Tacos at Midnight

The radio erupted at exactly 11:47 p.m.

“Dispatch, Medic 12—multiple patients! We have a major traffic collision on the 710!”

Inside the ambulance communications center, Dispatch Supervisor Jesus Rocha looked up from his computer.

Jesus had spent twenty-two years in EMS. He had seen just about everything: freeway pileups, apartment fires, mass-casualty incidents, helicopter landings, and more bad ambulance driving than he cared to remember.

But there was one thing that could make even the worst shift better.

Tacos.

Jesus was famous around the dispatch center for making tacos. His coworkers claimed he could turn almost anything into a taco.

“Chicken tacos?”

“Obviously.”

“Fish tacos?”

“Of course.”

“Leftover meatloaf tacos?”

Jesus stared at the dispatcher for several seconds.

“Give me five minutes.”

Tonight, however, there would be no tacos.

Not yet.

Jesus grabbed his radio headset.

“Everybody listen up. We have a confirmed multi-casualty incident. Start the MCI plan.”

The room instantly changed.

Dispatchers began entering units into the CAD system. Phones rang continuously. Ambulances were redirected from surrounding posts. Supervisors contacted hospitals to determine available emergency department capacity.

Jesus stood in the middle of the room, monitoring everything.

“Send Medic 18 and Rescue 4.”

“Medic 18 is committed.”

“Then get me Medic 27.”

“Medic 27 is transporting.”

Jesus didn't hesitate.

“Pull the closest available BLS unit and start moving units from the west side.”

Another dispatcher shouted, “Supervisor! CHP is reporting at least ten vehicles involved!”

Jesus grabbed the incident command phone.

“I'm requesting additional resources and establishing an MCI channel.”

Then came the message everyone dreaded.

“Dispatch, we're getting reports of a vehicle fire. Possible entrapment.”

Jesus looked at the clock.

11:51 p.m.

His tacos suddenly seemed very far away.

Twenty minutes later, the communications center was operating at maximum capacity.

“Medic 22, you're being reassigned to the freeway incident.”

“Engine 14, respond priority.”

“Hospital Base, we're going to need additional receiving capability.”

Jesus moved between consoles, coordinating the response.

Then the phone rang.

“Dispatch Supervisor.”

A frantic voice answered.

“Jesus, this is Engine 14. We have a second problem. The access road is completely blocked.”

Jesus pulled up the incident map.

“What's blocking you?”

“Abandoned vehicles. We can't get through.”

Jesus immediately contacted law enforcement.

“CHP, Dispatch. We need the access route cleared for emergency vehicles.”

Then another call came in.

“Supervisor, Medic 12 is requesting a second ambulance.”

Jesus looked at the resource map.

There was only one available ambulance within several miles.

“Send it.”

“That's our last available unit.”

Jesus paused.

“Send it.”

At 12:36 a.m., the first ambulance arrived at the hospital.

Then another.

Then another.

The MCI was winding down.

Jesus finally removed his headset.

The room was quiet.

He looked at the clock.

12:52 a.m.

One of the dispatchers leaned back in her chair.

“Jesus?”

“Yeah?”

“You still making tacos?”

Jesus smiled.

“You think a freeway disaster is going to stop me from making tacos?”

He walked into the break room and opened the refrigerator.

There was a package of seasoned carne asada, tortillas, onions, cilantro, limes, and a container of salsa.

Jesus nodded approvingly.

“Now we're talking.”

He fired up the small electric griddle.

The smell of sizzling carne asada quickly filled the room.

Everyone gathered around.

Jesus handed out tortillas.

“Remember,” he said, “good tacos are all about balance.”

“Balance?”

“Meat, onion, cilantro, salsa, lime.”

A dispatcher raised her hand.

“What about hot sauce?”

Jesus looked offended.

“Hot sauce is not an ingredient.”

“What is it?”

Jesus grinned.

“A lifestyle.”

Everyone laughed.

Then the radio crackled.

“Dispatch, Medic 27. We have a priority call.”

Jesus froze.

He looked at the taco in his hand.

Then at the radio.

Then back at the taco.

He sighed.

“Of course.”

He grabbed his headset.

“Dispatch, go ahead.”

“Medic 27, we're responding to a reported cardiac arrest.”

Jesus immediately switched back into supervisor mode.

“Copy. Send the closest ALS unit and notify fire.”

The dispatch center came alive again.

Jesus put his half-eaten taco down.

“Hold my taco.”

The dispatcher laughed.

“You're really going to leave it?”

Jesus pointed at her.

“Don't touch it.”

He returned to the console.

Within seconds, the response was underway.

And somewhere beneath the controlled chaos of emergency communications, a single taco sat patiently on a paper plate.

Because Jesus Rocha had learned one important lesson during his years in EMS:

Calls can wait for no one.

But a perfectly made taco?

That deserved to be finished.