Author Matthew Heneghan

I did something today that damn near made me lose my breakfast — I took the trash out.

It wasn’t the smell, although that cocktail of old meat and wet cardboard could kill a fruit fly at twenty paces. No, it was what I saw — this writhing little coagulation of maggots squirming around near the top of the garbage bag. Blind, pulsing, aimless. Like a joke where only nature gets the punchline.

And just like that, I was no longer performing simple Cindefella duties like tossing trash away, I was somewhere else entirely.

I was back in the city.

Back in the drab of the 2010s, working nights as a paramedic — dodging rats, neon, and my own inner monologue. It was one of those muggy nights where the air sticks to your skin like one of those tattoos you get at a fair or carnival as a kid, you can’t wash it off. Everything felt damp; the streets, the uniforms, our delusions of a quiet night.

You ever notice how the ugliest parts of the city are lit up like Vegas? As if bathing a street corner in hot pink neon somehow redeems it. “GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS, 2 FOR 1 PIZZA SLICE,” and the blinking “OPEN 24 HOURS” signs that never quite flicker in unison. That was our beat. That was where the radio told us to go.

Mosby and I spent a good chunk of our careers in this depressing little crevasse of the city. It’s where I sharpened my teeth, so to speak, and learned the ins and outs of life as a street medic. There wasn’t a corner that existed that didn’t hold echoes of a story, a call that he and I had been to.

There was our frequent flyer — Maggie — an unhoused woman who has seen more needle ends than weekends. She’d always call for something benign, and no matter how many times we’d take her to the Lady of Mercy downtown, she’d always leave before getting checked out by a doctor.

Then there was Jagmeet; a former school teacher that had fallen so deep inside a bottle after his divorce that he forgot what blue sky looked like. His whole world was now a varying tapestry of brown — brown bottles, brown liquor… brown nails.

The city can rob you of humanity real quick. Especially if you put yourself in a position to try and save it.

The call came in from a convenience store at the edge of the city’s moral decay — a guy complaining of foot pain. Seemed like nothing. They always do. A quick sigh, a press of a button, and Mosby and I were off again to try and put a little bit of good back into the world all while losing what may have been good within ourselves.

We roll up, and I see him — a native guy, mid-40s maybe, though the streets tend to age a man like dog years. Skin becomes more like leather that’s not cared for. Think, a well-worn catchers-mit. He’s wearing one of those orthopedic air casts, a “robo boot” as we used to call them. Over the top of it? A grocery bag. No-name brand, faded logo. The kind you’d expect to see clinging to a fence in the wind. That bag had seen more dirt than it ever saw produce. Before ever speaking with him, I readied my nose for what was to come. Nothing physical. A peptalk, if you will.

We load him up. I start assessing the foot. Mosby, my partner, is sitting in the jump seat just behind the stretcher, probably praying to the apathetic gods of caffeine and peace and quiet. I peel off the boot, gently — the way you might disarm a bomb or crawl out of your kid’s bed after finally getting them to sleep.

That’s when I see it.

A squirming, festering feast. Maggots. A bevy of them. Nestled in an old wound like it was beachfront property. Fat little bastards having Thanksgiving dinner on his dying flesh, and I’m the unlucky prick who gets to be there for it. Paramedicine: front row seats to the greatest show on earth. Is it tragedy? Is it comedy? I’ll get back to you on that.

I turned to call for Mosby — something like, “You’ve gotta see this… holy sh—”

And that’s when it happened.

The guy — lazily, like he’d just remembered I owed him money or something — throws a kick my way. Slow motion. The kind of kick you could brew a pot of coffee in the time it takes to land. I jerked back on instinct, hand up in reflex.

Blocked it.

No harm done… or so I thought.

That sudden movement. it dislodged a few of our squirmy dinner guests.

They landed on me. On. My. Lap.

One crawled across my thigh like it had somewhere to be. Reservations to another dinner, perhaps. Another slipped into the folds of my pants like it was making itself at home. I froze — somewhere between lament and vomiting, but doing neither. Just breathing. Shallow. Focused. I used the back of my hand to fling one of the fat little bastards across to parts unknown, and I had to stand and pick the other one from me. Did you know maggots feel warm to the touch? Neither did I. Until I met robo-boot guy.

Welcome to the city, folks. Where bad luck and worse hygiene are the general stock & trade.

We finished the call, dropped the guy off at the ER, sanitized the truck, and tried to move on. That’s what you do. You pack it away. File it under “shit you’ll deal with later,” and keep moving.

A few calls later, Mosby and I finally get a break. It’s pushing 3 a.m. — the city’s sleeping with one eye open, as it always does, and we’re parked under a dying streetlight, failing to see the irony, eating cold leftovers from home. I don’t remember what I had. Chicken, maybe. Doesn’t matter.

Two bites in, I go to take a third, and that’s when I notice something in the periphery of my vision. A single maggot. A stubborn larva held over. Wiggling on the cuff of my sleeve like it owned the place. Not a care in the world.

That was the moment. That was the real horror. Not the infestation. Not the lazy kick. Not even the smell. It was the silent mockery of a flesh-eating fucker. I opened the window and flicked it out. I rolled up my sleeve, and there were two more of the albino wigglers.

“FUCK!”

I began what can only be described as a dance to rid myself of invisible flame. Mosby couldn’t contain himself, or his food. He laughed with such force that penne flew from his lips like shrapnel from a grenade. Poetically landing to the dash and steering wheel with the same likeness of the very thing that had delayed our ability to eat to begin with.

And this morning, with the trash, it all came back. The scent, the heat, the nausea, the slow-moving kick to my head. It wrapped itself around me like an old blanket soaked in stale sweat and rotting meat. I almost vomited right there on the manicured rocks by my Sheena’s garden. Almost. But I held it in. Mostly.

Because that’s what you do when you’re a man who’s seen too much — you hold it in. You laugh at it later. Maybe write about it if you’re me. But mostly, you just learn to live with the wriggle.

PTSD brings maggots of memory. Not just for this call — others too.

They say that one man’s trash is another’s gold.

Well, if anyone considers this gold… God help them.m.