"All of them."
"Do you have a history of heart attack, stroke, or seizure?"
"No."
"How old are you?"
"Fifty-five."
"Are you home alone?"
Inexplicably, this question terrified him. "I'm divorced."
"Is anyone there with you?"
"No."
"Have you ever had this pain before?"
"I never noticed it, until today." He was becoming increasingly anxious. It felt like a test — too many questions. Was she going to send help or just talk to him all night?
"Are you short of breath?"
The idea of a heart attack or a stroke hadn't exactly occurred to him. It had occurred to him that this was IT, but not that he was having a heart attack.
"Can you cough for me? Take a deep breath and give me a couple of good strong coughs."
He did the best he could.
"Can you confirm your name for me and your address?"
"You can call me Rick," he said.
"Is that your real name?"
"What are you getting at?"
"Do you own your home?"
"Yes."
"Is there any other name that your phone or property would be listed under?"
"Richard," he said.
"Thank you, Mr. Novak," the operator said.
"How do you know who I am?"
"Our system is enhanced. Help is on the way. As part of a pilot program which helps train crisis counselors, I can transfer you to a counselor who will remain on the line with you until help arrives."
"Are you trying to sell me something?"
"No, sir, there is no additional charge. It's a service you qualify for because you fit the profile?"
"Profile?"
"You're in the right ZIP code with a potentially life-threatening crisis. With your permission I'm going to transfer you to a counselor; her name is Patty."
"Is she real or automatic?"
"She's right here; one moment."
"Hi, Richard, my name is Patty."
"Hi, Patty," he said.
"What are you doing, Richard?" He didn't know how to answer that. "I am dying."
"What are you dying from?"
"Pain." A rupture, an explosion, a slow, tortured death.
"Where in your body is the pain? Can you close your eyes and go into it?"
There are men who keel over at lunch, who are having lunch at the most wonderful, delicious, most expensive restaurant in town and — boom — they just fall over and die. Kaboom. He could be one of those. He could go just like that — out like a light, his aunt used to say. He could step outside, fall down dead in his driveway, and be eaten by wolves, picked apart by vultures. There was no difference between his body and the pain — his body was the pain.
"Richard, what was the last movie you saw?"
It was one of those "only in L.A." questions — even as you were dying people were talking about the movies.
"I have no idea," he struggled to think back. He remembered seeing Bonnie and Clyde at the Wellfleet, Massachusetts, drive-in a million years ago.
"Do you have any hobbies? Do you play golf?"
"I like to swim," he said, surprising himself.
"Where do you swim — do you have a swimming pool?"
"No."
"When did you last go swimming?"
"About five years ago. At a hotel in Miami; I took a woman there for a long weekend. It ended badly." He paused. "I think I'd rather not talk right now. It's very distracting to try and have a conversation."
"What would you rather do?
He imagined old people with the "I've fallen and I can't get up" transmitters around their necks. He imagined them lying on the floor, talking to the transmitters, while help was on the way, just grateful that someone would come and pick them up.
"Patty," he said, "where are you from?"
"Minnesota," she said.
"I thought so," he said. "You sound like someone from Minnesota or Modesto." He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the glass. "That's OK, you don't have to keep talking to me. I think I'd like to just be quiet so I can concentrate."
"Are you able to sit, stand, or walk?"
"I'm in pain," he repeated as though that meant something.
"They'll be there soon," she said.
He wondered if he had enough cash to pay them — he wondered where that thought came from — he didn't have to pay them, he already paid them, that's what taxes were for. When he was married and living in New York City, he once ordered Chinese food and was still on the phone with the restaurant when the order arrived. They used to joke that the restaurant had a satellite kitchen in the building's basement. He and his wife always kept cash in the apartment to pay them — they were always paying someone, deliverymen, doormen, handymen.
"Are you there?" she asked.
He heard sirens in the distance, the rumble of engines, trucks climbing the hill, the siren grinding to a stop outside his house. He could see the reflection of the red flashing lights in the glass. He knew they were out there.
There was a knock at the door.
He lay on the sofa, thinking he should get up.
"Richard," Patty said, "the firemen are at the door; can you let them in?"
"I don't know," he said, scared, like all of this was a bad idea, like he never should have called.
He watched. He saw them walking around the side of the house, coming down the hill, their flashlights bouncing, their heavy coats, like branded elephant skins, with iridescent numbers glowing. He heard their radios squawking.
They announced his name over a megaphone in a way that compelled him to surrender.
"Richard Novak, can you hear me, can you open the door?"
"Is there a key hidden somewhere?" Patty asked.
"The garage is open."
"Good luck, Richard," Patty said, hanging up.
They came in carrying bags, their coats smelling like fire.
"I'm on the sofa," he said. "I'm crying."
There was no fire.
They were surrounding him, kneeling in front of him, talking to him. "We're going to take your pressure and give you a little bit of oxygen."
He nodded.
"Are you in pain right now?"
"I don't know," he said, speaking into the plastic mask. His voice sounded muffled, distant. "I don't remember anything."
A police officer arrived. Were they going to arrest him for making a crank call, for crying wolf, wasting public services, pulling a false alarm?
"Are you home alone?" the cop asked.
He nodded again — why were they so obsessed about who was home?
The house was filling with people — calling him by name, talking to him very loudly. The paramedics arrived and opened boxes — hard cases, like tackle trays. They set up the machine he'd seen on TV, the defibrillator. He prayed they weren't going to use it on him. He was conscious, wasn't he? On TV the medics call out "All clear" and "Stand back" and then shock the hell out of the person. The machine was sitting there, ready, green light — go.
"That's a nice de Kooning," one of the paramedics said.
They took off his shirt, put leads on his chest, swapped the oxygen mask for the small tubes that go up your nose.
"It's a pinched nerve," he said, looking for a way out.
"And I really like your Rothko. I saw that one once at MOCA."
"It was on loan," Richard says.
"Oh yeah," one of the firemen said. "I thought that looked familiar. That's by the guy they made the movie about, Ed Harris."
The paramedic shook his head. "Ed Harris played Jackson Pollock, those were action paintings, drips. This is Mark Rothko, darker, more serious."
"Are you paramedics or art experts?"
"I was premed and art history at Harvard. Do you take any medications?"
"Vitamins and some spray for my nose, bad sinuses."
"Sir," the paramedic said, "we're going to send an EKG into the hospital, and from there they'll advise us about further treatment. While we're waiting, I'm going to start an IV."