Chapter 14: It’s All About Matt

West Covina, California

September 7, 1995

It was ten o’clock on a muggy and warm late summer morning and, for the third time in the last six weeks, Jim Ramos pulled into the parking lot of the West Covina warehouse where Matt Tisdale and his band rehearsed. His first visit had been when he responded to a 911 call that had turned out to be Tisdale himself having an episode of symptomatic SVT. The second had been two weeks later, when he and Carla, his partner, had been requested back so Tisdale could properly thank them for saving his life. Tisdale’s gratitude had led Jim to a ten-day motor yacht trip with the guitarist and his band and a collection of rock and roll groupies who would (and did) do anything asked of them. Jim was still reeling from that trip, still in semi-disgusted, semi-shameful awe at the things he had witnessed (and done) on that little trip to Mexico and back. And now he was here again, only this time he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt instead of his paramedic uniform and he was driving his eight-year-old Nissan instead of a Ford ambulance. Carla was not with him for this visit. She was back at work after her own two-week vacation and Las Vegas trip. Jim, however, was now on an extended, open-ended leave of absence that had been arranged by Matt Tisdale and his money. Jim was now the official “tour paramedic” for the Matt Tisdale North American tour. And today was his first day in his new assignment.

The entire situation was more than a little surreal to him. Six weeks ago, he had been just another obscure private paramedic, barely scratching out a meager existence of living paycheck to paycheck, up to his ears in credit card debt and outrageous rent payments. And then Tisdale had come into his life, taking him with him on an outrageous drunken party full of debauchery, food, and even fishing. All because Tisdale had a bad heart and wanted a trained medic to hang out with him just in case. Nothing had happened involving Matt’s heart on the trip. Jim had never once had to employ the LifePak monitor/defibrillator or the Adenosine Matt had purchased. But he had experienced a threesome for the first time in his life, had watched two women have passionate lesbian sex, had participated in what could technically qualify as an orgy, and had personally reeled in a seventy-pound marlin off the southern tip of Baja California. And then, just before the boat had docked back in its berth at Marina Del Ray, Matt had offered him the “gig” (as he called it) he was now reporting for duty for.

“I want you to be my tour medic,” Matt told him on that fateful day. “You’ll be like that dude who follows the fuckin’ president around with that briefcase full of nuclear attack codes. They call it the football. You know what I’m talking about?”

“I do,” Jim told him. “But...”

“You’ll be my football carrier,” Matt went on. “You’ll never be more than thirty seconds away from me the whole fuckin’ time we’re on tour. Only, you won’t have to wear a fuckin’ uniform or shit like that. And, instead of nuclear attack codes so Slick Willie can rat-fuck Russia or Libya or some other shithole, your football is gonna have that LifePak and all of the medications and IVs and shit that you’ll need to get my heart out of that fuckin’ SVT shit if it goes into it again.”

“Uh ... well ... I appreciate the offer and all, Matt,” Jim said. “Really, I do, but I have to go back to my regular job.”

“I’ll arrange for an unlimited leave of absence for you,” Matt promised. “All I’ll have to do is fund another trip for that corporate asshole of yours. He’ll play ball.”

“Well ... maybe, but I’m not sure...”

“No more than thirty seconds away,” Matt interrupted again. “Do you know what that means?”

“Uh ... no. What does it mean?”

“It means you’ll be hanging out with me and the boys everywhere we go,” he explained. “You’ll ride the fuckin’ airplane with us from city to city instead of sitting on the bus with the roadies. You’ll have your own fuckin’ hotel room on the same floor as mine wherever we stay. You’ll be backstage with us at every fuckin’ show, an all-access VIP pass around your neck just like what me and the boys wear. You dig what I’m laying down here, dude?”

“Uh ... yeah,” he said slowly, pondering what he was being offered. He already had a taste of what hanging out with Matt and the band was like: One long, endless, drunken party full of debauchery and sin. It had been fun and eye-opening to say the least, but was it really something he wanted to do full-time?

“I’ll pay you seven-fifty a day for the gig,” Matt told him.

“Seven-fifty? Do you mean ... uh ... seven hundred and fifty dollars? Per day?” That was considerably more than what he was paid for working a shift at SMS.

“That’s right,” Matt said. “Plus, your lodging, food, booze, and anything else you want to indulge in is covered as well.”

“That is pretty generous,” Jim said. “But when you say seven-fifty a day, are we talking like four days of the week here?”

“No,” Matt said. “We’re talking seven days a week. Out on the road, we generally have a show every night for weeks at a time. Of course, we occasionally get an extended travel day when it’s a big haul between cities for the trucks and the buses, but I’ll still want your ass within thirty seconds of me when that happens. You’ll be out there with us to save my ass if it needs saving. You’ll be on the clock every fuckin’ minute of every fuckin’ day, so you’ll be paid seven-fifty for every fuckin’ day you’re out there with us.”

“I see,” Jim said, warming quite nicely to the idea now that he had this information. “And ... exactly how long will this uh ... gig last?”

“We’ve got three legs of the North American tour scheduled right now,” Matt said. “That’s going to run us into early March at the very least. The suits over at National Records have let me know that if the album sells well—and I have no reason to think it won’t—and we sell out the arenas here in the states and Canada—which we fuckin’ will—we might go hit up Europe and South America next summer.”

“That’s ... six months,” Jim said.

“At least,” Matt clarified.

Jim’s brain did some quick, dirty mental arithmetic. Six months times thirty days per month times seven hundred and fifty dollars per day ... was ... He shook his head. No, that can’t be right! A hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars? Well over triple what he normally made in a year, even with overtime shifts thrown in! And for only working six months? That could not possibly be right.

“It’s almost a hundred and forty grand,” Matt said, as if reading his mind. “I’ve already had my accountant do the math on this shit. You say yes, and he’ll take that coin and put it in a special account with your fuckin’ name on it. He’ll take out the taxes and shit just like your regular employer does, he’ll cover whatever it costs to keep up your health coverage and all that shit while you’re on the leave of absence, and he’ll make sure your rent and other bills get paid while you’re gone.”

“Wow,” Jim whispered, overwhelmed, that number—a hundred and forty fucking thousand!—still echoing in his head. Something suddenly occurred to him. “Were you planning to offer me this the whole time? Is that why you wanted me on this yacht trip?”

Matt shook his head. “No fuckin’ way,” he said. “I mean, I wanted you on the yacht trip because you’re a medic—I already told you that shit—but I was sincere about the underlying reason. I wanted to thank you for saving my ass. It didn’t occur to me that you should go with us on tour until we were at my pad in Cabo. Do you remember our first night there?”

“Uh ... sort of,” Jim said. He had been pretty hammered that night (as he had been most nights on the trip). He had a fuzzy memory of getting a blowjob on Matt’s couch from an extremely attractive nineteen-year-old Mexican girl while Matt and the band played quarters with shots of tequila at the dining room table. Other than that, he did not remember much.

“That was when I got the idea,” Matt said. “Me and Austin were out on the deck taking a few bonghits with the bitches and I realized I wasn’t fuckin’ scared about my heart doing that funky shit because you were there. I knew if it started fuckin’ jittering again, all I had to do was get you and you’d make it stop doing that shit. It was fuckin’ comforting, dude. You know what I’m saying?”

“Uh ... yeah, I guess,” Jim replied.

“And then I started thinking that I want that feeling of comfort to be with me while we’re out on tour and shit. While we’re flying in airplanes, while we’re performing on the stage, while we’re banging local gash in the hotel rooms after the shows. That’s when I got the idea to hire you to be the tour medic. The very next day I called up that weasel motherfucker that counts the beans for me and told him the plan and he did the math and started putting things together. Everything is pretty much arranged, dude. All you have to do is say yes.”

And so, he said yes. And now, here he was, about to start his first day on his new gig.

The large rollup door for the rehearsal warehouse was now standing open. Jim, per instructions he had been given several days ago, drove his car through it, to the inside of the building. All of the band’s gear, all of the lighting and scaffolding, the miles of cables and wires, even the stage itself, were all gone, presumably in Tacoma being set up in the Tacoma Dome for tonight’s opening show. Parked inside already was a black Mercedes sedan, a Corvette, a 5-series BMW, and a Lexus. Sitting in folding chairs around a card table near where the sound board had once sat, were Matt’s band members—Austin Jefferson, the bass player; Steve Calhoun, the drummer; and Corban Slate, the young, baby-faced rhythm guitarist. Matt himself was nowhere to be seen. Sitting in another chair, well away from the band members, was a mid-forties man wearing a suit and tie and keeping a leather briefcase close by him. Jim had never met this man before, but he had been told that their road manager would be traveling with them. His name, Matt had told him in a previous conversation, was Greg Cahn, or Grand or something like that.

“He’s a back-stabbing, ass-sucking, Book of Mormon thumping hypocrite who would probably kill his own grandmother for a little sniff of my blow,” Matt had advised. “Never trust him about anything, and always keep your ass firmly covered when he’s around.”

Not exactly a glowing character recommendation, Jim thought, eyeballing the man nervously.

He parked next to the Corvette and got out of his Nissan. He walked around to the back and opened the trunk. Inside was the single suitcase he had been instructed to bring. Inside of it were all of the jeans and most of the t-shirts he owned, eight pairs of underwear, ten pairs of socks, a couple of sweaters, a winter coat, his shaving and toiletries equipment, and about a dozen of his favorite books. He set the suitcase down on the floor and then closed the trunk again. He was trying to figure out what to do with his keys when the man in the suit walked over to him, a large grin on his face.

“You must be the paramedic that Matt hired,” he said.

“That’s right,” Jim said, keeping his voice monotone.

“I’m Greg Gahn, the road manager,” he said, holding out his right hand.

Jim shook with him. “Jim Ramos,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Of course, of course,” Greg said, his grin getting wider. “Welcome to the crew. I’m very excited to be working with you. It will be nice to have a paramedic on standby to help supplement the medical treatment that I sometimes have to carry out.”

“You do medical treatment?” Jim asked carefully. “You’re not a doctor, are you?”

“No no,” Greg said, chuckling. “I’m not a doctor. My education is in entertainment production and religious studies. I do, however, have a fairly extensive informal training in advanced first aid and various pharmacological treatments.”

“I see,” Jim said, wondering exactly what he meant by ‘informal’.

“Anyway, if you’ll just put your car keys on the front seat of the vehicle and leave the door unlocked, I’ll take you over to your ‘football’, as Matt calls it, and we can go over what is in it.”

“Uh ... wait a minute,” Jim said. “Just leave my keys in the car?”

“It will be perfectly safe,” Greg said. “National pays for a service that will come in after we depart. They will hook all the vehicles up to trickle chargers to keep the batteries healthy and they will secure the keys at that time. They will also come in weekly to dust off the vehicles and check on their status.”

“No kidding?” Jim said. “There are people who get paid to do things like that?”

“Yes, of course,” Greg said.

“Interesting,” Jim said, and then shrugged. He opened the car door and tossed his keys inside. “I guess any thieves wouldn’t bother much with my car with all of yours sitting here anyway.”

“I would think not,” he said. “Now, shall we go see your football?”

“I guess we should.”

His football was a medium sized suitcase that looked pretty much like any other piece of luggage. It had an extendable handle and wheels on the bottom so it could be rolled from place to place instead of carried. It latched shut with a simple locking mechanism that required a four-digit code be input. Currently, that code was set at 0000. Greg dialed it in and then opened the case.

“This is everything that you requested for this assignment,” Greg told him, waving at the inside of the case.

The largest piece of equipment inside was the LifePak 10 monitor/defibrillator; the exact model that SMS equipped their ambulances with. There were two batteries installed in the monitor and four spares, along with a plug-in battery charger. Jim turned the machine on and watched as it went through a brief series of self-checks before gracing him with a flat line rhythm since it was not currently connected to a human body with a heartbeat. He picked up the paddles that would be used to defib Matt if such a thing became necessary, set the output to one hundred joules of energy, and then pressed the charge button. A high-pitched whine sounded as the machine powered up. Once fully charged, Jim pointed the paddles away from each other and pressed the two thumb buttons, releasing the charge harmlessly into the air. He then opened the zipper pockets on the LifePak’s case, finding multiple packages of electrodes and a large bottle of conducting gel. He zipped everything back up and then turned the machine off, satisfied.

Next, he inspected the other supplies in the football. Matt had told him to write out a shopping list of everything he would conceivably need, focusing primarily on the guitarist’s heart issue and not so much on basic first aid. He saw that everything he had asked for was there. Three one-liter bags of normal saline for intravenous fluid. Six sets of IV tubing. Ten each of 18, 20, and 22-gauge IV catheters. Ten commercial IV start kits. A bag valve mask. A laryngoscope and three 7.0, 7.5, and 8.0 endotracheal tubes. Three commercial ET tube fasteners. A dozen each of 10-milliliter, 5-milliliter, and 3-milliliter syringes. A dozen needles of varying gauge to put on the syringes. And then there were the drugs. Five prefilled syringes of epinephrine, three of atropine, two of sodium bicarbonate, six of lidocaine, two of calcium gluconate, two of magnesium sulfate, and two of Narcan. In addition to the prefilled syringes, there was a premixed bag of dopamine, twelve vials of Adenosine, and six vials of Versed.

It was the Versed that brought a little bit of Jim’s nervousness about the legality of this gig back to the forefront of his mind. Versed, a potent benzodiazepine, was a Schedule IV controlled substance with high potential for abuse. On the ambulance, the Versed and the morphine were both carefully tracked from medic to medic, shift to shift, with both oncoming and offgoing medic required to sign for possession of it and keep it inside a lockbox that was, in turn, kept under a separate lock and key inside the ambulance. When the drugs were used, a complex form needed to be filled out to replace it and a copy of that form was then forwarded to the DEA. Just having six vials of the shit sitting in this football with no one really accountable for it did not seem right.

“We’re sure that I won’t get into trouble if I have to utilize any of this stuff?” Jim asked, not for the first time.

“You were the one who insisted on the oversight and procedures we’ve put in place for this assignment,” Greg said.

Yes, he had. Paramedics could only work in the United States if they operated under the authority and license of a physician. And so, Matt and his people had found him one. They had paid some gynecologist in Spokane, Washington to agree to be Jim’s medical authority and to sign his name on a set of protocols that, theoretically, would allow Jim to operate with all the rights and privileges of an on-duty paramedic. They had even picked Washington because that was currently the only state that included Adenosine in the paramedic scope of practice. The problem was that Jim was not licensed to work in any state except California. And he had never been officially trained on the use of Adenosine. And he was pretty sure it was not kosher to have a Washington licensed physician providing oversight to a California paramedic even if that paramedic was operating in California, which he would not be for the vast majority of the tour.

“I understand,” Jim said, “that we’ve met the technical requirements for me to operate advanced life support equipment and to use advanced life support drugs while on the tour, but ... well ... I know that what we’re doing is not strictly legal. We could all get in a lot of trouble if something goes wrong. Particularly me. I could be charged with practicing medicine without a license. That’s a federal felony.”

Greg looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded, his grin still firmly on his face. “Let me ask you something, Jim. Do you believe in Heavenly Father?”

“No,” Jim said plainly and honestly. “Not even a little bit.”

Greg’s grin faded. “I see,” he said. “Well ... how about this. Do you believe in the power of money?”

“The power of money?” Jim asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that money talks very loudly, and you are now working for people—Matt Tisdale primarily, but also, in a sense, National Records—who have an awful lot of money. That means they can talk very loudly and be heard. Do you know how Matt was able to purchase a LifePak monitor, controlled pharmaceuticals, and advanced medical equipment that is only supposed to be sold to those operating under a physician’s license?”

“Because he has a lot of money,” Jim said. “He explained that to me. And I get it. But we’re talking about unlicensed medical practice here.”

“We are not talking about unlicensed medical practice,” Gahn corrected. “We have done what you asked. We have a licensed physician providing oversight to you and he has approved standing orders for you to follow in the form of those standard protocols in that binder inside the football.”

“But I’m not licensed in Washington or any other state but California,” Jim said. “And the physician is only licensed in Washington. That’s not exactly legal. If I were ever scrutinized...”

“That is unlikely to happen,” Greg said. “But if it did, do you know what we would do?”

“What would you do?”

“We would use the monetary resources of both Matt and National Records to hire the very best medical lawyers we could find to defend you before whatever agency is questioning your integrity in pretty much the same manner that the so-called dream team is defending OJ Simpson. They would employ an army of junior partners and paralegals to comb through law books and legal rulings dating back to the Stone Age until they found something that could be used to justify the actions that you took or were capable of taking. They would have you walking out of any hearing looking like an oppressed hero who was only trying to do his job while Big Medicine, Big Pharma and the nurse’s union tried their best to hold you down.”

Jim’s eyes widened. “You think that would work?”

“Of course it would work,” Gahn scoffed. “I’ve seen such tactics employed multiple times during my association with Matt Tisdale and the other members of Intemperance. Justice for money. It’s the American way.”

“But ... but ... even if these lawyers of yours could convolute the issue and keep me from being punished ... I’m still doing something illegal. I’m still operating outside the scope of my practice. I’m still technically practicing medicine without a license.”

Gahn looked at him with a complete lack of understanding in his gaze. “What is your point?” he asked.

Okay ... maybe this is all right after all, Jim thought as he saw, for the first time, the inside of the aircraft they would be traveling on from city to city during the tour. He had been a little nervous about it when he first saw it from the back seat of the limousine as they parked on the tarmac at Van Nuys Airport. It was not a huge aircraft at all. It was, in fact, the smallest plane Jim had ever boarded in his life. And it did not have jet engines like every other plane he had flown on, but two propellers that hung down from the overhead wings. A Dash-8, the pilot-in-command had called it during his pre-board lecture. But as Jim climbed up the stairs on the side and into the interior, his nervousness faded to amazement. It looked like, if it had been fitted with rows of standard aircraft seats, it could hold maybe thirty passengers. But it did not have rows of standard aircraft seats. Instead, there were six large recliner type chairs with tables next to them in the front of the cabin. There were two couches aligned in the mid portion of the cabin, each capable of holding two or three people. Just behind the couches was a small wet bar, complete with barstools, and stocked with a large variety of liquor held in place by rubber straps. Beyond the bar were four bunk beds attached to the fuselage, the beds neatly made up with linen and pillows. Beyond that was a door that led to a bathroom/shower combo.

The pilots, after giving their lists of do’s and don’ts about traveling on their aircraft (no smoking, no drugs in the cabin—though they would not check what was in the stowed baggage until they started going international—no destructive behavior, no groupies), had already sealed themselves behind a closed door in the cockpit. Jim’s impression was that they wanted to see as little of their passengers as possible. There was a single cabin crewmember who greeted them as they boarded. She introduced herself as Lori. She had a face like a Mack truck, a body that rippled and jiggled with fat rolls, and was at least fifty years old. She had a quirky sense of humor and seemed nice, but she made it very clear to all that, while she would serve them drinks, clean up their messes, and even prepare food for them, she was in charge once they boarded the plane and they would follow her orders and show no disrespect for her.

“You got it, hon,” Matt told her with a smile. “We get what you’re saying. This ain’t the tour bus. We’ll mind our manners in here.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine,” Lori assured him. “Now, if all of you will just take the primary seats and get buckled in, I’ll get you all some preflight cocktails.”

“Now we’re talking,” Matt said, his smile getting bigger.

Everyone found a seat to plant their butt in. Jim’s was in front, across the narrow aisle from Greg Gahn. Matt and the band settled in behind them. Lori made sure they were properly buckled in and then sealed up the door of the plane. She made a quick call to the cockpit on the intercom to let the pilots know that this had been done and then made her way down the aisle taking drink orders, starting with Matt and Austin in the very back. Matt ordered a Jack and Coke, heavy on the Jack. Austin ordered a double rye, neat. Corban ordered a cosmopolitan, but only on the stipulation that the lime juice be freshly squeezed and the drink be properly shaken and strained.

“Cosmo, fresh lime, shaken and strained,” Lori repeated mechanically.

“Seriously, Corban?” Matt asked, shaking his head sadly. “A fuckin’ cosmo? Could you be more faggy than that?”

“I’m not faggy, I’m metrosexual,” Corban said. “And you should try the cosmo, dude. It’s absolutely fabulous.”

“Stop fuckin’ calling me dude,” Matt barked.

“Sorry, Matt.”

“What’s metrosexual?” asked Lori, raising her eyebrows.

“It means I embrace the sense of fashion and fastidiousness of the male homosexual lifestyle without embracing the sexual practices of the demographic,” Corban explained.

“How’s that?” Lori asked.

“It means,” Matt paraphrased, “that he likes to mince around and wear designer underwear and go to a fuckin’ two-hundred-dollar hair stylist and drink cosmos like he’s a faggot, but he doesn’t suck schlong or let some dude stick a schlong up his ass.”

Lori pondered that for a moment, trying to wrap her brain around it. Finally, she nodded. “I see,” she said. She moved on, looking at Jim. “And you?”

Jim looked at his watch. It was only a few minutes past eleven. And he was on duty. But ... well, he was on a rock and roll tour, right? And, when in Rome... “I’ll have a vodka and tonic.”

“We only have Stolichnaya,” she said. “Is that all right?”

“Uh ... yeah, sure,” Jim said. “I think I can live with that.”

“Glad to hear it,” Lori said. She turned to Gahn. “And you?”

“Perrier, in a glass over six ice cubes,” he told her. “With a rinsed lemon slice.”

This earned another shake of the head from Matt. “Fuckin’ Perrier over six ice cubes,” he spat. “Tell me something, Greg. Does your old lady ever let you get on top?”

“The details of my sexual life are not your concern, Matt,” Greg said huffily.

“I really wouldn’t want them to be,” Matt said. He then brightened. “But you know what? I bet there are some people out there who would like to check it out. I mean, I’ve seen your old lady. She’s not bad for an older broad. Nice big titties. Decent ass. You should let Kim and one of her camera crews film the two of you getting it on.”

“What?” Greg asked, appalled. “We would never do anything like that!”

“Don’t reject this right away,” Matt said. “We could be onto something here. A couple of Mormons having typical Mormon sex! I mean, I’m sure it’s boring as fuck, but people would still pay good money to see that shit! I bet she could sell a couple hundred thousand copies, easy. And she’d give you at least a couple bucks per copy in royalties! That’s a couple hundred grand in your pocket! That’d be enough to let you get back on the blow full time!”

“You are disgusting, Matt!” Greg said angrily. “I will discuss this topic no further!”

“All right,” Matt said sadly. “But at least think it over.”

Greg said no further, as promised. Lori, her expression still neutral, said, “Okay then. I’ll go get these drinks going.”

She got the drinks going, mixing them up precisely as ordered and then bringing them forward and serving them one by one, giving each person a little white cocktail napkin with the name of the aircraft company printed on it. About the time everyone had drink in hand, the plane shuddered as first the left and then the right engine was started. Soon, they were taxiing.

“All right, guys,” Lori said, standing near the cockpit door and facing them. “Let me go over the standard safety spiel this one time and then we won’t do that on subsequent flights as long as everyone plays nice and does what they’re supposed to. Fair enough?”

“Bring it, baby!” Matt directed.

She brought it, telling them about the emergency exits, the seatbelts, the smoking policy, the life vests, and when they could take out their little entertainment devices. They all listened respectfully to her lecture. She asked if there were any questions. There were none. She then walked back to her little seat adjacent to the cockpit, talked to the pilots on the intercom again, and strapped herself inside.

Three minutes later, the engines wound up to full power and they were accelerating down the runway. Jim gripped his drink tightly during the takeoff roll. He had not flown all that many times in his life and was not entirely fond of the experience. The plane accelerated a lot faster, lifted from the ground a lot sooner, and climbed considerably steeper than any aircraft he had ever been in before. It also bumped and bounced more. But, in only fifteen minutes or so, they were at cruising altitude and in straight and level flight. Lori told them they were free to move about the cabin if they wished and let them know that she would be happy to refresh their drinks at the bar. Everyone except Greg unbuckled and headed for a refill.

After getting his second Stoli and tonic, Jim started to head back to the seat he had been in for takeoff, then decided to find somewhere else for the time being. They had another two hours or so until they started their descent, and he did not really want to have to talk to Ghan if he did not have to. He had already decided he did not care much for the guy. Instead, he went over to one of the couches and sat down, setting his glass in the holder on the armrest. The couch was very comfortable as he settled into it.