Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [72]
As Johnny ties the bandage, Benny, Vinny and the other members are holding back the crowd. But a commotion starts on the other side of the street, and the crowd deserts us for better excitement. There is a lot of yelling, and I feel a passion for blood in the air. A young man starts running up Seabury Place, the crowd following. He doesn’t run fast enough, and is pushed to the ground. The crowd circles around him, and each screaming, kicking man and woman is getting even for the bandaged ear at my knees. The cops haven’t come yet, and we wonder where they are. The Chief orders another request to be made—an emergency request. We can feel a sense of urgency to save this guy being beaten, but the block is filled with an easy two hundred persons. To try to interfere with this kind of mob action is stupid. We have learned from experience that this is a cop’s job—he’s got a gun. People have a fear of being shot, and a fear of being arrested, but they do not have a fear of firemen. Firemen are supposed to come only when needed, and it is obvious that this crowd does not feel a need for us now. This is street justice.
The people suddenly stop their punching and kicking. The man has been paid, and three men carry him into a building as the squad cars turn onto Seabury Place. We leave the injured man in the care of the Police Department, and we return to quarters, not knowing, and only casually caring about what the argument was all about.
It is three-thirty as the pumper backs into the firehouse. The sun isn’t beating directly on us anymore, but the air is still, and the heat seems to radiate from the sidewalks. I go to the kitchen, and to the soda machine. The dime goes through the machine several times before it finally catches, and I follow it up with a nickel. The machine makes a short buzzing noise, and the select sign lights up. I press the Pepsi button. The machine makes a kind of wheezing sound, and I can hear the can roll through the machine and fall into the receptacle box at the bottom. I take the can and pull hard, a little too hard, on the snap-open top, and the ring breaks off. I go to the drawer by the sink for a can opener, but before I can get there the bells redirect me. Box 2743.
We arrive at Charlotte and 170th Streets. Kids are playing in a puddle at the corner, and people walk aimlessly by. We make a search as we have done a thousand times before, and we give Lieutenant Welch the thumbs down signal. He radios the dispatcher that it is a false alarm. As we are getting back on the rig Bill Valenzio tells us that there is an “all hands” going up on Tremont Avenue. The fire is in the basement of a supermarket.
In the firehouse again I take an ice tray from the refrigerator. The creases have fallen out of my clean shirt, and there are large sweat stains at the underarms. I put the ice in a coffee cup, and pour the soda in after it. It fizzes to the top, and I stand over it patiently waiting for it to recede, but the bells come in, and I have to leave the soda once more. Box 2787—for the third time today. Kelsey is screaming with all the power in his lungs: “Southern Boulevard and Fox Street. Again. Southern Boulevard and Fox Street. The Bronx is burning. Get out Eighty-two and Seven-twelve. I bet the bastards set it up again. Get out.”
Lieutenant Welch slides the pole from the second floor, but instead of running to the apparatus he runs to the housewatch desk and picks up the phone. He speaks into the receiver for