Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [61]
Charlie, though, will not let him get the last word. He goes to the door, and yells, “See ya, Billy-o. Have a nice accident on the way home.” He closes the door, and returns laughing. He remembers something, and opens the door again. “Happy Easter, Bill,” his voice echoes through the apparatus floor.
It is three o’clock as John Nixon backs Ladder 712’s apparatus into quarters. Lieutenant Coughlin directs him through the too-narrow doorway, as the “super-probie” holds the makeshift canvas door back. The “super-probie” was so named because one night a few months ago he refused to help Engine 85 with their hose. The fire was out, and the other members of 712 helped with the long stretch of hose, but the “super-probie” said that he was a truckman, and if he wanted to work with hose he would transfer to an Engine company. It was a little presumptuous of him to say that, since he had been a firefighter for less than a year at the time. He learned quickly that veterans like John Nixon would not support his position. Now, he goes out of his way to help with the hose, to peel potatoes or onions, to wash the dishes or pots—anything to show he is part of the team.
“Ready for a long night?” I ask John Nixon.
He climbs down from the cab, slams the door, and says, “I’m ready if you are, Dennis.”
“But I only work ’til six, and you hafta go until midnight.”
“Well,” he says, “I’ll try my best to get along without you after six.” He smiles, appreciating the banter. Like many of the men in the firehouse, John always has something pleasant to say, and his conversation is painted with humor or irony. When he says he’ll try his best to get along without me, he really means that he is one of the senior men in the South Bronx, and he can manage in any situation.
John is studying for the coming Lieutenant’s test. He has an armful of books as he walks up the stairs. On the third floor of the firehouse there is a small locker room, and a table surrounded by a few chairs. John will sit there and read the Department Regulations, the Department Training bulletins, the Fire Chiefs Handbook, the New York City Building Codes, the National Fire Prevention Association bulletins, the three-thousand page Handbook of Fire Protection, textbooks on personnel management, grammar, chemical reactions, building construction, occupational safety, and hydraulics. The bells will come in, and John will slide the poles—from the third floor to the second, from the second to the apparatus floor. When he returns he will climb the forty steps, and pick up another book. He may do that fifteen or twenty times a night, but he doesn’t waste a minute of his time between fires. There is so much to know, so many books and magazines and pamphlets to read. Yet, after all that effort it all depends on which hundred multiple-choice questions the examiner chooses to ask.
Arnold Toynbee said that before 1840 it was possible for one man to know all about all that was known. Today, however, it is impossible for one man to know all about any one given subject. A man simply cannot remember all the facts about fire-fighting, codes, construction, chemical formulas, hydraulic equations, and the rest. I wish John well. I hope the one hundred questions are about facts he remembers.
The bells ring. Box 2733. John must have had just enough time to lay his books on the third floor table. The housewatch-man yells. “Eighty-five and Seven twelve—get out.”
In the kitchen, I boil a pot of water for hot chocolate. Vinny Royce and Willy Knipps are playing chess, a game I learned to play as a teenager. I watch them for a few moments, but Willy has captured the queen and both bishops, and it doesn’t look like much of a contest. Charlie McCartty and Richie Rittman are talking about football, and about super-star quarterbacks. I hear phrases like “he’s got the