Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [31]
The pumper tears screaming up Home street, down Prospect, over 165th Street to Union. Nobody there. We start to walk up the street, then run back to the pumper. There are people waving down the block. The pumper stops in front of a three-story wooden frame house. There is a little smoke seeping from a window on the second floor. The men of Ladder 31 run into the building, O’Mann, McCartty, and Siebeck. Artie Merritt runs into the adjoining building to check the rear and the roof. John Milsaw stands in front. The Chiefs aide walks into the house, followed by Chief Niebrock. A group of children come running up the street to investigate the excitement.
It smells like food on the stove. Even the wind can’t hide the deep, putrid smell of burnt food. The rain has stopped, and the streets are drying. The wind passes, but it is mild, and the temperature almost pleasant. Only light smoke leaves my mouth as I open it, but the mist hanging beneath the street light tells me that the smoke will get heavier as the night grows. The mass of cold air has broken, and the break is moving through the South Bronx. The colder half will soon follow.
Chief Niebrock comes out of the building. Benny has his arm through the hose folds just in case. “Food on the stove, Chief?” The Chief nods. We are waiting now for our Lieutenant, Tom Welch, who is inside with the ruined dinner.
Lieutenant Welch is forty-three, but looks much younger. He is a hip-looking guy, with long hair. When he is off duty he wears western clothes, and, occasionally, small beads around his neck. He plays the guitar even better than Carmine Belli, but because his guitar is so expensive he doesn’t take it to the firehouse much. Things get stolen on Intervale Avenue. I get the feeling that all things in his life come second to the Fire Department. He has worked in the South Bronx for over fifteen years, and he has a reputation for getting in and putting the fire out no matter what the conditions. It’s good having him work with us. If the fire can be reached, Tom Welch will reach it.
I open my rubber coat and take the pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket. Benny and Vinny Royce each take one. As I strike the match I can hear a series of shouts coming from across the street. Some children have gathered there by the street light, and have begun to chant. There are seven of them. Seven black youthful faces peering at us. The oldest of them can’t be more than ten years old. At first their chant is disjointed, then finding harmony it fills the street. “Pig white motherfucker. Pig white.…” It repeats, and repeats.
There is no discernible hatred in their faces. No wickedness. Seven young boys, as young as unweaned calves, yet filled with words beyond their understanding. Like carolers they are grouped in a semicircle, but unlike carolers they are poised to run if a fireman makes a quick move.
As youthful and spirited as colts, their voices are high and carry easily through the mist. I wonder what motivates them to chant such an ugly phrase so naturally. Benny Carroll says, “What they need is a good kick in the ass.” Vinny agrees. But I’m not so sure. Somebody needs a good kick in the ass, but not these boys. Chanting sin without being sinful, they need to be talked to by someone who loves them, or by someone who finds value in loving. Father forgive them for they know not what they say. But, that’s not important,