Winthrop, Dial 9-1-2!

I am a siren racist. Or at the very least a siren stereotyper. What I mean specifically is that when I hear a siren—be it police, ambulance, or fire truck—I judge. If I’m in the low-rent part of town and I hear the wailing, I’m confident some gang-banger just got what he deserved. Suburbia = soccer mom in a fender bender. Ambulance turning into a trailer park either means ol’ Agnes’ ticker finally gave out or Daryl added a little too much ammonia to his batch and went BOOM!

So on my drive home, mind wandering around the bluffs I was going to pull in my weekly game, I passed some waterfront compound lit up like… hell I don’t know, like what I’d imagine if OJ Simpson was discovered naked atop a flag pole with a gun to his head. Even the fire chief’s truck was there, lights a-spinnin’.

There’s no need to elaborate on the stereotype. Something bad happened to someone big. And if you’re hoping for a conclusion, I don’t have one. My trusty sidekick Bud kindly noted that stopping to chat with the cops was probably a “negative expected value” move.

So why even bring it up? Well, somewhere, someone in the emergency response community must have a list. On this list are names. On the top of this list, I imagine, are directions to the effect:

“If any below-named individual meets with unfortunate circumstances, SEND EVERYBODY!”

For all I know, this Mr. Important (or Mrs., I suppose, if the list is long enough) was having pet problems.

“Winthrop, darling, Lady Madeline is stuck in the live oak again.”
“Very well, Ursula, I’ll dial 9-1-2.”

I want to be on that list.