Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [30]
“What’s too bad?” I ask with interest.
“That Malcolm was zapped,” he says, closing the book, and throwing it on the back seat. “You know,” he continues, “I bet our times get named. Just like the Age of Reason, the Enlightenment, and the Great Awakening. Our life-time is going to be known as the Great Zap. You know, historians will look back and say ‘It’s too bad about those people in the twentieth century. You know. It could have been an age of peace and harmony, but they let their leaders get zapped.’”
Artie has a habit of saying “you know,” but he never says it questioningly. It is a declarative statement, and seems to reinforce what he says. The rain beats harder on the Palisades now, and it is more difficult to drive.
I laugh a little, and say, “Listen Artie, the day is depressing enough.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “There must be something we can say to bring a little sunshine into this car. You know. We can talk about the Miss America contest, or some other equally important American venture. Like, you know, television quiz games or the vice-presidency.”
“I know, Artie,” I say. “There is a consistency of metaphor there somewhere.”
“At least you’re laughing,” he says.
I can see the vertical beams of the George Washington Bridge. We will be at the firehouse in fifteen minutes. The rain has slowed to a drizzle again, but it is icing on the windshield. It is going to be cold riding on the back of the fire engine.
It is five minutes after five as we enter the firehouse. Engine 82 and both Ladder 31 and 712 are out. Engine 85’s pumper is parked in the corner of the apparatus floor, and the Chiefs car sits in the middle. Bob Beatty and Marty Hannon—two of the senior men in Engine 85—are playing gin rummy in the kitchen.
“Hey Beast,” I yell over the screaming unwatched television, “where are all the troops?”
Beatty throws his cards on the table, kicks his chair over, and hollers, “Ya doesn’t hafta call me Beast. Ya can call me Robert if ya want, but ya doesn’t hafta call me Beast.” Hannon doubles over in laughter. Beatty picks his chair up, sits down, and regroups his cards. He ignores us. Beatty is a tall, thin man who sports a handlebar mustache. He is a hard-drinking, good-looking unmarried fireman, and a good man with his fists when the time comes. He is also the firehouse mimic.
“Bob is having one of his attacks,” Artie says. Beatty twitches a small smile, but concentrates on ignoring us. He must have waited in the kitchen, silently practicing the routine, until we arrived.
“Let me try again,” I say. “Marty, would you happen to know where the other companies, and the firefighters assigned to those companies, are?”
Marty Hannon has one of those fresh, rose-colored faces that makes him look like he just stepped off the boat from County Meath. As he speaks his sullen Irish eyes smack of sincerity. “No, I’m sorry Dennis, I don’t. But the Beast probably does.”
Beatty again kicks his chair over. “Ya doesn’t hafta call me Beast.…”
As we walk out of the kitchen, Artie says, “You should have known better.”
“Yeah.”
As we walk up the stairs to the locker room, the man on housewatch begins to pull the heavy chains of the overhead door. The companies have returned from wherever they were. I am halfway up the flight of twenty-three stairs, but I turn and walk down again. Engine 82 backs into its spot, and I take my gear from the rack. With boots, helmet, and rubber coat in place I can now change into my work clothes without having to worry about looking for them if an alarm comes in.
Benny Carroll’s locker is next to mine on the second floor. I am happy to see him, and we ask simultaneously, “How are ya feeling?” and then laugh. I ask about his hand, and he shows me the silver-dollar scab, hard, and chocolate brown. He could have taken another week of medical leave, but he was as anxious as I to get back to the firehouse. The bum still hurts him if he stretches the skin, if he makes a fist, but he faked it at the medical office, and got a full-duty slip.
The bells