that let you in—know what days you want to go, and he’ll make sure it happens.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ll do that.”

She wandered off in a continued daze, heading over to where the large security chief was standing, his eyes watching over everything.

“Kind of a hot piece of trim,” Matt commented to Jim as she walked away. “You ever bone her?”

“No,” Jim told him. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me. She’s a hose bunny.”

“A hose bunny?” Matt asked, seemingly intrigued. “What’s that?”

“A firefighter groupie,” Jim clarified. “Those without a pair of turnouts need not apply for entry.”

“Ahhh,” said Matt, nodding, understanding now showing. “I guess that makes sense. Those guys get a lot of pussy then?”

“Probably not as much as you do,” Jim allowed, “but they don’t want for it much.”

Matt nodded. “Good for them. I’m in favor of everyone getting all the pussy they can—even dykes. What about you guys? Are there paramedic groupies?”

He shrugged. “We do okay with the night shift waitresses and the nurses in the convalescent homes. Not quite the same league as the hose bunnies, but when I need to get laid, I can.”

“That’s good to know,” Matt said seriously. “Anyway, are you up for the boat trip? If you’re not, I’ll set you up with the same deal as your partner there.”

Jim was torn. Four days in Vegas in a hotel suite did sound like a pretty damn good time, especially with free drinks, free food, and twenty grand in casino chips thrown in. But on the other hand ... cruising on a yacht with Matt Tisdale and his band ... well ... how often did an offer like that come around?

“Are you sure you really want me there, Matt?” Jim asked meekly. “I’m probably kind of ... you know ... square compared to the people you’re used to hanging out with. If you’re just making the offer to be polite...”

“I ain’t making the offer just to be polite,” Matt said. “I really want to thank you for saving my ass, and I really want you to have a good time. Come party with us, dude! Seriously. There’s gonna be good booze, good blow, good weed, premo fuckin’ chow, and some of the hottest, sluttiest, nastiest bitches I can scrounge up on short notice. Shit that’ll make those night shift waitresses of yours look like fucking prudish nuns in comparison.”

“Well ... I don’t do weed or blow,” he said carefully.

Matt simply shrugged. “More for the rest of us then,” he said. “I’d really like you to be there, Jim. And for more than one reason.”

“What’s the other reason?” Jim asked.

“You’re a paramedic,” he said. “We’re going to be out on the high fuckin’ seas for part of the time and in a fuckin’ third world country with shitty healthcare the rest of the time. If my heart starts doing that funky shit again, it would really be nice to have you there to help me out.”

Understanding flooded into Jim’s brain. Now things were starting to make sense. Unfortunately, Jim was afflicted with the curse of honesty. “Well ... to tell you the truth, Matt,” he explained, “there wouldn’t be much I could do if I’m off duty. If I don’t have my monitor and defibrillator with me, I can’t do anything about SVT.”

“I bought one of those Lifepak things you carry,” Matt told him. “It’s already on the boat. I also got my hands on twelve doses of Adenosine in case I go into SVT and you can stop it without having to light me up.”

“You ... you bought a Lifepak?” Jim asked, astounded.

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said.

“Wow,” Jim said. “I didn’t know you could just buy one of those like a pack of cigarettes.”

“When you have enough coin, you can buy anything,” Matt assured him. “The fuckin’ thing cost me twelve grand, and the Adenosine was another grand, and then I had to buy some IV fluids and tubing and all that other shit to go with it, but I’m now equipped for you to deal with my heart if you need to.”

Jim was still shaking his head. “That’s all good and everything,” he said, “but I can’t just treat you out on your boat.”

“Why not?” Matt asked.

“Well ... even if I have the equipment, I’m only allowed to act as a paramedic when I’m on the clock. It’s a legal thing, you see. I act under a medical director’s license following written orders known as protocols. They don’t apply when I’m outside of Los Angeles County or off duty. And I’m not allowed to administer Adenosine at all. It’s not in the California scope of practice for medics.”

“But you know how to use the monitor to light me up, obviously, since you’ve done it.”

“Right,” Jim agreed, “but that was when I was on duty acting as...”

“And you know when and how to use the Adenosine, right?” Matt interrupted.

“Well ... yes,” he said. “It’s pretty straightforward. We’ve been arguing to put it in our scope for years, but...”

“So...” Matt interrupted again, “correct me if I’m wrong, but these rules and regulations about scope of practice only apply when you’re actually in the state of California or the nation of the USA, right?”

Jim’s eyes widened a little. “Uh ... yeah ... that’s right.”

Matt nodded. “So, once we leave Marina Del Rey tomorrow afternoon and make it more than twelve miles offshore, we’ll be in international waters. The rules won’t apply then, right?”

“Uh ... well...” He hesitated, his brain trying to find a hole in Matt’s theory and failing. “Right. I guess that’s true.”

“All right then,” Matt said with a smile. “So ... you my man, or what?”