Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [54]
As I drive down Home Street I can see that one of the overhead apparatus doors is still broken, still in that open position. The door has been out of order for two weeks now, as the repair requisition moves from one department to another. The radio newscaster just said it is one ’of the coldest April days in history, and the firehouse door is only partially covered with a thin piece of canvas. I park the car, and think about organizing a sit-down strike, as I walk to the firehouse. I have called the union, and the officers have followed the requisition with phone calls, but we get the same stock answer from both the administration and the union: “We’re working on it.” Yes, they work on it while we freeze our butts off. I would like to organize a strike until we get a firm commitment from the city. A good union would not settle for “We’re working on it,” and would demand that the workers be relocated to a warm building. Don’t make waves, I tell myself, or you’ll find yourself working in the ass end of Staten Island. The order can come down, “Fireman First Grade Dennis E. Smith, from Engine Company 82, to Engine Company 400,” and it would take me three hours to drive to work. No, don’t make waves. Put another sweater on.
It is twenty after nine as I enter the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Charlie McCartty, as usual, is the center of attention. He is telling a story about bouncing around last night on Westchester Avenue. The men are sitting, or standing, coffee cups in hand as Charlie talks.
“So I end up in this joint there by 174th Street. There’s a beauty behind the bar, almost naked, big boobs, but she had pasties on. A cheater, ya know. So I had a drink, and looked the place over. There were a lot of good-lookin’ Puerto Rican girls, but they were all with guys, so I figured I’d have a few and look at the chick behind the bar. Then in came these three guys, and you could tell they were cops, sports jackets on, shined shoes, and all. This one guy stood at the bar, and cased the joint like he was gonna buy it. He pushed his jacket back, and put his hand on his hip, so that his gun was showing, and I don’t know why, but I thought that was a shitty thing to do. So, I said to myself, screw him, and I didn’t even ask him to dance.”
The guys chuckle, but nobody is floored with laughter. Billy-o throws his newspaper on the table, and says, “Is that all there is to that story, Charlie?” Charlie backs against the wall, as if ready for an attack.
“I don’t know,” Charlie replies. “I left my notes up in my locker.”
“Well ya better go and reread them, ’cause that was not a very funny story.”
“Listen to Billy-o, the Don Rickles of Intervale,” Charlie retorts.
“I may not be the funniest guy in the world,” Billy-o says, “but I know you long enough to rate your stories, and you get a zero on that one. Zip.”
“That’s how much you know, Billy. You wouldn’t know a funny story if you were locked in a room with it. Anyway, it’s nine-thirty, so you can take your New York Times upstairs and sweep the floor with it.”
The nine-thirty test signal comes over the bell system. Eleven bells, and eleven bells. It is time for committee work. We all agree to do an extra thorough housecleaning job, so that the firehouse will be clean for those who eat their Easter meal here tomorrow. Also, if we do a good job today, there won’t be much for tomorrow’s crew to do. You can’t ask a guy to mop floors on Easter Sunday.
The members start splitting up, each knowing their assigned duties. Billy-o heads for the locker room, and I grab a broom and go towards the cellar stairs. As I leave the kitchen, I can hear Charlie say, as he puts the chairs on top of the tables, “No wonder he can’t tell what a funny story is. Nobody who reads The New York Times has a sense of humor.” I laugh to myself as I walk down the stairs.
In the firehouse cellar there is a full-sized pool table, a small bumper-pool table, and a ping-pong table. We paid for them, but we don’t get to use them very much. At least, I don’t. Every time I start