Riding to the Rescue as ’98 Begins

Ambulance lights flashing, siren screaming, Los Angeles City Fire Department paramedics Max Hengst and Tom Kennington tore along Hollywood Boulevard on Thursday in the dark early hours of the fresh new year.

“This night’s like payback for all the bad things I’ve done this year,” Hengst deadpanned.

From 6:30 a.m. Wednesday to 6:30 a.m. Thursday, Hengst and Kennington--working out of Fire Station 27 in Hollywood--worked a regular shift--24 hours of asthma attacks, seizures, flus and fatalities.

City paramedics work 24 hours, rest 24 hours, work 24 hours, rest 24 hours, work another 24 hours and then have four days off. It’s a cycle supported by three separate shift crews at Station 27. “My wife and I discussed it one night,” Hengst said. “Most fathers come home and see the kids for a couple hours and then go to bed. I get to play Mr. Mom.”

For Kennington, a 34-year-old Reseda resident, it will be the last New Year’s Eve spent standing in the back of city ambulance No. 11491, holding on to the customized Ford Econoline’s overhead IV hooks, as he “surfs” the streets of Hollywood.

“I’m getting out of this in two weeks, and I’m glad,” he said. “I’m going to become a fireman, going to learn how to squirt water.”

Hengst, 36, of San Gabriel, will remain a medic--though only part time. He started behind the wheel of a private ambulance at age 17, he said. But since then, he has noticed an increase in both “politics” and paperwork.

“People are more demanding,” Hengst said. “‘This job’s gotten more stressful. In essence we’ve become like the country doctors.”

Thursday, on the urban frontier of Hollywood, the pair’s country practice would involve 20 house calls--nearly one an hour:

8:27 p.m. As they raced to the scene of a fatality, Hengst scolded a motorist who--oblivious to both sirens and flashing red lights--crossed his path.

“Get out of here!” he barked. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, buddy.”

When he and Kennington arrived on Franklin Avenue, Adella Blackman, an 80-year-old woman who had died earlier in the evening, was lying sideways on a bed.

“She was blind,” said Mae Crunk, a friend and four-year resident of the retirement home where Blackman lived.

Hengst covered Blackman with a blanket. A doctor would arrive soon, sign her death certificate and arrange for the transport of her body, the paramedic said. He had done his part to preserve her dignity.

10:40 p.m. Kennington spoke fluent Spanish with Teresa Salgero, 33, who was having breathing difficulties and had summoned help to her home on Rosewood Avenue.

Hengst and Harry Rich, a city paramedic captain, casually inspected a dry Christmas tree in the corner.

“They get lights going, this will go up like a bomb,” Hengst said softly.

Rich turned toward an electric hot plate.

“These things are horrible [fire risks],” he said.

But fire dangers took second stage to Salgero, who listened patiently to Kennington with tears in her eyes.

“We get a lot of these emotional ones,” Hengst said. “It’s just a matter of talking them down. We check their lungs. We do a thorough exam just to make sure. A lot of the time we play social worker, priest.”

Salgero felt better. The paramedics left.

Kennington explained that Salgero’s husband had recently died.

“Holiday stress,” he said. Holidays magnify your feelings.”

12:25 a.m. The first call of 1998 for Station 27 arrived; it was No. 19 in the city as a whole. Paramedic units were spread thin, so call 19 took Hengst and Kennington over the hill into the San Fernando Valley.

When the partners arrived at an upstairs apartment on North Placidia Avenue in North Hollywood, Edward “Beau” Goldberg was motionless on his back atop a bed with floral sheets. His wife of 60 years, Florence, softly explained that her husband was sick and diabetic and refused to eat.

“Looks like his blood sugar’s probably down,” Hengst said. “What we’re gonna do is, we’re gonna insert an IV.”

Like magic, with the sugar pumping to his brain, Goldberg awoke, mumbling at first until he could communicate clearly.

“I feel weak,” he said.

Kennington posed a simple diagnostic question: “Do you know what year it is?”

“Yeah,” said Goldberg. “It’s 1997. It’s 1998 now.”

3:07 a.m. The lights went out. A couple more runs under their belt, the medics hit the sack. At 3:08, the lights came on again. The medics dressed and drove to an address on Hollywood Boulevard.

“It is very comical,” Hengst said. “And you know what? You got to laugh, because if you don’t, you get angry.”

Rosa Trujillo, 65, had blood pressure so low it did not even register on the medics’ portable EKG machine.

“I don’t know. Maybe she ate something wrong,” said Sonia, Trujillo’s daughter. “We were at a party. I don’t know.”

Kennington was concerned. “She has a history of hypertension,” he said.

Loaded into the van, Trujillo rested on the stretcher with an IV in her arm and an oxygen mask over her face.

4:30 a.m. The medics were in bed with the lights out again. At 4:33, another alarm sounded, and off they went.

With dawn at hand, there would be no more attempts at sleep.

The ambulance arrived on North Highland Boulevard at 4:40 a.m. Angus McLaclan, a 10-year-old Australian tourist, was suffering from a croup-like cough, a cough so deep it resembled a seal’s bark.

David, the boy’s father, explained that the pair were in town on holiday. “Came to Hollywood,” David McLaclan said. “Saw the mouse. We started in Anaheim. Plan to ski in Telluride.”

The medics transported Angus off to Childrens Hospital and headed for home, or the next best thing--the station--one last time.

After 5 a.m., the shift neared its end.

“This is when I put my bedding away,” Hengst said.

“It’s no use. I’m gonna start a fresh pot of coffee.”

Outside, night was giving way to morning.

“You know what we used to say,” Hengst said. “You get paid to watch the sun come up.”