Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [10]
“Yes, I knew him. I worked with him here for the past three years,” Charlie said, looking directly at the ground.
“What did you think of him, and what do you think of what’s happened?”
“He was a great guy,” Charlie answered, still looking at the ground. “It’s a shame this had to happen, and, and…” Charlie turned away, his shoulders shaking. He turned back, tears were running from his eyes, and said, “I’m sorry—I just can’t do this,” and the toughest guy in the firehouse walked away.
I am sitting now, along with eight other men, in the kitchen of the firehouse. It is a long, narrow room at the rear of the apparatus floor. The walls are tiled brown, and there are four tables set against the side wall, with room enough to seat twenty-eight men. A soda machine and a refrigerator are set against the opposite wall. A sink, a stove, and another refrigerator are at the front of the room, at the entrance.
Billy O’Mann is at the stove preparing the night’s meal—tenderloin, boiled potatoes, and cabbage. A couple of men are playing cards, a few read magazines, and the rest are watching the television, which is sitting on a shelf in the comer.
Charlie McCartty has forgotten about the accident, the funeral, the news telecaster. It is almost time to eat, and he is yelling over the sound of the T.V.
“Yessir, men, Mrs. O’Mann is cooking Irish footballs tonight, and she requests that you clean off the tables.”
Billy-o hears the remark, and approaches waving a long-pronged fork in his hand. “Listen, Charlie,” he says, “I don’t mind you calling me Mrs. O’Mann, just as long as you don’t try to touch my body.”
“He doesn’t need you Billy-o,” Jerry Herbert says, “because he can get his own Mrs. McCartty for a deuce anytime he wants.”
Everyone laughs. Charlie makes a motion as if he was pulling a spear from his chest. “Got me,” he says. “But, a deuce is a lot of money. It doesn’t cost that much, does it?”
“Well, it depends on whether you want coupons or not,” Billy-o says.
“Ahh, got me again.”
Charlie, Billy-o, and Jerry have worked together for the past seven years—in fires and above fires, where it is roughest. Each has saved the other’s life at one time or another, and they can say anything about each other, or each other’s family, with impunity.
The laughing over, the men in the kitchen begin to gather empty coffee cups and soda cans from the tables. One man goes to the sink to wash the cups and the pots Billy-o has finished with. Another sweeps the floor. It is ten minutes after nine, and we’ll eat early.
There is a list of men on the kitchen blackboard. Twenty-four men are eating tonight, and the price of the meal is seventy-five cents. I go to the cabinet and count twenty-four plates.
As I arrange the plates on the table I think of how slow it has been since I began duty at six o’clock. We answered three alarms—a false alarm and two garbage fires burning in comer trash cans. The plates arranged, I go to count the silverware. I count off twenty-four forks, and begin counting knives when the bells start ringing. I count each gong: two—five—nine—six. Box
“That’s right up the block,” Jerry says. “Home and Simpson.” The housewatchman begins yelling, “Eighty-two and seven twelve, get out. Chief goes too.” Men scramble out of the kitchen and run to the apparatus, passing others who are sliding down the brass poles. The Battalion Chief, who has an office on the top floor of the firehouse, watches as 712’s truck and 82’s .pumper leave the house. He will respond behind us.
As we leave the firehouse we can see a large crowd of people standing in the middle of Home Street. We pass the intersection of Simpson Street, but that is as far as we are going to get. The sirens are screaming, but the crowd won’t move. We get off the rigs and push our way through.
The attraction is a ten-year-old boy lying on the street. He is in great pain, but he is not crying. A handsome boy, with long, wavy, black hair. His face is tense, and he is biting his teeth together with all his energy. The cause of his