Driver Training

The horn woke Rick that Sunday morning. He was tired and realized his pager was off. Turning it on it crackled:

–Forty-four control to department ten, signal ten. Box alarm outside Nyack Hospital on North Midland Avenue.

Barely getting out of bed, and without taking the crust out his eyes, he put on his shoes. There were times he slept with his pants on.  Today wasn’t that day, he hurried to put any old pair on. He opened the backdoor and saw frozen snow everywhere. It was colder than a witch’s tit. In a hurry he started his car, put it in reverse, and turned to see his back windshield covered in white ice. Shit! He was wearing a t-shirt thinking he’d just hop in and take off–not a good idea. After getting his jacket he began hacking at his back window till he got a good portion of it off, but by the time he got to the firehouse the truck was out. The bay door was open. On the left side of the truck bay was a shelf with a jar of pens standing next to an open white binder. He X’ed the square next to his name and waited for the truck to return. Meanwhile he closed the bay door. Whoever was tillering forgot to close it. Rick started towards the backroom when he noticed the floor. It wasn’t cleaned in long time. There were leaves from last fall laying in corners and all sorts of dust and debris the truck dragged in.  The worst was the salt. If they weren’t going to clean that soon it would corrode the floor.

–Signal eleven.

He heard from the radio box . Without the truck inside the voices echoed across the room.

–Department ten, signal fourteen.

It was about three minutes till he heard the engines roaring outside. The bay door opened. Beep-Beep, the driver honked, then the tiller repeated the motion–code for ready to reverse. Rick got his credit. He saw the Captain driving, Fred was in the officer’s seat and Max was tillering. He X‘ed their names too.

False alarm.

Fire Truck

The Captain kept backing in crooked. They’d stop, the driver beeped twice and then the tillerman repeated, code for ready to go forward. They did this three times before Rick heard the brakes pop on–PVST.

“Good day for some driver training?” Rick hinted, hoping Fred would get his chance. It was unusual to suggest driver training for the sake of someone else, mostly because there was nothing to do save sitting in the cab and looking out the window.

“Why not?” Max agreed.

“Fred, you feel like taking a truck for a spin?” the Captain asked.

“Sure.”

“We can do driver but no tiller—”

“It’s cool.” Rick replied. He’d been in the back a couple times, but he knew now wasn’t the weather for it. Tillering isn’t like driving. When the driver turns left, tillermen turn right and steer the back of the truck, not to be confused with the front. Going in reverse was the most confusing because although it feels like backing in, the tillerman is driving forward.

He had a deep respect for Fred. Rick couldn’t understand why their Engineer, Ted, delayed training him. He was going to be Captain soon, a little less than a year. Although one didn’t need to be a driver to be voted a Captain, it was a sign of support. Rick felt proud, proud that it was his idea to suggest Fred drive. He felt good about it. He reasoned with himself that there was nothing to come home to. Spending some time in the truck was always soothing in its own way, listening to the engine roaring and sometimes screaming as it jogged uphill with a scent of diesel.

Rick sat in the cab while everyone else was talking about something over the intercom. He sat there watching the snow-filled landscape passing quickly outside. Hook Mountain, when they drove up 9W, looked spectacular. It was wrapped in a cold blanket. All the trees where coated with frost and the evergreens were majestic–containing life–while everything else froze in a winter’s slumber. Rick could see his breath float past him, somehow adding to the mountain’s glory. He was pensive. His mind aloof, other thoughts and daydreams began preoccupying him.

It was cold. Outside the sun blasted and everything glowed.

He was thinking of summer. Those god-awful heatwaves he complained about now seemed so inviting. All the trees would fill with leaves and the dry soil he loved to kick into the air with the tips of his toes. Everything seemed different. All those roads and small streets reflected differently back at him. Winter is a time everything hides. Rick found himself wishing he could sleep through it. There was no solace in that creeping cold that somehow knew how to enter his spine and linger.

One day, as he loved to imagine, he would be tillering and driving the truck. One day he would perhaps save someone from a burning building, and it would be a sexy girl in distress, and he would kiss her and get lucky that same day. Being in the fire department has its perks, although not quite like that.

What's-Her-Name

Rick once christened the cab by bringing over a girl, What’s-Her-Name, from the bars downtown. He was sitting in the same seat. It’s funny how completely different it feels inside the cab when it’s parked in the truck bay versus driving around. They ended up falling asleep in the backroom. Rick woke up to Mr. Chairman coming in. “Sorry,” he said and quickly walked out not without telling the Chief. It was a fun night but it mustn’t have been all that good. She even took him out to breakfast at Strawberry Place. She began telling him about herself and he listened. After she ordered an omelet Rick said he wasn’t hungry, and she gave him a disappointed look, so he ordered a muffin. Blueberry muffin. Rick wanted to appease her.  He could still feel last night’s beer in his belly. And the scotch…The more they drove around in the fire truck, the more vividly he relived that night–not without regret.

It all began in Blackbear. After he walked in he saw an Asian girl wearing a white top walking towards the door. She looked at him and said, “You’re sexy.” Rick smiled. How could he not? And that was about all the effort he needed. Eventually they found themselves playing pool in Bruxelles about six blocks West. She asked Rick for advice on how to shoot, and when he got behind her she bent forward and tapped him with her buttocks. Rick was happy. Sealed deal. The rest was easy. Too easy. His suggestions were lopsided and she eventually lost the game. Before long they were kissing face outside in the frost. Rick didn’t like the amount of tongue she was using.

“I’m a fireman.”

“I wanna see your truck.” she said.

“I worked in Dominican,” she said back in Strawberry Place, “As a Computer Engineer. I can remember any number after hearing it once.”

Rick was impressed but something was amiss. He didn’t want to give her his number, but he did. It weighed on him. He wanted to pay for her but couldn’t. He thought of her. He thought of last night. It was nice. He looked at his watch and couldn’t remember what time he needed to meet up with his friends.

Tire tracks on a snowy day.

That was all in the past now. He would never see her again. As she dropped him off home, he thanked her. After closing the door to her white Honda Civic, he watched her cautiously drive away leaving tire marks in the snow. He could feel cold pinches as the snow landed on his cheeks. As the car became smaller and smaller a weight fell on him. Why didn’t I get her number? he wondered.

Outside the window the  snow was moving quickly past him. He woke out of his daydream and rubbed his eyes as if he were really asleep. The cab had six seats, all were empty save his. The straps on all the SCBA bottles dangled and made music as the truck shook, forcing the metal pieces to hit the fiberglass. Up front they were mumbling about something. Sometimes a laugh came loose over the sound of the engine. Around that time the sun came out and blinded Rick’s eyes, making the snow too brilliant. It always reminded him of the Transfiguration, whiter than snow. Or was it as white as snow? He looked away back into the cab waiting for his eyes to adjust from the shock. Rick imagined the cab full of geared up firemen sitting and glancing at one another. They weren’t saying anything. A tension was between them, like an awkward silence, although none of their faces showed it. One fireman was eating a red apple and offered a bite to Rick. Suddenly he realized there were two soldiers wearing camouflaged uniforms. Those weren’t firemen’s helmets, they were army issued. They were chewing gum and spitting on the cab’s floor. At their sides leaned rifles.

Soldier eating a red apple.

The soldier eating the apple shared a comforting smile with Rick. “Don’t look so tense,” he said, “Pain is nothing to fear.” Then he took another bite.

“Where are we going?” Rick asked.

The soldier didn’t answer right away. Instead he seemed to think about this. Then he said, “To die, of course.” Rick swallowed hard. “You’re tense. Death is nothing to fear either.”

“How can you say that?” Rick asked.

“How can you not?” he retorted. “Everybody everywhere fears death. But nobody everywhere fears life.”

Rick thought about this for a second. It made no sense, but something in his heart made it perfect.

“What’s your name, Soldier?” Rick asked. He didn’t reply, instead he continued eating his apple that didn’t seem to get any smaller. The other soldier who was sitting on the opposite side of the cab lifted his attention to Rick. He had dark profound eyes. Rick immediately felt a sense of dignity emit from his face. The soldier didn’t smile but he wasn’t unpleasant. Rick stared back uneasily, trying to swallow his discomfort. He saw the soldier’s Adams Apple moving up and down.

Lt. Jacobson

“My name’s Lt. Jacobson,” the soldier with the red apple suddenly said. “And his name,” he pointed to the soldier by the window, “is Harris. He’s a Private. Can’t talk none. Harris ate a bullet the other day.”

A part of Rick shuddered at the thought. Swallowed a bullet? Got shot? The man is lucky to be alive. “What day would that be?” Rick asked. Lt. Jacobson began laughing as if it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Harris ignored him as if his ears were clogged.

“Hey Harris,” Jacobson managed between bouts of laughter, “You wanna answer this one?”

Private Harris

Harris managed a smile that didn’t last too long. Suddenly his hands shot to his throat. Rick could see he was in pain, or at least that’s what it seemed. “Didn’t think so,” said Jacobson.

“He’s choking!” yelled Rick.

“Nonsense. Can’t talk. Pain’s too deep. That man is afraid to live. Wasn’t always like that, but he is now.” The Lieutenant had a sharp commanding voice.

Outside everything started to fade black, the truck must have entered a tunnel. Harris kept looking at the floor covering his throat. Rick could see him twitching.

“Is he ok?” Rick asked. Jacobson took another bite of his apple.

“Would you be? The bullet’s still in there. Damn Doctors couldn’t pull it out. Ya go to school for ten fucking years! TEN YEARS! And they said it’d be better if he leaves it in. Ain’t that right, Harris?” At this he began laughing again. Rick for the first time noticed a black soldier glancing at him, sitting across Private Harris, only his stare was timid and angry. This took Rick off guard. He swore nobody was sitting there before. His face was covered in perspiration and his eyes were red. Something about his complexion was dark. Rick imagined that if he were to expose his teeth he’d have sharp fangs.  Be cautious with this one, he heard himself saying as he felt a keen sense of dread fill the cab.

Harris. He's a Private. Can't talk none. Harris ate a bullet the other day.

“What’s your name?”

“Fuk you askin’ me for, goddamn cracka!” The black soldier pulled out a knife from his black leather boot. “You won me to stick ya? Do ya?!”

Rick leaned back in his chair and looked at Jacobson. He was still laughing and not paying attention. .

“Motha fuka gonna back down from a knife fight?! You’z a sissy!”

Jacobson laughed harder.

“You scared, I smell it, you piece of–” The black soldier turned his head towards Jacobson. Rick saw his hands quivering. He got up and began advancing toward Rick who now had about ten frogs in his throat by now.

“Larry, it’s not him! It’s not him,” Jacobson said, snapping out of his fit. “Put your knife away!”

“H’fuk you know?”

“Larry! Look at him! What’s his name?!”

Larry didn’t seem to hear Jacobson, meanwhile he glared at Rick as if he were a turkey and he was starving.

He glared at Rick as if he were a turkey and he was starving.

“I’ma cut me some white flesh–” As if interrupting himself he flung towards Rick. Rick jumped and felt himself hit the back of his head. A sharp pain shot across his head like lightning. He saw those weird stars floating everywhere like fireflies. Before Larry could reach him, Jacobson lunged forward and grabbed him by the throat. Larry turned with such force Rick thought he was going to stab Jacobson in his side. But he managed to subdue him.

“Goddamnit Larry, what the fuck?! You listening to me? It’ ain’t him. His name is Rick Turner. Rick! RICK TURNER!”

As if in pain he replied, “RICK TURNER! RICK TURNER!”

Rick could see Larry’s eyes get calmer. They seemed soothed.

“That’s it, Larry,” Jacobson said as if he were talking to an infant. “It’s not him. Not him.”

“I-I-I’m s-s-sorry.”

He swore nobody was sitting there before.

“It’s ok. No need to be sorry. Not to me anyway. Why don’t you introduce yourself. Say a little something. Rick,” he turned to him, “Meet Private Larry, Larry-Rick.” Still subdued Larry extended his hand, no longer holding his knife.

“I’m sorry, Rick.”

Rick, as confused as he was and with his pulse still high, extended and shook hands.

“Can I let go of you now?” Jacobson asked. Larry nodded his head. After he sat back in his seat Rick saw he was a completely different person. His eyes weren’t red anymore, no sweat, and that darkness seemed to vanish. He was smiling. He nodded his head towards Rick and turned facing the window.  Meanwhile outside it suddenly began blasting with bright-yellow light. All was quiet. Harris no longer covered his neck. He was smiling. The light outside was getting so bright it was getting difficult for Rick to see their faces. He heard Jacobson bite into the apple again.

“Hey Rick,” he heard Jacobson say before he turned towards him. His face looked older. “Something I gotta tell you. The kid’s not up there.” Rick didn’t know what to think. “You got me? The kid isn’t up there. He’s not upstairs. It sounds like it but he’s not. No one’s there, just get out. The kid is safe.”

“What?”

The light outside was getting so bright it was getting difficult for Rick to see their faces.

“Remember me, Lt. Arnold Jacobson.” He smiled and saluted Rick with the apple in hand. Then he raised the red apple to his mouth as if he was going to take another bite and stopped. Rick saw it was a whole apple. He threw it and Rick caught it. The light outside was so bright he couldn’t see any of them anymore, just barely making out their silhouettes. There was a big bump and the cab shook. Rick hit the back of his head again. Another sharp pain. More fireflies.

“Are we gonna find him? Are we?”

“Yes, Larry. In time. Be patient.”

“Hey Rick?”

“Yeah?” There was a pause.

“Rick?”

“Yes?”

“Rick? Rick? Rick?!”

“Yes? What?!”

“RICK! WAKE-UP!”

He opened his eyes and found himself drooling on the window. He looked up. The truck was parked in front of Orangetown.

“Breakfast!” he heard the Captain yell out.

“In O-Town?”

“Woman’s Auxiliary’s hosting.”

Rick wobbled out of the truck. His face felt like it was stuck against the cold, even though the sun shone strongly. When he breathed he felt his tongue get colder and colder.

“You ought to wear a hat in this weather,” said Fred, who seemed overall pleased with himself. All Rick managed was a nod. When they got inside Rick could smell eggs, sausage and bacon.

Author’s Note & Introduction

Welcome to my new Blog, The Fire Call Chronicles. Here are short stories about a fictional protagonist Rick Turner who chooses to serve his community. He has many expectations and fears in what he’ll learn to be one of the most dangerous jobs, and he does it for free. However, there’s a little more to this than just firefighting. There’s anxiety, politics, personal reflection, dreams (sometimes awful ones) and disagreements. Plenty of drama.

There are two major different views about firefighters I feel worth mentioning; one is from the inside and being an active participant, and the other is from the outside…sometimes, if not often, the two conflict with one another and sometimes there’s heavy opposition in keeping the peace within a community or among fellow firemen (I hate to say it but it’s true).

Volunteer firefighters are people, like myself, who are freely giving their time and energy to keep members of a community safe. Just like anywhere else, there’s a deep psychology behind it. There’s a way about things. Just like you will see with Rick, fighting fires is not always what being active in the department is about.

In my career of being in the department I’ve come across similar questions/experiences Rick faces. The biggest danger to a firefighter is complacency. When in a town there are fewer and fewer structure fires thanks to wealth and new construction codes, there’s a group of people with rules to abide by. There’s a Board of Governors that begins to cut budget simply from statistics. Somehow, somewhere in all this the true meaning begins to slowly seep in the back of people’s minds. What happens then? What decisions are being made by the higher-ups?  Even more importantly, what happens inside fire houses? What has their meaning turned into? What do the internal politics begin to look like? Probably the most important question: What does it take to be a good firefighter?

Post 9-11 there was a new-found respect for firefighters. Ironically, it didn’t last too long. FDNY has suffered great budget cuts and hiring freezes. What caused this? Who knows. Dirty politics? Perhaps…

Most important regarding any Blog is to sit back and enjoy a good story.  I hope this is something I provide everyone with. I think Rick is an interesting character who looks at the world much differently than most people do, including other firemen. But enough of me blabbering. You see and judge for yourself. I hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing. Happy reading! Enjoy!

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Important Note: Although the Nyack Fire Department is a real, all stories and characters are a work of fiction. Any similarities to characters, character names and/or events is coincidental and was not deliberate by the author.

Step It Up

Some people hate the fire department because of this—that is, till their house catches. It’s true, when that happens it’s never loud enough and response time never seems quick enough.

–Beep beep beep beep

–Beep beep beep beep

The pager crackled.

–Forthy-four control department ten. Signal ten—oven. Three o’nine Nyack Plaza.

Rick ran from the attic to his car parked on South Mill Street. There was a sense of urgency but something intuitive told him it would be fine. But there was no room for complacency. It would get him killed. He knew that.

As soon as he started the car the pager crackled again,  now hanging on his visor.

–Ten-twelve-fifty responding.

That was quick, he thought, forgetting they were selling Christmas trees.

He took off and saw his first lieutenant responding, making a left on Washington Avenue and followed him. Rick usually didn’t.

–Ten-one-thousand-one responding

That was quick, too.

Following Fred made things a little easier, even though they were stuck with two lights. Rick didn’t have a blue light. Fred just got a new one and Rick could the damn thing blinking off a tree two miles away. Cars were moving to the side. That was nice for a change.

The light turned green on Depew and they were off again. Rick heard three loud honks from Ten-One-Thousand-One as they were making a right turn. It became a lot sharper than either of them anticipated. Rick nearly bumped Fred. And the Green Hornet passed them as they rolled up to a second red. They were on North Midland Avenue waiting to cross Main Street. Just a block left, and a turn on Catharine Street. Rick didn’t mind waiting and wondered if Fred felt the same.

Green. Fred sped up.

The bay door was already open. Fred jumped out the car in front of Rick as he pulled up and goddamn nearly hit him.

Running into the cab Rick saw Sal driving with no one in the officer’s seat. He realized Fred ran to tiller.

“Want me to sit up front?”

“Yah!”

As he went his way towards the front he heard the engine start sounding like a thousand chariots on their way towards the Gentiles trapped by the Red Sea. He put on the headset.

“We waiting?” Rick asked as they rolled out the bay over the apron.

“No.”

They cleared the bay walls. Rick pushed down on the intercom: “Ten-ninety-nine responding.”

Rick turned to the siren console and twisted the knob. Nothing happened. He knew Sal had to press something, and it would ignite sounding louder than any fat lady ever sang. Suddenly it blared. His left foot pushed against the mechanical siren peddle. Pressing it made the front of truck go WHAAAA!!! and after it peaked he let her go to gradually decline on its own. But there was nothing better than taking his left hand grabbing the rope hanging over head and pulling it. BLAMP! It fulfilled a childhood fantasy.

Main Street was packed when they blew the red light, making a sharp left. Adrenaline seized Rick. He pulled the rope and stepped down forcing monstrous noises from the truck. Some people hate the fire department because of this—that is, till their house catches. It’s true, when that happens it’s never loud enough and response time never seems quick enough. As cars were making their way off to the side, an SUV didn’t move far enough. A commercial bus blocked it on the other side.

“COME ON! MOVE!” said Sal. Rick pressed the horn five times, smirking.

BLAMP! BLAAAAAMP! BL-BLAAAMP! BLAMP! BLAAA…

Over the intercom Fred said, “We’ll just stand here and make your ears squeal.”

“No problem.”

Rick reasoned that people just get nervous and don’t know what to do. The SUV eventually moved. Rick held the siren brake and turned the sirens off as they approached the scene.

“Tell them we’re approaching on Franklin,” said Sal.

“Ten-ninety-nine approaching on Franklin.”

They stopped. The apartment was on their left with its door wide open. A bunch of geared up firemen were moving around in a mist.

“Was that smoke?” asked Sal.

“Yup! Looks like a bit of it coming out of there,” said Fred.

“They got it out,” said Rick. “Should I get dressed or hang out?”

“Throw some gear on.”

He hopped out the truck and hurried without running towards the back to the compartment holding his gear. He was systematic: pulling out everything from his pockets, throwing off his shoes, putting everything in his pockets in his shoes. His hood was braced on the top of his leather boots. Rick always preferred to put it on first. The he donned his pants. His gear was new and not clean. That was a good thing. Nobody wants to get caught going into a building with polished boots or with perfect unstained knee pads and khaki brown pants and jacket with fluorescent gray and yellow stripes. It meant you were new. It meant you didn’t work hard enough. He clipped his waist buckle and got hung up strapping his harness. It was tight. It was supposed to be, but the button strap kept snapping. He re-clipped it on his third try and then threw on his jacket when he heard something.

“What?” he said approaching the tiller.

“Step it up!”

There was nothing better to slow him down than to hurry him up. Rushing to get his zipper it got caught. Shit! It took three tries before he finally zipped up, grabbing his helmet and ran into the cab. The driver’s seat was empty, its door left wide open. Rick grabbed the nearest SCBA and put it on.

Step it up. Step it up. Stepitup-stepitupstepitup…There’s smoke coming out of the building…step-it-up!

When a person’s house is burning, the owners look at firefighters and sometimes yell for them to hurry up. They see the truck and person get out of it. There are no questions. He’s a firefighter and it’s his job. Volunteer or not.

He went to unclip his name tag only to get them both in his hand.  There were two of them and one of them always had to be on your person. Oh fuck it! He re-clipped them, not without hearing the Chief’s voice in his head say: You gotta leave your name-tag!

He was ready.

From the window he saw Sal approach holding the thermal camera. They seemed to open the door simultaneously.

“Relax. We’re on a fourteen.” Said Sal. Rick didn’t realize they were on a signal eleven, which meant the situation was under control, much less a fourteen. “Time to go home!”

Rick doffed his SCBA throwing his jacket on the floor of the cab and took off his hood. It was already wet. He began the paperwork as they set off to the firehouse sitting in the Officer’s seat. Overhead he switched on a red light, so as not to distract the driver. Handwriting was always sloppy when he wrote on the truck. Somehow he confused himself, he thought that the tiller-man and driver aren’t considered officers on a scene, a technicality. But he also remembered that regardless what the Captain did, he was always in charge. Rick’s instincts were correct only he didn’t listen to them. ORDER OF RANK, it screamed so loud in his chest he heard it oozing out his ears. He wrote his name next to Officer in Charge.

They backed into the bay. Just like any truck it beeped in reverse. They stopped  and he heard the brake–PSTZ.

“Hey, wait a second,” began Fred, “aren’t we supposed to back-up at least two more times?”

Sal laughed, “Who the fuck you think is driving?”

Rick popped out the truck and met Fred. He handed him the Company Report Sheet. Taking it he read across and frowned.

“You officer in charge?”

“YUP! I’m an officer. OFF-I-CER! Means, I’m in charge.”

Rick felt he should have known by now. He scratched his name and wrote: 1^st LT. As he did it he felt Fred’s stare pounding pins and needles up his back. Rick turned around and walked to the other side of the truck and doffed his gear.