By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
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The door of the bus opens, belching a stale blast of vomit-scented air into the night. Inside, empty plastic bottles that once held rum and coke, whiskey and coke, gin and tonic, you name it, are scattered everywhere: on the floor, on the plush chairs, in the pockets of the seat backs. Crushed beer cans are stashed beneath the leg rests and between the cushions. Toward the back of the bus sits the source of the malodor: a barefoot and disheveled bleached-blond sophomore from a University of Colorado sorority. Fresh puke stains dot the front of her white dress, and her hair is slick with sweat from a series of sudden, fantastic explosions. Another sorority girl, this one in blue, makes her way toward her friend from the bathroom of the bus, where she's been cleaning up the mess.
"How's she doing?" she asks two young men tending to her fallen sister.
They don't answer. Instead, they greet a third young man, dressed like them in a red polo shirt, black cargo pants and boots, as he boards the bus. Dave Speidel is one of the original members and now the chief operating officer of Student Emergency Medical Services, an almost-two-year-old CU student group that arranges for trained Emergency Medical Technicians to monitor college functions -- primarily parties -- and make sure that anyone who drinks to the point of danger can get help. Tonight's assignment is a sorority formal in downtown Denver; the sisters have chartered three buses to make the trip to Denver and back, and they've invited SEMS along for the ride. Two undergraduates, Mat Feldman and Eric Altenau, have accompanied the group from Boulder; Speidel, who graduated from CU in 2004 and now lives downtown, catches up with the party in Denver.
After Speidel is briefed on the sophomore's case history and vital signs, the three EMTs decide to take her inside and get her some water, put some food in her stomach. The girl, who's recovering from a case of strep, hasn't eaten all day and hasn't had a drink for two weeks -- tonight's short-lived binge aside. They guide the girl past the annoyed bus driver, then past the two dozen or so party-goers smoking outside in the cool, evening air: foppy-banged, J.Crew-clad white boys and the Anthropologie girls who love them, their cleavages thrust toward the heavens.
"That's the problem with partying in Denver," one of the guys says in disgust. "Somebody always pukes."
Inside, past more sorority sisters and their dates queuing up in front of the ballroom, the girl takes a mean spill off her high heels on the linoleum floor. After puking some more -- this time in a toilet in the women's bathroom -- she decides she's feeling better and moves to a couch in the hallway. Feldman and Altenau continue to check her vital signs -- pulse, blood pressure, respiration -- while Speidel fills out the requisite paperwork. Should a paramedic need to be called to the scene, he could take this detailed SEMS case history and run with it, saving valuable time.
This back hallway contains the bathrooms nearest the party and is a well-traversed route. As each group of partyers passes, several girls drop off to see to their fallen sister. The attention overwhelms her, and she bursts out in bubbly tears.
"I'm so sorry," the girl wails, holding a dinner roll in her hands like a squirrel with a nut.
"Honey, why are you crying?" her sisters reassure her. "Honey, there is nothing to be sorry for. Honey!"
Interchangeable inebriated angels of mercy utter this line over and over again, like a mantra.
"No, I'm so sorry," the girl repeats. "I'm going to buy everybody Starbucks tomorrow, I promise."
"Hell, yes, you will," one of her sisters says playfully.
Eventually the tears subside, and the SEMS team, after determining that the girl's vital signs are not deteriorating, allow her to rejoin the party -- as long as she doesn't drink anymore. They'll do their best to monitor her, but they know they can't ensure 100 percent compliance. "We'll check her again in half an hour," Speidel says, "but that's pretty much all we can do. She doesn't seem that bad to me, though. I've been a lot drunker than that. We'll just try to keep an eye on her."
On the other side of the wall, the of-age party-goers (or at least the ones with good fakes) purchase cocktails in the bar, then join the others in the buffet line, loading their plates with roast beef and all the fixings before heading into the conference area/dining room. There a DJ spins, a hired photographer snaps pics of perfect white teeth, girls dance, a guy dressed like a pimp brandishes his cane like a sword, and the SEMS team sets up shop in the back of the room. A waiter brings complimentary cokes, and the three volunteers sit by their EMT equipment, looking attentive but somewhat bored.
"It's weird, because if everything goes how we want it to, our job is not to have a job," Speidel explains.