Report from Engine Co. 82 (16 page)

“Jesus,” I say, “can’t we find a more pleasant topic to talk about? Please pass the salt and pepper.”

“We’re professionals, Dennis,” Billy-o says, passing the two shakers. “We should be able to talk about anything when we eat,
and not be so involved with it. Like doctors, ya see. We’ve got a job where we see a lot of ugly things, and what happened
to Tom shouldn’t bother you. At least he lived. How many people have you seen with all their skin burnt right off their bodies?”

As he talks, Billy cuts another piece of meat. “Pass the salad dressing, will ya,” I say, disregarding his question.

“Don’t want to talk about it, huh?” Billy-o says.

“No,” I reply, taking the bowl of dressing from him, “but, you go ahead. I’ll just listen.” Billy-o and Tom laugh, and Tom
continues to explain his operations.

The steak is the best I’ve eaten in a long time, and I decide to ignore the conversation and enjoy it. I have cut and chewed
two small pieces when the dreaded bells begin to chime. Box 2743. Charlotte and 170th Street. It figures.

Going up Wilkens Avenue I think about Tom Leary. I have never been caught above a fire, except for that one time when Gintel
asked me if I had a match. I’d rather be in a fire, or in front of it, than above. But that is a truckman’s job. He must make
a search above the fire, because that is where the hazard is. That is where people get trapped. No, going above the fire is
not what I like to do. I like to have that nozzle in my hands. I like to fight the fire, not gamble with it. All firefighters
take risks, but being above the fire is the greatest of all. Tom got caught, and he ended up in a hospital bed for three months.
Yet, that is what he likes doing. It’s part of the job. Anyway, the doctors worked a miracle on his leg. He doesn’t even limp.
It doesn’t hurt him anymore either. It just looks ugly.

The pumper stops at Charlotte Street. It looks like a false alarm, but we make the search. Up and down the street. Thumbs
down—
the signal ten ninety-two is transmitted for Box 2743.
I wish the city would look at the records, the statistics, and take this alarm box away from this location. They should post
a policeman at the corner, with a walkie-talkie. In the long run it would be less expensive. And maybe I would get to finish
a meal now and then.

As the pumper begins to back into quarters the dispatcher orders us to respond to Box 2744. Stebbins Avenue and 170th Street.
That is two blocks up from Charlotte Street. We head up Wilkens Avenue again, but this time I think about the evaporating
juices on my plate in the kitchen. It is another false alarm. Probably the same guy who pulled the box at Charlotte. He was
probably walking home, or to a party, or even to work. But, that’s only conjecture.

As we return to the firehouse, there is a row of garbage cans burning on Wilkens Avenue. Someone must have seen us heading
toward 170th Street, and became inspired. But, that’s conjecture, too. We stop to extinguish the fire. Ladder 712 stops to
help, but Captain Albergray waves them on. There is no sense keeping two companies from their meal when we can operate with
one.

Benny pulls the booster hose off. I sit on the back step, and watch Knipps and Royce turn the cans over. I can feel anger
building within me, and I don’t like the feeling. I am hungry, and the meat will certainly be cold and dried out when we return.
Why do people set these fires? It had to be set. Flame doesn’t jump from can to can. Why? Especially when I am hungry. Goddam
lawless bunch of bastards. Who? I don’t know. I’m annoyed with myself. I know I’m complaining because there’s a meal waiting
for me. But there are plenty of people around here who have never had a meal as good, hot or cold. Stop complaining. You get
paid to serve the people. When the alarm comes in, you go out. When you see a fire, you stop and extinguish it. So someone
pours gasoline on a bunch of garbage cans, or someone pulls a false alarm. So what? Your meat gets cold, and the potatoes.
So what? There are people with serious problems in this town.

I feel a little better as we return to the firehouse, but I am still hungry. Mayonnaise. That’s it. A couple of pieces of
bread, a little mayo, and the meal is saved. Potatoes are fattening anyway.

It is three-thirty in the morning now. Ladder 712 went off duty three hours ago. Ladder 31 was special-called to an “all-hands”
down on 149th Street, and while they were gone Engine 85 caught a job in an occupied building on Hoe Avenue. Chief Niebrock
is going to recommend them for a unit citation, because they operated there without a ladder company in the initial stages
of the fire. They rescued seven people huddled above the fire. We had a few more false alarms since meal time, a couple of
rubbish fires, and a small, inconsequential, one-room job in an abandoned building.

The night is still warm, and the doors of the firehouse are wide open. There is a slight breeze, and pieces of paper flutter
along the cobblestones of Intervale Avenue. Some of the men have gone upstairs to lie down, some are in the kitchen watching
the
Late, Late Show,
and four of us are standing under one of the open overhead doors. Harry Maye is in Engine 85, and he is telling Benny, Billy-o,
and me about the fire they had on Hoe Avenue. Suddenly, two shots ring through the air. There is only one sound like the cracking
of a pistol, and we all jump toward the street to see where it came from.

A young man is running down Home Street. He is across the street, passing Mother Wall’s Church, and another shot is let off.
The man is directly across from the firehouse. He turns north and runs up Intervale Avenue. We can see now why he is running.
There is a cop chasing him, and there are about thirty yards between them. The man crosses Intervale Avenue to our side of
the street, but the cop continues his chase on the other side. A squad car careens down Home Street, its red light blinking.

“They’ll get the guy now,” Harry Maye says. The car turns up Intervale Avenue, but the driver doesn’t see the fugitive on
our side of the street or the cop on the other side. The car passes both men, and speeds up to the corner of Chisholm Street.
It stops. The man sees that he cannot continue up Intervale without running into the squad car, so he turns and runs south
on Intervale. The cop on the other side lets off another shot, and starts to cross the Avenue.

We are standing outside of the firehouse now. I am against the building, next to a community bulletin board that protrudes
three inches from the firehouse wall. The man is running toward us now. Another shot zips through the air. None of us say
anything, but we are all thinking the same thoughts. Should we tackle the guy as he runs past? The man is coming, straining
with effort as he runs. He is a young man, powerfully built. I can see the desperation in his face as he approaches. Then
another shot bursts, and our minds are decided. It has only been seconds since we saw the man running down Home Street, and
five shots have been fired. We run into the firehouse for cover. The man passes, and I look to see if he has a gun in his
hand. He doesn’t. The cop passes, and falls from exhaustion as the man runs into the building next to the firehouse. He is
a young cop. He can’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. I feel very sorry for him as he falls, and a little guilty
that I didn’t put my life on the line and stop the fugitive. I rush out of the firehouse to help him, but he is on his feet
again as I approach.

Ed Shoal of Engine 85 is on housewatch, and he has called for additional assistance. He used to be a cop before he came to
our job, and he called as soon as he heard the first two shots. He knows the danger. He knows that there is trouble when triggers
are pulled.

The squad car has turned around, and is speeding down Intervale. The cop has followed the man into the tenement, and we wave
the squad car down.

“They went in there,” we say, pointing to the building.

An older, bigger cop gets out of the squad car, pistol drawn, and runs into the building.

Sirens are wailing through the neighborhood, and soon there are six patrol cars on Intervale Avenue. Cops go into the building,
into the cellar, into the adjoining building. A cop and a Sergeant stand guard at the front of the tenement. I move to where
they are standing, and I recognize the cop’s face. It is Knipps’ brother-in-law, and an old friend of mine.

“How ya doing, Whitey,” I say, my voice serious and concerned.

“Oh, hello Dennis,” he replies happily. He has worked in this precinct for a good seven years, and nothing shakes this man
up anymore.

Two policemen come out of the building, the fugitive braced between them. The young cop is right behind them. He talks to
the Sergeant and Whitey as the fugitive is placed into the back seat of a squad car. The Sergeant is still writing in his
logbook as the young cop gets into the car next to his prisoner.

Other firemen have joined me in leaning on a parked car. Whitey comes over to pass the time of day, for he knows most of us
on Intervale Avenue.

“That cop did a nice job in catching that guy,” I say. “What did they want him for?”

“Well,” Whitey says, his eyes sparkling, and his mouth grinning, “it started out as a domestic squabble. The guy’s wife threw
him out of the house, and he tried to get back in through the fire-escape window. The sector car got there, and they tried
to settle the dispute. We get these things all the time—four or five a night. Anyway, the guy took a rap at the cop, and ran
away.”

“Is that all?” Ed Shoal asks, “and there were five discharges?”

Whitey laughs, and starts to walk away. The Sergeant is ready to leave. “What can I tell ya?” he says. “It was a young cop.
He’ll learn.”

“We’ll see ya, Whitey,” I say.

“Yeah, so long guys. Say hello to my little brother-in-law for me, will ya.”

“He’s in the kitchen watching television. Want me to get him?”

“No, I don’t have time. Tell him I’ll see him Sunday.”

“Okay. Siong.”

The excitement is over, and we walk back into the firehouse. Billy-o is standing by the door, and he notices the bulletin
board. “Hey, look at this,” he says.

We walk over to investigate. He has his finger in a hole in the side of the steel encasement. “Is this a bullet hole?” he
questions.

“Let me see,” Shoal says, looking over Billy-o’s shoulder. “It sure looks like it. Sure it is. Look. The bullet is in there.
Ill be damned. The bulletin board was just put up there two weeks ago, and it has a bullet hole in it already.”

“Jesus, and we were standing right here too,” Billy-o says.

I take a look. I put my pinkie in the hole, and feel the bullet. It is caught between the outer and inner casing. “Man, and
I was standing right next to the thing.” And I felt sorry for that cop, too. Well, he’s a young cop. As Whitey said, he’ll
learn. But he almost killed me. Well, he didn’t though, did he? Almost doesn’t count in anything. I learned that early.

The bells interrupt my thoughts. 2743. Charlotte Street. “Get out Eighty-two and Thirty-one. Chief goes too.”

Again, going up Wilkens Avenue. It’s probably another false alarm. I hope it’s a fire. I don’t want anybody hurt, and I don’t
want to see anyone’s property destroyed, but I need something to occupy my mind. But, it is another false alarm.

On the way back to the firehouse I think: If time is cyclical, I wonder what my next experience with a bullet will be?

T
OMORROW
is Easter. I have the day off, and will be at home with Pat and the boys. My brother and his family will come up, and my
mother. My brother will talk about the mentally disturbed children he teaches to read and write, and we will scold our own
children for making too much noise. Ill talk about fires and firefighters, and my mother will relate the successes and failures
of the guys I grew up with. We’ll laugh, and sing songs with the children. The youngest of them will grab at the strings of
my guitar and the songs will be interrupted. We will eat heartily, and afterwards the children will ask me to play the bagpipes,
and I will tell them I am too tired, and too full. When the table is cleared, the half-devoured ham wrapped securely in plastic,
the dishwasher belching its ugly sound, we will sit by the fireplace, joined by the women, and sip brandy and crack nuts,
throwing the shells into the fire. It will be a fine day.

It is now eight o’clock, and I have just crossed the George Washington Bridge. The traffic on the Cross-Bronx Expressway moves
slowly. It is a cold day, and I can see the exhaust of the cars before me rise up to the morning sky, adding mist to the already
heavy air.

As I drive down Home Street I can see that one of the overhead apparatus doors is still broken, still in that open position.
The door has been out of order for two weeks now, as the repair requisition moves from one department to another. The radio
newscaster just said it is one ’of the coldest April days in history, and the firehouse door is only partially covered with
a thin piece of canvas. I park the car, and think about organizing a sit-down strike, as I walk to the firehouse. I have called
the union, and the officers have followed the requisition with phone calls, but we get the same stock answer from both the
administration and the union: “We’re working on it.” Yes, they work on it while we freeze our butts off. I would like to organize
a strike until we get a firm commitment from the city. A good union would not settle for “We’re working on it,” and would
demand that the workers be relocated to a warm building. Don’t make waves, I tell myself, or you’ll find yourself working
in the ass end of Staten Island. The order can come down,
“Fireman First Grade Dennis E. Smith, from Engine Company 82, to Engine Company 400,”
and it would take me three hours to drive to work. No, don’t make waves. Put another sweater on.