Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [78]
With the help and cooperation of a neighborhood action group, we recently took a group of 150 neighborhood children on a day outing to an amusement park across the Hudson River. Twelve firefighters from the big house, a few concerned black mothers, two lieutenants from the Department’s Community Relations Bureau, and 150 children—all learning from, and about each other. It was a grand day. We sang songs on the buses to and from the park, we rode the roller coaster together, we shared hot dogs. Friendships were made easily, and we were relatively sure that there would be at least 150 kids in the South Bronx who would think twice before setting a garbage fire or pulling a false alarm. But, the buses, the ride-tickets, and the food cost money, and the department does not have much of that. I thought it a successful day, but it does not seem to be in the cards to have another day like it for some time to come.
The city is in a financial crisis, and all department budgets are being cut. The Community Relations Bureau will be the first to go in the Fire Department. It’s too bad that getting to know kids costs money because getting to know 150 kids in the South Bronx is like getting to know one fish in the ocean.
It is now twelve-thirty. We have just returned from the sixteenth alarm of the night. It was a rubbish fire in the rear yard of a building on Prospect Avenue. We had to pull about 200 feet of the booster line to reach it.
After the fire was extinguished—it was a pile of discarded mattresses, armchairs, and assorted brown paper bags—we humped the hose back through the infested darkness of the alleyway. It was covered with food waste and human excrement, and we had to wash it down before reeling it in.
Bill Kelsey was hand-cranking the booster reel, and wondered aloud why the hell the Department refuses to install electric motors on the reel. I told him that it is not a question of initial cost, but the time and money it would take to maintain a power booster. I added facetiously that his arms were in need of a workout, anyway.
Kelsey ignored my remarks, and said, “Well, 111 tell ya this—there is not a Volunteer Fire Company on Long Island or in Westchester County that operates with a hand crank. And we are one of the busiest companies in the world. What a lot of crap.”
“Easy, Bill,” I said. “Don’t be so bitter.” He was crouched down on top of the pumper, cranking the reel as men fifty years ago cranked the front of a Model T Ford. I was guiding the hose as the reel turned. I continued, “The fact is that you don’t know about every volunteer outfit on Long Island or anywhere else. We are still the best company in the world, and I don’t know that for a fact either, but we think we are. And we manage to keep thinking that even with a hand crank. And if you don’t like being a part of that, you know there are companies in this city that hardly use the booster reel, and you can transfer there.” I could see that Kelsey was somewhat affronted, so I quickly added, “But, we would really hate to lose you Bill.”
Kelsey saw an opening for a good retort, and said, “Listen, Dennis pal, I’ve been in Engine 82 as long as you, and I’ll be here long after you’re gone, so don’t worry about Bill Kelsey. I’ll always carry my own weight.”
I was about to answer when Benny Carroll said, “Stop the bullshit and wind the crank.” And Kelsey did wind, and the gears turned, and the reel seemed to eat the hose as it revolved. Two hundred feet passed through my hands—wet, dirty, one-inch hose. Kelsey was right. We stretch this hose ten or fifteen times a day, and there is no reason for not having an electric booster. It would make our work much easier, but the traditional budget-cutters, the bosses of the Fire