We get called for a fall at the local fast food chicken restaurant.
Back in the kitchen, the woman is laying on the ground between the fryers and the food prep table. She’s maybe twenty-two, but a big woman — looks like she’s been dining on the fast food fare most of her life. I’m guessing she’s two-ninety. She says she slipped on the grease on the floor, wacked her head on the table, and now her neck and knee hurt. She’s got ketchup and flour and bread crumbs on her uniform shirt.
My partner almost wipes out on top of her when he comes back with the c-spine bag. I’m thinking this place is nasty. Food sitting out unrefrigerated. Crusted mashed potatoes on the counter. Grease everywhere. Flies on the biscuits.
The woman hangs over both sides of the board. We have to reach down under her to get the straps fixed. We slide her on the floor, around several corners. There was no way to get the stretcher in the tight quarters. A police officer and I lift her up on the board, bending our knees and driving up. We set her on the counter. My partner is on the other side — the customer side. We slide her right across, past the cash register, right onto our waiting stretcher.
A toothless customer, watching with big eyes, remarks, “Daily Special. I’ll take an order of that.”