I’d like to dedicate my belated worship of this piece by Elizabeth Spiers to every drunk male baseball fan who has accused me — an on-duty in-uniform EMT looking for patient distress in a sea of 40,000 people — of not “smiling pretty” for them.
My breasts come with me to work because I was born with them, happen to like them and see no reason to hide them. My hair is in pigtails at work so it doesn’t fall in your blood and/or vomit. My smile is fantastic but I don’t get paid to flash it your way at work because you think you’re cute.
I love my work. You, on the other hand, have gotten on my last nerve, fellow fan.
I get paid to be “a professional.” Which is why I’m discouraged from telling you exactly what I’m thinking when you walk past my post, leer at me and put your hand on your chest complaining of a heart attack. Just so you know, though? That line might work better on one of my male colleagues because they haven’t heard it 6,000 times. They may have never heard it at all, since their mere presence seems to discourage your bad behavior, and that is also ridiculous.
I get paid to pick you up when you trip down the stairs you’re not looking at. I get paid to pack your nose when you misjudge your height and pick a fight over a foul ball with the wrong guy from Queens. I get paid to make sure you don’t choke on your vomit on the way to the hospital after ten too many $10 beers and I get paid to clean up after you, too.
Once you’re in my care, I even get paid to promise you my phone number in exchange for yours, which I will gladly do, so I can properly fill out the paperwork the hospital will need to treat you and alert your friends and family of your whereabouts.
It’s 911, by the way. Call anytime. Service guaranteed, smile not included.