Heather Birrell - The Mr. Shredder Man
There have been several moments in my life where I have wished for the type of armour and oblivion that can only be achieved through addiction or religion. This was one of them. But I don’t have the stomach for perilous sex or those nectar-like substances that stonewall reality. And—at times to my frank dismay—I don’t believe in God or gods, past lives or an afterlife.
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When the paramedics finally arrived, they had little time for us, save for a couple of pointed queries. It was clear from their questions that they suspected diabetic shock, although the man had no history of the condition. They helped the Mr. Shredder man into the ambulance. Twice his legs gave out from under him. The paramedics thanked us for calling and drove away.
On the way back from the clinic, we stopped next to the Mr. Shredder van. The window was still half open. Rain was pouring onto the seat. I wrote a note explaining who we were, and asking whoever discovered my message to call and let us know how the van driver was doing. We had not thought to ask his name. I scrawled our phone number at the bottom of the note, and slipped it into the van.
