Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [51]
As he talks, Billy cuts another piece of meat. “Pass the salad dressing, will ya,” I say, disregarding his question.
“Don’t want to talk about it, huh?” Billy-o says.
“No,” I reply, taking the bowl of dressing from him, “but, you go ahead. I’ll just listen.” Billy-o and Tom laugh, and Tom continues to explain his operations.
The steak is the best I’ve eaten in a long time, and I decide to ignore the conversation and enjoy it. I have cut and chewed two small pieces when the dreaded bells begin to chime. Box 2743. Charlotte and 170th Street. It figures.
Going up Wilkens Avenue I think about Tom Leary. I have never been caught above a fire, except for that one time when Gintel asked me if I had a match. I’d rather be in a fire, or in front of it, than above. But that is a truckman’s job. He must make a search above the fire, because that is where the hazard is. That is where people get trapped. No, going above the fire is not what I like to do. I like to have that nozzle in my hands. I like to fight the fire, not gamble with it. All firefighters take risks, but being above the fire is the greatest of all. Tom got caught, and he ended up in a hospital bed for three months. Yet, that is what he likes doing. It’s part of the job. Anyway, the doctors worked a miracle on his leg. He doesn’t even limp. It doesn’t hurt him anymore either. It just looks ugly.
The pumper stops at Charlotte Street. It looks like a false alarm, but we make the search. Up and down the street. Thumbs down—the signal ten ninety-two is transmitted for Box 2743. I wish the city would look at the records, the statistics, and take this alarm box away from this location. They should post a policeman at the corner, with a walkie-talkie. In the long run it would be less expensive. And maybe I would get to finish a meal now and then.
As the pumper begins to back into quarters the dispatcher orders us to respond to Box 2744. Stebbins Avenue and 170th Street. That is two blocks up from Charlotte Street. We head up Wilkens Avenue again, but this time I think about the evaporating juices on my plate in the kitchen. It is another false alarm. Probably the same guy who pulled the box at Charlotte. He was probably walking home, or to a party, or even to work. But, that’s only conjecture.
As we return to the firehouse, there is a row of garbage cans burning on Wilkens Avenue. Someone must have seen us heading toward 170th Street, and became inspired. But, that’s conjecture, too. We stop to extinguish the fire. Ladder 712 stops to help, but Captain Albergray waves them on. There is no sense keeping two companies from their meal when we can operate with one.
Benny pulls the booster hose off. I sit on the back step, and watch Knipps and Royce turn the cans over. I can feel anger building within me, and I don’t like the feeling. I am hungry, and the meat will certainly be cold and dried out when we return. Why do people set these fires? It had to be set. Flame doesn’t jump from can to can. Why? Especially when I am hungry. Goddam lawless bunch of bastards. Who? I don’t know. I’m annoyed with myself. I know I’m complaining because there’s a meal waiting for me. But there are plenty of people around here who have never had a meal as good, hot or cold. Stop complaining. You get paid to serve the people. When the alarm comes in, you go out. When you see a fire, you stop and extinguish it. So someone pours gasoline on a bunch of garbage cans, or someone pulls a false alarm. So what? Your meat gets cold, and the potatoes. So what? There are people with serious problems in this town.
I feel a little better as we return to the firehouse, but I am still hungry. Mayonnaise. That’s it. A couple of pieces of bread, a little mayo, and the meal is saved. Potatoes are fattening anyway.
It is three-thirty in the morning now. Ladder 712 went off duty three hours ago. Ladder 31 was special-called to an “all-hands” down on 149th Street, and while they were gone Engine 85 caught