Another shift at my new rescue squad gig found me again nervous and a bit unwilling. I was a little disappointed to discover that after long anticipating returning to the world of emergency medicine, I still wasn't completely comfy driving off in uniform and asskicking tall black boots into this old world. When I arrived at the squad, however, I found myself feeling the first sense of comfort with these new colleagues. I was cheerfully dispatched to my in-house cleaning assignment, feeling a new confidence in my ability and role. After proving my mettle by cleaning both men's and women's locker rooms last week, I was cut a break and given only scrub-a-dub duty on the "women's upheads." As last week, the dim thumpings of the jazzercise class being held in the squad's community room manifested itself through the wall. Periodically, the jazzercise leader let forth with indistinct yowls and wails of encouragement. It sounded as if the hopeful weight-losers were not exercising at all, but being subjected to some sort of painful medical procedure, possibly by jackbooted thug-doctors who stomped rigorously as they worked.

Having finished violating the inner sanctum of my female colleagues, I returned to the ambulance bay and hopped on one of the rescue trucks loaded with other volunteers who were running out to grab some dinner. The rescue squad (as distinguished from the ambulances and medic units where I ply my trade) is a firefighting and extrication unit, a long firetruck-style vehicle packed with equipment that would look at home in the offices of the inquisition. I rattled around in back amidst racks on self-contained breathing apparati and other devices that suggested frightening uses. We drove to a local eatery called something like "Chik-o-riffic," a restaurant that apparently serves only chicken. A quiet vegetarian, I waded through the masses of angry chicken souls milling about in confusion and ordered a collection of sentient-friendly side dishes. It seemed pointless to raise the issue that about 5% of the menu items were palatable to someone of a limited dietary scope like me. The mashed potatoes and past salad were perfectly fine. Having endured years of meatlessness in Ohio (perhaps the flesh capital of the nation) I am accustomed to side orders.

Back at the squad, we embarked on the evening's drills, role-plays of various ugly situations in which we might find ourselves. All involved extricating injured people from car accidents. Crew members took turns playing victim and savior. It's sort of reassuring to play the victim and experience the intelligence and care that is devoted to bringing an injured person out of the car. I went slack and let those strangers' hands move me gently out on to the stretcher, supporting my spine and taking over control of where my body would go.

One drill involved a person who had been in a motorcycle wreck and suffered paralysis to their legs. Although she had (allegedly) torn open her keen and shattered the kneecap, she only complained of pain the the shoulder, having lost any sensation of the trauma to her lower body. The designated victim played the frightened and pained role so well that I found that my persistent desire to get a motorcycle again was ebbing considerably.

One of my new crewmates is a small woman with elfish features that I found very pleasing, if not downright familiar. (Studies show that people rate faces they've seen before as more attractive than ones they're seeing for the first time, whether or not they remember having seen the face before.) It was only when she was paged for a phone call that I realized that I did, in fact, know her. We went to Oberlin College together and graduated in the same year. I found her later and shared my realization, and we spent some time figuring out where our paths crossed. It turns out we were both in Harkness co-op, a student-run dorm and vegetarian dining hall.

It was only the next day that I realized that I've seen my new colleague naked. It really was a rather stunning moment of revelation.

Harkness had a somewhat deserved reputation as the irresponsibly progressive Babylon of the campus. Each floor had one bathroom with communal-style showers, and so the young and nubile men and women of our little world showered together. (For the outrageously prudish, there was a little sign that could be turned to either "W" or "M" to denote a temporary same-sex-only limitation on the showers.) For the most part, the system worked quite well: we got to know our neighbors quite well, and we all had a bit more reason to get up in the morning.

Of course, the coed showers depended on everyone being respectful, and no one (i.e. men) being ogling jerks. For the most part, it was fine. But I admit it: I didn't always modestly avert my eyes from the flesh of my dorm mates. Naked bodies are just plain fascinating, both men's and women's, and the lure of knowing what the people around you look like under their duds is powerful indeed. So I peeked a bit.

My new colleague said didn't live there at exactly the same time I did, but I think she dated someone who was. I have a hazy memory of perhaps sharing a shower with them at a couple points. I may have cast a glance over their way in violation of the unspoken non-ogling pact. Yes... when I concentrate, that memory seems to come in focus.

But I believe I'll stop at that level of clarity. I don't know why I would hesitate to remember anything that involves nudity, but this small knot of memory cells is flashing out a warning message like a buoy. This memory makes the challenging social terrain of my relationships at the rescue squad into an even more formidable mountain range. I have the strangest feeling that she'll be able to read my mind and detect if I've spent been trying to picture her naked. Fortunately, this is a familiar fear for me, although usually my imaginings of nudity among colleagues and friends are based on supposition and not actual memories. In any case, I believe it's a mine field best left un-tap-danced-in.

There is also the frightening prospect that she remembers me in the flesh. Of this too, I will think no more.