Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [18]
Jerry is the oldest member of Ladder 31. He is thirty-eight, the chauffeur of the truck, and the senior man. He is called the “first whip,” a term which has survived from the days when horses pulled the fire engines. He is also the union delegate of Ladder 31, and he is talking now about a cousin of his who is a waiter in a fancy restaurant in Manhattan.
He says, “I’m tellin’ ya, the guy makes at least three grand more than me each year. I know. My other cousin does our taxes. The people of New York are willin’ to pay a guy who does nothin' but bring them food a damn good salary—20 percent tips on everything. But, do they support the firemen when we demand a livin’ wage? Damn right they…”
The bells start coming in. Everybody stops what they are doing. I stop putting sugar in my coffee. Jerry stops talking. Two bells. Seven. Four. Then three. We know that box well—2743—Charlotte Street and 170th. We go to that intersection more often than any other. It is usually a false alarm, but there is no such thing as “crying wolf” in this business.
As we hustle toward the kitchen door, the housewatchman yells out, “82 and 31 goes.” I kick my shoes off by the pumper and shove my feet into my rubber boots. Jim Stack slides the pole from the second floor. He is the senior man in Engine 82—the first whip—and I always feel good when I work with him. He’s thirty-nine, and in great shape because he loads soda trucks on the side. Like most of us, he has a wife and a few kids, and a house in the suburbs. If he didn’t work that extra job he would be still living in the Bronx. He is the most experienced engine man in the house, and when he is with me on the nozzle I could fight my way into the core of the earth.
As I put on my rubber coat I see Vinny Royce standing next to me on the back step of the pumper. He is a quiet, sincere guy, and the Fire Department is his whole life. He used to work in Harlem, but he transferred to Engine 82 when we became the busiest company in the city. There is enough action in Harlem to keep any fireman running, but Vinny wanted that little extra that made him part of the busiest.
The pumper starts to roll out and I lean down to help Carmine Belli up to the back step. Carmine is an exercise buff. He runs three to five miles each day. He’s also an excellent folk guitarist. Like Royce, he doesn’t say much, but he is quick to laugh at the jokes that fly so often through the firehouse air.
As we roll up Intervale Avenue, I see Benny Carroll riding on the side step of the pumper. Along with Carmine and me, this is his second night of duty. He looks a little tired—like he didn’t get any rest today. He is studying hard for the coming lieutenant’s test, maybe four or five hours a day. Hundreds of facts about building laws, chemical formulas, personnel management, fire intensity, and department regulations were floating through his head as I slept calmly on my mother’s couch. He is a handsome guy with perfect white teeth, and when he smiles I always think of a toothpaste commercial.
We are now going up Wilkens Avenue. I remember going up this street one night recently. I was riding on the side step where Benny is now. A kid threw a rock, and everything turned black. I was hit in the middle of the eye, and my knees buckled. My grip on the handrail tightened, as it tightens now. Some little kid who was never taught any better threw a rock, and I remember now how lucky I was to have had a grip on the handrail.
The pumper turns up 170th Street. Ladder 31 is right behind us, and the sirens and air horns are wailing. Few people even tum to watch us go by. Screaming fire engines and police cars are part of life in the South Bronx, just sounds to which people have adjusted.
There are three men sitting on milk boxes near the alarm box drinking from cans of beer wrapped in small brown paper bags. Jim Stack and I walk up either side of Charlotte Street looking