“Want a piece of the action?” In those days, it wasn’t new stock offerings, derivatives, or high-yield anything—just drugs. Just a half block down, it stood an oddly dressed young couple in black. Their outfits looked derived from what the “Pilgrim Fathers” wore. But there was nothing Congregational about these two. They belonged to one of the new churches that worshipped Satan. Recognizing me as a neighbor from Beacon Hill, they waved. “Peace, Brother Wes, Peace!” I waved and walked on.
It was a typical Friday night in Harvard Square. I was heading to the Paperback Booksmith to look for some new Sci-Fi and then on to the Blue Parrot Coffeehouse to ensconce myself for an evening of reading. There might be some pick up the conversation and an opportunity to see what walked in. Harvard Square beat out Charles Street in Boston and even Greenwich Village in New York as a place to observe the unique and strange.
A few hours later, I might go to the Hayes-Bickford Cafeteria for a bite with friends.
All these activities were very cheap. While “the eagle flew” in the form of my weekly paycheck, there wasn’t enough left after paying bills to party hard, get intoxicated, or take someone out on a date. I was not making huge money working as a surgical technician and was on call for a nearby hospital.
Around ten p.m., the pager buzzed, and I started walking through Harvard Yard to get to the hospital. Overtime and shift differential for on-call duty that’ll make the week’s check a bit fatter!
When I walked into the OR, I was informed what was happening. The case was the after-effects of a particularly nasty knife fight. I started prepping the needed surgical drapes and instrument kits. The anesthesiologist walked in and started his prep, followed by the surgeon.
The surgeon briefed the team on what to expect and told me what special instruments and sutures he wanted. It was pretty routine.
The surgeon started the opera tape as soon as the patient was sedated. We listened to Puccini for the two hours to stitch and resect Mack the Knife’s wounds.
Around three a.m., we finished suturing and dressing the wounds. We broke scrub, and the circulating nurse and I cleaned the operating room and changed into street clothes.
By this time, trains to Boston had stopped running. I went to the Residence building and slept in one of the rooms reserved for on-call nurses, technicians, and surgeons.
It was not too bad a Friday night – at least it hadn’t been gunshot wounds or a burst appendix.
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Nice post 🌹🌹
Wow… “At least it hadn’t been a gunshot wound.” I’ve been at the ER late at night and it’s pretty scary.