Hot Pockets and Romance Don't Mix

There are few things in life more sacred than a late-night snack. No one understands that better than a 911 dispatcher on their 13^th graveyard shift in a row. I had barely sipped my fresh cup of coffee when the call came in. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” I asked, slipping into the well-practiced calmness of my professional voice. 

“He… he stabbed me,” came the panicked reply, the man’s voice shaky but clear enough to relay this was no joke. 

Stabbed. That word has a way of snapping you to attention. No matter how strange the situation, a stabbing is serious. I switched into crisis mode; my back straightened, my fingers frantic with the address, phone number, and other immediately relevant information. 

“Ok, sir, stay calm. Where were you stabbed?” 

“My side… it’s bleeding pretty bad.” 

“Alright, my partner is starting the ambulance and the police for me. I need you to stay on the line with me. What is your name?” 

“John,” he gasped. “John.” 

“And who did this, John?” I asked, mentally preparing for the obvious – the partner is almost always involved. 

“My… my boyfriend.” 

I glanced over at my colleague, Alicia, who had started the first responders for me. I raised my eyebrows at her, mouthing “domestic,” as I typed in the details. 

We handled domestic violence calls all the time. Each one carried an undercurrent of tension because you never knew if the situation would escalate before help arrived. I could hear the panic in John’s breathing, and while I knew that the police and paramedics were on their way, minutes always felt like hours in cases like these. 

“Is he still there?” I asked, my voice steady even though I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. 

“Yeah,” John replied, his voice trembling. “He’s in the kitchen.” 

“Alright, do you have a safe place you can get to? Like a bedroom or bathroom with a locked door?” I asked. 

“Yeah, the bathroom,” he said. 

As I gave him instructions on how to slow the bleeding, I heard him mutter something that almost sounded like a sob, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or something else. The more I listened, the more I could hear frustration laced in with the fear. I heard muffled voices in the background, then the unmistakable sound of someone approaching. 

“John, is that him?” I asked, bracing for whatever was coming next. 

“Yes,” he whispered, and then louder, “Bill. Bill, they’re sending an ambulance!” 

I held my breath for a second, waiting to hear what Bill, the man who stabbed him, would say or do next. The line crackled for a beat, then Bill’s voice came on, clear as day.

“He’s not dead,” Bill said. 

Well, that’s reassuring.

I glanced at Alicia, who had stopped typing and was now fully tuned into my conversation. I nodded to her, signaling that this situation was still volatile, and she quickly relayed the updates to the officers en route to the scene. 

“Bill,” I said as calmly as possible. “Are you able to stay away from each other until the paramedics arrive? We need to make sure that he gets the medical attention he needs.” 

There was a pause, then Bill said “Yeah, yeah. He’s fine. He’s blowing this way out of proportion.” 

“Well, I’d feel better if the paramedics could just take a look at the wound and make that determination for him, okay?” I asked hoping to keep him distracted with me and give John some time to escape the situation. “Where is John now?” 

“He’s in the bathroom,” Bill slurred. 

Good. 

“Ok,” I quickly typed the updates so that Alicia could broadcast them for me. 

Bill muttered something in the background I didn’t understand followed by him yelling “I told you not to touch my stuff!” 

I blinked. His stuff? The pieces of the puzzle weren’t quite fitting together yet, but the casual tension in Bill’s voice and the franticness of John’s didn’t sound like your usual domestic spat. 

“Is he still in the bathroom?” I asked. 

“Yep,” Bill said between a belch. 

“Bill,” I asked, keeping my voice steady and focused, “can you tell me what happened tonight?” 

The line crackled with silence for a few long seconds. I could hear Bill breathing heavily, clearly agitated, but not saying a word. The tension was palpable, and I waited, giving him space to collect himself. 

Finally, Bill let out a deep sigh, his voice quieter, almost reluctant. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Like what?” I prompted, gently. “What happened?” 

Another pause. I could hear the distant hum of voices behind him, maybe the TV or the radio, but Bill was struggling to get the words out. He muttered something under his breath, and I caught a hint of frustration. 

“I told him,” Bill said finally, louder now, anger creeping back into his voice. “I told him not to touch my stuff.” 

I shot a glance at Alicia, who was listening on the line. “What stuff, Bill?” I asked, trying to keep him talking, knowing the officers were drawing near. 

“It was mine,” he said, voice slurring a bit. “I had it saved, he knew that. He knew and he still,” Bill cut himself off, clearly too worked up and inebriated to finish the thought. 

“Okay, Bill. Just take a breath,” I said, and used my most persuasive sounding voice. “What exactly did he take?”

There was another pause, and this time, when Bill spoke, his voice was a low growl, like he wasn’t holding back all the frustration of the night. 

“He ate my Hot Pocket!” 

I blinked, my mind struggling to process what I’d just heard. “Your… Hot Pocket?” I repeated, just to be sure. Bill’s anger flared again. 

“Yeah! I only had one left, and I was saving it! I told him not to touch it, and he went and ate it anyway!”

Alicia was staring at me now, eyes wide with disbelief, trying hard not to laugh, but I kept my voice steady. “Alright, Bill. Officers are almost there, and they’ll help you sort this out, okay?”

The paramedics and officers arrived within minutes, and I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. The tension in the room eased as Alicia and I exchanged glances, both of us quietly shaking our heads at the absurdity of it all.

I ended the call, leaned back in my chair, and looked over at Alicia. She had the same incredulous look on her face that I was sure I had on mine.

Because, after all, if there’s one thing this job keeps teaching me, it’s that Hot Pockets and romance just don’t mix.