It’s not uncommon for people in movies or on television to tuck their guns into their waistbands. It seems to be done for the expediency of the storyline. Often these characters are in a big hurry and need their hands free to, perhaps, climb their way to safety or find an important document in a file cabinet. It usually works out well enough in the world of crime dramas which is probably why it was emulated out in the streets of Brooklyn. Unfortunately, this amateurish approach to firearm safety coincided with a popular trend of wearing pants so large they sagged well below the waistline. It was a terrible combination that led to a rash of unusual injuries in sensitive areas. Some people learn the hard way, the importance of storing things properly, and how to keep the things you love safe.

We were stopped at the traffic light when there was a sudden banging on my door. Both of us turned to see two teenagers yelling at us through the window I was reluctant to roll down. They had concerned, almost frantic expressions on their faces.

“We called,” they were saying. “We’re the ones who called!”

“You called for an ambulance?” I asked skeptically. The radio had been unusually quiet that night and we had heard nothing come over in our area.

The young men looked at us like we were complete morons. “Yes! We called!” They looked healthy and OK. Would they be directing us to an emergency elsewhere? “Aren’t you here for us?” they asked.

Actually, we were there because our favorite Tex/Mex place was just a few blocks beyond this traffic light. I was working with Orlando, who had more facial expressions for frustrated contempt than there are tacos on the Super Taco mix and match menu. This one clearly said ‘I guess we aren’t eating tonight, let’s see what these two healthy looking guys want’. He indicated to them that they should get out of the street so that he could pull our truck over.

The teens went to the sidewalk and began talking to each other as we let the dispatcher know we had been ‘flagged down’. The dispatcher reacted as if we were telepathic since a call from that location had just popped up on his screen as soon as we mentioned it.

The young men were still engrossed in their intense interaction as we got out of our truck and opened the door to the rear compartment. Their conversation involved a lot of looking around along with suspicious glances at us. We waited patiently for a whole minute and a half before we reminded them that we were standing by. They gave us that wait-a-minute finger that induces people to sigh and roll their eyes. Another half minute went by and Orlando let them know they could call back when they were ready as he started to close the door.

The teens, who appeared to be either 17 or 18 years old, quickly ended their negotiation, with the one in the black hoodie handing the one in the grey hoodie an obvious firearm that he removed from the several-sizes-too-big pants he was wearing.

The young man in the grey hoodie made a quick look around and took off running as best as his fashion choices allowed while the kid in the black hoodie finally made his way to our open ambulance. We stopped him before he got in, asking if there were any more dangerous weapons he was hiding elsewhere in his ensemble. He looked at us like were were crazy since it must have been impossible for us to have witnessed their not-so-subtle transfer only seconds ago. My partner gave him another one of those priceless facial expressions as he asked him point blank if he was carrying. A police car, with it’s flashing lights was speeding to our corner and abruptly stopped as the teen sheepishly told us that he had nothing else on him in the vague-est way possible.

Our black hoodie’d patient stepped in and sat on the bench as a police officer came over. “This is the shooting?” he asked.

“Shooting?” my partner responded. “We were flagged down. You are here for a shooting?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “That’s how we got it. Dispute with a firearm.”

One officer got into the ambulance and sat down in the captains chair as my partner remained on the steps of our side entrance. The patient seemed comfortable and not in any distress at all. We asked the young man what happened to him and rather than present any kind of injury or trauma, he began what was a long tale reminiscent of an action/spy thriller.

Using colorful language, the youth told a story of young love that had soured.

He had decided to end a relationship several months before, after realizing that being with only one woman was far too restrictive. While he was out there enjoying his new playboy lifestyle his former paramour had gone “bat-shit crazy”. She started stalking him and bad-mouthing him to everyone in the neighborhood. He understood that it must have been devastating for her to be kicked to the curb by someone of such high desirability but for a time she harassed him, and any woman he had an interest in, with a high degree of vengeance. But soon he found out that his ex had a new man in her life and he thought he could breathe a little easier. He was happy that she had found someone else to nag and finance her diva lifestyle.

Unfortunately, he discovered that she had taken up with a rival entrepreneur whose business enterprises conflicted with his own. He felt that she wasn’t all that interested in his pharmaceutical competitor. It was his opinion that this was all just an attempt to drive our patient crazy with jealousy and anger. Of course it didn’t work, he had already moved on. But he developed some sympathy for the new man in her life, being manipulated by this shrewd woman. It must not have been easy to be compared to her ex all the time, given she still had a thing for him.

We started growing impatient with this long story that didn’t explain the need for an ambulance, when finally he told us what had happened on that day, specifically.

Our patient had been spending a casual evening with friends. The young man looked up randomly and saw his adversary on a fire escape nearby. He believed that the constant pressure of being unfavorably compared to his girlfriend’s former partner had finally taken its toll. He could distinctly see a gun aimed at him, in fact, it was aimed directly at his ‘junk’, probably because it was yet another area that he couldn’t compete, in our victim’s reasoning.

“Where did he get you?” we asked.

The teen undid his large jeans and they effortlessly crumpled to the floor. He then slowly lowered his rusty red-stained boxer briefs to reveal blotchy sections of mangled genitalia. The 17-year-old wouldn’t look down but I could see him watching the horrified facial expressions on the men behind me.

“This doesn’t hurt?” I asked skeptically, because it definitely looked like it should hurt. One side of his penis was bloody and ripped apart near the base with chunks of flesh unfolded outwards. His penis seemed to have been hit unevenly but there was a distinct round hole to one of his testicles where the bullet appeared to have lodged. There were small pieces of bloody flesh adhered to the boxer briefs. Despite this there was not much active bleeding.

The man shrugged as I uncomfortably tried to bandage or rather, just pack everything together, in his genital region. It’s not something they teach you in the academy, although they probably should. This was not an uncommon occurrence.

Many a newbie gun enthusiast has forgone safety in favor of style. I had already had several patients who had injured their buttocks by ‘securing’ guns into their rear waistbands and several others who had injured the more sensitive real estate in the front. Proper holster usage could have gone a long way in preventing some of this. The accessory was in need of a fashionable comeback.

Guns accidentally discharging into the gunslingers pants often come with incredible stories to explain the unintended holes in their reproductive organs. One prior patient came up with an explanation that actually seemed genuinely plausible. He told us that his enemy had found him at a vulnerable moment, urinating. Other aspects of the story didn’t really line up, like the lack of urine and the angle of the bullet hole (right through, from top to bottom, with no bleeding thanks to the seared edges of the clean little hole). But it was a good story and gave me a interesting chief complaint and narrative for my paperwork: “He shot the pee right out of me.”

Today’s version of not admitting to accidentally shooting their nether regions was the first we had heard with such dramatic lead in. It also, conveniently, took care of the patient’s rival. My partner leaned out the door and surveyed the buildings with the other cop who was still outside.

“That seems like spectacular marksmanship,” he said. “The nearest building with a fire escape is more than a full block away.”

“He knows how to shoot,” our young victim agreed.

“His accuracy is truly amazing,” my partner nodded. “With a handgun, not a rifle, right?” The cop who was in the back with us looked out of our truck as well and then just sat back down with a smirk, shaking his head.

“That was definitely some impressive aim,” I agreed. “He totally bypassed your pants. Not a hole anywhere. You can wear these jeans home when you get out of the hospital.”

“Well, you see,” the man explained. “I like to wear my pants big and well, they were kinda low when he got me.”

“He didn’t damage your underwear either. Were you exposing yourself?” said the cop with a tinge of sarcasm.

“No, no!” said the teen, getting a little nervous about his story unraveling. He assured us that physics existed somewhere that could verify his accounting of events. To get off the topic of his shooters pinpoint accuracy, he gave his assailants name to the police officer with a directive to, “make sure you get him.”

If the sniper-with-CIA-skills story didn’t convince us he was lying, the fact that he gave up his shooter did. Having spent much time in violent neighborhoods we knew that gang members never give up information on their assailants to the police, choosing instead to retaliate themselves. But our victim was very enthusiastically telling the police his name, address, and the locations and times where he could be picked up.

The cop rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just admit your gun discharged in your pants. Everyone here knows it. You’re not convincing anyone.”

The young man put on his best look of fake-not-so-fake outrage. “What?! You think I’m lying? I’m not lying. I saw a man shoot me and I even know who did it. I will testify in court. This is an easy job, man. This could be your ticket to detective. I think you just don’t want to do your job so you SAY I’m lying. Well, can you believe that? Everyone I know says PD is lazy, but not me. I’m always out there saying PD got a tough job, PD out there putting their lives on the line… then I turn around and see this, that they’re all right about you. Cutting corners, not investigating anything. I may need to contact the review board.”

We were all kind of smiling during his tirade, even the cop, and when it was finished, even the kid. But he still wasn’t going to say it out loud and wasn’t going to recant his version of events. His version was far more spectacular, I’ll admit.