Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [95]
I did not know where to go. I had friends working in Brooklyn companies and Manhattan companies, but Brooklyn was difficult to get to from my apartment in Queens, and there was no place to park a car in Manhattan—I dislike riding the subway.
I picked up a copy of the Fire Department’s annual report, and turned to the statistics page. The company listed first under “RUNS” and “WORKERS” was Engine Company 82. That’s where I’ll go, I said to myself. If you’re going to make a change, make a full change. Go to the busiest engine company in the city, the one at the top of the list. It was a decision I’ll never regret. That was 1966.
I am in the bunkroom of the firehouse now, lying on a bed, absentmindedlv counting the nails in the ceiling, and wondering why I’m here. There are conversations floating through the air around me, but I try not to hear them. Dust has settled on the ceiling, and because the paint is heavier over the plastered nailheads the dust has not stuck to the surfaces there. I can count the series of round, lighter marks. There are 39 marks to a row, twelve inches apart. I’m tired. I should be home like the rest of America on this hot Sunday night, watching Lassie, and the Ed Sullivan Show, or reading the Sunday supplement.
Over five years have passed since I transferred to Engine 82. Five summers with the length of five long winters. What would Wordsworth have said of the South Bronx? He wouldn’t write of hedgerows hardly hedgerows, but of people hardly people. I worked last night, and I’m tired. We had no fire of consequence, only burning rubbish and false alarms. False alarms at five in the morning, at six, and at seven. A rubbish fire at eight. It doesn’t make any sense. The people are killing me, and I don’t know why. Five summers with the length of five long winters, and I’m tired. I went to my mother’s house this morning, to rest, but I didn’t get much sleep. I had breakfast, and my mother asked, again, “What do you keep knocking yourself out for?” I didn’t sleep well, because I tried to answer her. Nothing I said made sense. Somebody has to do it! Perhaps I need to sit in the North Bronx and write.… Lines Written a Few Miles from Charlotte Street. Get away, and think about it. It does no good thinking about what I’m a part of. We went in and out of the firehouse thirty-two times last night, rubbish and false alarms, and I can’t explain it. People in the South Bronx—many of them—are unhappy. I understand that. They pull false alarms. I understand that. But is there no end? Five years. And I’m tired.
It is six o’clock. The evening is still bright, and I will work through the night, watching for the morning horizon all the while. In fifteen hours it will be 9:00 A.M., Monday, and I will be relieved of duty. Then I’m off for three days, but I will sleep through the first. The first day after a set of night tours is not really a day off. On Tuesday I will relax, read Steinbeck or Mailer again, and practice the guitar. I will play the bagpipes, and when the neighborhood children hear the piercing tones of the pipes they will gather on my back porch entranced by the foreign music—thirty little eyes, shy, and unsure of their welcome. They will squirm playfully, and poke the small bodies around them, watching carefully for signs of my disapproval. I will pack the pipes away, and and ask them if they would like to learn a folk song or two. Half, perhaps, will run away, afraid, or simply not interested in a more personal interaction. And I will sing with the remainder until they, or I, get bored. The night will come, and my biology will begin to function normally again after having been imbalanced by my work schedule. I will hold my wife, and love her furiously, knowing that she has been denied because she married a firefighter.
Wednesday will be much like the day before, except that I plan to work on an amendment