Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [27]
I have more respect for the old-style machine politicians. They, at least, had the perception to recognize an ugly system, and to learn how to operate within it. They paid their dues in city government. They didn’t buy it. They learned how to fold their napkins after dinner, push their way to the front when photographers were shooting, and say the right thing when asked questions. They never ordered cops around, but spoke quietly to the Captain in a side room. They understood their power, and utilized it without making waves. In their own way they got things done.
But things aren’t getting done in New York City anymore. The city is dying. City tax dollars flow to Albany and little is returned. The finances of the richest city in the world are controlled by men who represent farmers in the State Legislature. It makes no sense.
The last real hope for New York City was when Norman Mailer and Jimmy Breslin ran for Mayor and City Council President. Mailer wanted to make the city the fifty-first state, and divide the city into a lot of small towns, any one of which would have had a population larger than the state of Vermont. And Breslin is one of the few human beings in this world who realizes that what the guys are saying at the comer table of the steamfitters ball has some validity. But both men were defeated in the not-too-close race. The wheel of democracy turns slowly, and when it revolves again to the next mayoral election I won’t have my say. I’m going to miss that. Like the jockey, I have an affection for the horse, and I am just a little bitter because I don’t have a part of the action.
Yes, New York City is too big for me—too big for anyone really. There are too many people, too many schools, too many officials, too many people in jails, too many Cadillacs, too many people on welfare, too many banks, too many abandoned buildings, too much misery. But we would still be there—the five of us in a three-room walk-up—were it not for an old lady who forgot to make out a will.
I am sitting in my kitchen now, waiting for my wife Pat to finish cooking a mushroom omelette. She is standing with her back to me, and her whole body is vibrating as she beats the eggs in the frying pan. It is three o’clock. The children are outdoors. I wish I had time to hold her softly, and tell her I love her, and more. But I have to go to work, and only have time for an omelette and tea.
I have been on medical leave for the last two weeks. My throat doesn’t hurt anymore, and I’m anxious to return to the firehouse. It’s boring just resting. A man has to do things with his hands and body. I have read a lot of magazines and newspapers during the past weeks, but it is not enough to exercise the mind. Like a drunk without a drink, I feel a little “mokus,” the need to get back to what I like. Fires are burning in the South Bronx, and I get paid to fight them.
Pat places the steaming omelette in front of me. She leans toward me. Her lips touch mine, and she begins the game we call love metaphor. I can feel her soft, moist lips moving as she asks, “How much?”
“This much,” I say, extending my arms as far as possible.
She looks both ways to make sure both hands are open, and the fingertips stretched. “In money?” she asks.
“The Pope’s treasury.”
“In minerals?”
“A flawless diamond.”
“In animals?”
“Big as an elephant.”
“In mountains?”
“Mount Everest, of course, and Rolls Royce in cars, and New York in cities, and On the Waterfront in movies.”
I wrap my arms around her and end the game. She laughs lightly, as she laughed eight years ago when I first held her in my arms. I think how little our relationship has changed in all those years. Our feelings for each other have grown stronger, and we’ve learned to adapt to each other’s strengths and weaknesses, but we still play the same games, laugh the same laughs, and kiss the same kisses.
Her slender frame wriggles