Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [63]
Nixon cuts the man’s pant leg, as Runyon places the first-aid kit down beside him. The man is quiet now, except for intermittent sobs. John bandages the wound, taping it lightly in consideration of the nurse who will have to cut it away. One of the policemen writes about the incident, as he remembers it, in his logbook. Bill Finch, Chief Niebrock’s aide, writes the information in his notebook. “John Wilkes, Age 42, attacked fireman Arthur Mazarak, shot in left leg by patrolman Hillery of 41 Precinct.”
“That’s all the information I need,” Finch says to the patrolmen. “Thanks.”
The policemen decide to take their prisoner to the hospital in the squad car, rather than wait for an ambulance. The man is handcuffed and has stopped sobbing. He is quiet now—almost catatonic. We lift him onto a kitchen chair, and carry him out. A crowd has gathered in front of the building. Tired, worn, unhappy black faces, talking amongst themselves, and wondering what the problem was.
The “super-probie” is sitting in the Chiefs car, his face bandaged, waiting for an ambulance. The Chief says a few words to him, he climbs out of the car, and walks resignedly to the squad car. The squad car wails away, the “super-probie” in the front seat, his attacker in the rear.
The hose taken up, our job finished, we start back to the fire-house. As the pumper begins to turn the comer, I notice the glazed blue and white street sign attached to the lamppost. Freeman Street, it says. I think about just how inappropriate that name is as the apparatus rolls down Intervale Avenue.
It is five-thirty. Eddy Penan walks across the apparatus floor. He has his rubber coat and helmet in one hand, and his boots in the other. He reaches the back end of the fire engine, and puts his boots on the floor. He lifts my helmet and coat with his free hand, and throws his own gear on the hose where mine had been. I am standing at the kitchen doorway, drinking a cup of coffee. He sees me, and says, “You’re relieved, Dennis.”
“Thanks Ed,” I say taking my gear from him, and hanging the coat on the wall rack. I place my helmet on the shelf above.
“What kind of a day you have? Busy?”
“Yeah, we had a couple of jobs,” I say, picking up my boots.
“Oh yeah? How are the masks?”
“They were used,” I say, putting my boots on the boot rack, “but, Cosmo and Vinny cleaned them and changed the cylinders.”
“Good,” Eddy says as he walks into the kitchen. “See ya.” He stops, and asks, “You working tomorrow?”
“No, I’m off.”
“Have a nice day,” he says.
I’ll take a shower now, and then go home and help Pat prepare for the company tomorrow. Easter will be a nice day for me. It will be a civilized day.
8
I’LL never escape from tenements and cockroaches. The names and the geography may change, but conditions are universal when people are without money. Mrs. Hanratty who lived down the hall from us in my youth is now Mrs. Sanchez; the O’Dwyer For Mayor sticker in the vestibule wall now reads Father Gigante For Congress; and the cry “Tueres animal, Rodrego” now airs through the courtyard in place of “Jesus, Barney, can’t ya ever come home ta me sober?” The smell of dried garbage and urine haven’t changed, but the vomit on the unwashed marble stairs is now mixed with heroin instead of ten-cents-a-shot Third Avenue whiskey. Each apartment still houses an unwanted cousin, or aunt, and the family members try to be kind and considerate, but it never works out, because there are too many people in too few rooms.
Like chalk to a teacher, roaches are part of my past, and now part of my work. They are under me or on me as I crawl down long smoke-filled halls. They scurry helter-skelter as I