Any ambition I had of fixing the
world when I became a firefighter evaporated from the sheer overload of daily
catastrophes. In the first two months of my probation, I saw every kind of
human calamity. Fires that consumed homes in minutes, drug overdoses, and
multiple gunshot wounds from gang fights.
The fading steel industry was still a
cause for gruesome maiming by heavy pieces of metal in the machine shops or
death from molten slag slopping out of crucibles.
I
adjusted to long shifts, sleeping in a dormitory with the other guys, and
learned how to come fully awake in 30 seconds in the middle of the night at the
alarm. I thought I handled the stress pretty well until the first time I saw a
burnt body. I had nightmares for weeks. Some things you can never unsee. Even
in our quaint residential location there was no shortage of calls to keep us
busy. After finishing paperwork and checking equipment, I used my spare time drawing
in a sketchbook while others played basketball or hunkered down in big comfy
chairs watching TV.
Darryl
was washing the engine one day with the radio on in the background when Phil
entered the bay.
“Change
the fucking the station,” Phil complained.
“Hey
it's KISS,” Darryl said cheerfully, demonstrating a few smooth moves to the
Michael Jackson song. There were constant arguments over musical preference and
Darryl enjoyed baiting Phil.
“Yeah,
well kiss this jagoff,” he shot back presenting his large posterior to the
upstart. We laughed at the banter when the alarm sounded. Darryl snapped off
the radio as we listened to dispatch. Everyone rushed to the vehicles and
pulled on their gear; we were out of the firehouse in seconds.
“Watch out, coming through, look out!”
the engine and truck sirens scream, unlike the mournful wail of an ambulance.
We hoped it was a 'good one' and not a false alarm, which wasted time and made
us unavailable for a real emergency.
Another company was already on the scene
of a fire that had engulfed a two-story paint mixing plant, which meant lots of
hot zones and potentially dangerous chemical spills. Brown canvas hoses
cluttered the pavement, puddles everywhere from all the water sprayed on the
smoldering structure. Smoke billowed from broken windows, the foul air smelled
like a mixture of turpentine and burning tires.
“All
hands working,” the battalion chief called over the radio, meaning everyone
pitches in. The air was chilly and I felt grateful as I pulled on an extra pair
of heavy leather gloves I got from Dad.
I dodged a chunk of burning debris blown
off the roof by the wind as I trotted to the rear of the building where I
discovered a barred and locked gate over a door. I hate those damn things. Nice
for security but guaranteed to trap someone inside because of the double-keyed
dead bolt. If you don't have the key handy, you're screwed. I braced myself,
took hold of the metal door with both hands and with one hard yank pulled the
door free of the hinges and the lock. When more crew showed up, I commented on
how lucky it was this door was busted. It turned out to be unnecessary as there
were no people inside, thank God, the toxic fumes would have killed them.
I
went out front and stepped over the hose Fabiano and Fisher aimed at the angry
fire visible between banks of viscous smoke as thick as drapery. One of the
Captain's jobs is to stand behind the nozzle man and direct him.
“Easy
does it, move in closer, keep the stream on the ceiling,” he shouted over the
loud hissing of the water.
Deep
down firefighters enjoy the thrill of putting out a fire and the opportunity to
control the nozzle like a child with a cool toy. Fisher enjoyed it even as he
struggled with the strenuous work.
I
stepped up to support the line. The pressure from the powerful hoses puts
considerable strain on the arms and can knock you off your feet so it takes two
or more to hold them. I hauled the hose along easily. We knelt down to stay out
of the lowering smoke as we inched toward the doorway. I backed off when I was
ordered to help ventilate the roof.
As I headed out, I saw a guy from the
other company stagger out of thick smoke, fall to his hands and knees and retch
on the sidewalk, gasping for air. Twenty minutes later I would see this guy
light up a cigarette. Go figure.
I
climbed the ladder to the roof of the building next door to join Kaz and Mike.
“Looks
like a good one, Boy Scout,” Mike commented.
'Iron
Mike', the tillerman for the truck, was as intense as his dark eyes and knew
the temperament of a fire better than anyone. We knew we were safe around him
and I tried to affect his same fearless attitude.
Kaz
and I climbed over the five-foot ledge of the taller building, poking holes in
the surface with long metal poles to release the hot gases.
“Watch
your step, this bitch is a mean one. If the roof collapses, it’ll drop you in
the fire,” Mike shouted a warning. Sure enough, a moment later a large section
gave way. Instinctively, I grabbed Kaz and leapt back to the other roof, a good
ten feet away, where Mike reached out to help. We scrambled to escape the smoke
and intense flames that shot up where we had just been standing.
The
fire shifted from manageable to defensive in an instant. After pouring on
thousands of gallons of water from multiple hoses the classic building ended up
a total loss, which was a shame.
An
hour later, the fire was finally knocked down. The first company stayed behind
to pull down ceilings and walls in search of hot spots. Firefighters want to
make sure a fire is dead when they leave so it doesn't light up again.
We
returned to the firehouse in time for a quick shower before dinner. The hot
water felt good after the chill of the day and washed away leftover adrenaline.
When I walked into the dining hall Iron Mike was regaling the crew about our
brush with the fire.
“Man,
Boy Scout couldn't get away from that hole fast enough. He practically flew to
the other rooftop,” he said with excitement. I froze at the statement until I
realized he was being dramatic.
“That's
not the only hole he runs away from,” Kaz added to bawdy laughter. Firefighters
are known for their rough humor to ease the stress of harrowing work. The guys
began discussing dinner.
“Whose
turn is it anyway?” Darryl asked. Not Kaz we hoped. The handsome charmer was
good at many things but cooking wasn't one of them. Phil had been banned from
the kitchen long before I arrived for reasons no one would discuss. Everyone
looked forward to Fabiano's turn because he would bring homemade Italian dishes
from his mother. If we were feeling rich, we would order dinner from Pato's,
the Greek restaurant recently opened next door. Everyone in unison turned to me.
If
there was one sure way to endear myself to the guys this was it. As part of my
‘bachelor training’ Mom had taught me how to balance a checkbook, do the
laundry, and to cook.
“Well,
I do have a killer meat loaf recipe.”
No comments:
Post a Comment