Chapter Eight

Almost all firemen have side jobs. Generally, we work two twenty-four hour tours in a week’s time. That leaves us with a lot of unoccupied time.

I’ve heard people say, “Oh, that must be wonderful, all that time you have to spend with your families.” Well, I’m not a family man myself, at least not in the married with kids sense. But one of the engine crew at our house, Bones, is married with five kids and his wife damn near left him once out of exasperation. Her complaint? He was never home.

Bones did what a lot of guys do. Since he had a pretty large family to support and since this job allows for large chunks of time to be spent at other pursuits, he had a second job that took up most of his days off. So, he was putting in three ten-hour shifts at a machine shop in addition to working two tours a week here at 19 Engine. Many of the guys have wondered aloud how it is he found time to father five little Boneses. Speculation has circulated at the dinner table that there is Mailman Bones Junior, Cable Installer Bones Junior, Beat Cop Bones Junior, etc. Bones takes this pretty well. He knows we are joking, and if he gets a little hurt, we console him by assuring him that the Bones tribe is far too ugly to be anybody but Bones’ kids.

But most firefighters have second jobs. It was pointed out to us when we were in training that we would never get rich on a fireman’s pay. The rich irony here is that the guy telling us this, a retired battalion chief and fire school instructor, made some smart investments and became one of the wealthiest men in Cleveland. But he was right; though the pay and benefits are very good, you don’t go into this line of work because of the easy money.

But most firefighters, like the BC who made good, are also innovative about making money on the side. I know guys who do everything from tending bar and playing in a band to working as investment brokers, carpenters, substitute teachers and computer programming consultants. One guy over at 42 Truck went to law school while on the job and hung out his shingle last year. His specialty? He works with the city and the DA‘s office, prosecuting arson cases. You might say he’s more than an ambulance chaser; he’s driving the firetruck.

When I first started, I did some work as a stringer for a local community newspaper. My degree from Northwestern got me the job, but I found it hard to sustain interest. Also, they expected that since I was a firefighter, that I had some sort of finger on the pulse of city politics. Well, in a way, I do, but my opinions seldom jibed with those of the conservative paper franchise and I was unwilling to provide them with more than the public-record facts. Journalism is a dirty business, which is part of why I went into firefighting, but that’s a long story I’ll save for later. Let’s just say that if the Plain Dealer building was on fire I would help put it out, but that’s about it.

Anyway, my favorite side work is not writing or anything like it. I have a minor in Plant Biology/Horticulture and I am a rose enthusiast. This is not exactly something I trumpet all over the firehouse. The fact that I know a monocotyledonous plant from a dicotyledonous plant isn’t too bad -- that would probably just produce some grudging admiration or a “so effin’ what?” from the majority. But if I were to sit down over coffee with Bones and Derrico and rhapsodize over the glories of a Madame Hardy damask rose versus these come-lately floribundas, admitting that the David Austin English Roses are, however, a combination of disease resistance and beauty….well….let’s just say that if I ever go off my trolley and try it, I had best be sleeping with one eye open. Horse manure in my locker would probably just be the opening salvo.

But the plant thing has paid off. My brother Pat is a priest (yes, we are practically a “stage Irish” family -- my siblings and I include a priest, a firefighter, a mother of four, a social worker, a cop and a pipefitter) and he was assigned to our old parish, St. Kieran’s, as assistant pastor. St. Kieran’s, being an older parish in the “hood”, was badly in need of re-landscaping. I took the job, learned quite a bit about everything from best prices on topsoil and brick to the finer points of acid-loving plants and soil testing, and built a rose garden on the grounds that even includes a running fountain and a created seating space -- a beautiful place to meditate, right there in the city soot and traffic, tucked away behind a wall I built myself on days off. Pat loves it, the older parishioners love it, and I recently heard that the kids all have their class pictures taken there, so that’s something that makes me feel good.

Doing all this had its own reward, though. I learned a fair bit about landscaping as a business, and for the last few years have managed my own little landscaping company during summer months. I’m never shorthanded, as there are always guys from the firehouse who are willing to come along and help in order to earn a few extra bucks, and we have a lot of fun getting the work done. The only way we advertise is by word of mouth, but we are never at a loss for jobs in spring and summer. And of course, in the Fire Department, everybody knows somebody -- we have bricklayers, materials suppliers, contractors, one guy has a rototiller, another guy has a backhoe, another guy knows a lakefront property owner who will give us all the decorative limestone we care to haul -- it all works together.

Last summer Pat called to say it had been five years -- apparently, time flies whether you are having fun or not -- and ask if we could come out and overhaul the garden. Things had died or become overgrown, retaining walls had given way, mulch had washed out. So, I got a crew together consisting of Bones, Derrico, Cullen-the-Cadet, and a couple of B-shifters and C-shifters from 19 Engine as well, and we spent a sunny Tuesday afternoon spreading redwood bark mulch and gravel, replacing ailing rhododendrons, and rebuilding a rose arbor. I am happy to report that the rose arbor needed to be rebuilt due to the vigorous growth of a Gloire de Dijon climber that I had installed myself when I originally put in the garden. It was a little disappointing that there was nobody with whom I could share this. Grace knows roses, but I hadn't seen Grace in a few years then, and Derrico thinks he knows roses, but Derrico thinks he knows everything. Cullen would be lucky to know which end of a rosebush to plant in the ground, but at least Cullen would admit it.

Well, firemen, as a general rule, consider the consumption of beer to be essential to any well-executed construction project, and this was no exception. We had two coolers going, not of beer and soda but of real beer and "toy beer", popularly called light beer. I think somebody had brought a 12-pack of cold Coke as well, and this got scattered in there, and Pat's housekeeper made us a jug of lemonade that looked like she should have used a dolly to roll it from the kitchen, and we were set. We had a few lawn chairs for breaks and of course somebody had brought cigars.

The only thing missing from the jobsite were pretty girls walking by. You don't get a lot of those in St. Kieran's neighborhood -- even the young and healthy have a rather beaten look that comes of living too long with too little and trying to do too much with nothing. Not an indictment of the neighborhood's people so much as a fact -- it's the near West Side of Cleveland and hope, health and Hollywood good looks aren't found in abundance.

Imagine, then, our surprise when a few hours into our labors, a brand new Passat pulled into the lot just off the alley, between he convent and the rectory. Imagine, if you will, our increased surprise and the addition of delight when from that shiny blue Passat emerged a statuesque, athletic goddess with cropped honey-blonde hair, gorgeous blue eyes and a San Diego tan. Not your average girl, not from around here and definitely not an unwelcome sight.

Good news travels fast, especially across small spaces. Cullen dropped a fence section he was moving, Bones dropped his jaw, and Derrico dropped any pretense of trying to spread mulch evenly. Nobody dropped their drawers, but then, we were only halway through the first case of beer. One of the C-shifters, a guy named Gus, emitted a long, low wolf whistle. Most of the guys on C-shift are rude, coarse, low, vulgar animals who have no gentlemanly respect for the delicate sex. This is not slander; it is a simple statement of fact. And if C-shift were speaking of us, they would return the compliment. But probably in worse language, because that is just the way they are, the dirty dogs.

Anyway.

Gus let out a relatively subdued catcall. The apparition, gorgeous and unruffled, stepped to the trunk of her car to unload a briefcase and some books. Four guys were immediately at her side. "Here. Let me get that for you," said Derrico, and attempted to appropriate the briefcase.

She smiled serenely at him, pulled back the briefcase, scooped up the stack of books in her other arm, smiled, said, "Thanks; I have it," and glided -- not walked, glided -- across the lot to the rectory gate. She was the picture of gorgeous, golden, athletic grace, shining in the summer sun. Statues of Nike have been modeled on lesser women. We were stunned. We were in awe. We were also half smashed.

It was too lovely a moment, too perfect, and of course, some shithead had to ruin it. This always happens. If this story were about any other bunch of guys, it would be either unremarkable or picture-perfect. Not Animal House. Not 19. It's always something with these guys. Always.

Gus led off. "Hey," he called after the goddess' retreating figure, "are those gorgeous legs tired? 'Cause you've been running through my dreams!"

Oh, no. Oh, my God.

Cullen, seeing this as an opportunity to for once not be the lowest on the house totem pole, said, "Gus, Jesus. Watch your mouth, willya?"

The Goddess nodded in our direction as if to acknowledge that chivalry does indeed still live, in the person of Cullen-the-Cadet, and continued across the rectory porch. She was no sooner in the door than a huddle of furious firemen descended on Gus as if he was a small but dangerous brushfire.

"Nice goin', asshole." This from Derrico, who has made his share of bonehead moves where women are concerned and was probably just glad that for once it was not him.

"Do you mind?" I added. "She probably knows Pat, wouldn't you say? And she's here on church business of some sort, so she's probably not the kind of broad you would hang out with anyway."

"Certainly she wouldn't hang out with YOU," added Bones.

The shamefaced Gus, recovering from the scolding, started to bristle.

"Ah, whadda you assholes know? She was givin' me the look anyways. I saw it."

"The look, my ass," I retorted. "The look people get when you pull them out of the smoke, right before they puke all over the EMT, maybe."

"I don't think she was lookin' at anybody, guys." This from Cullen, who is occasionally allowed to speak.

"Whaddya mean? You think she's gay? No way," said Derrico.

"Um, no, I think she might be married. She had a wedding ring, " said Cullen.

Derrico, Bones and I took this as further proof of Gus' utter degeneracy and a reason to further berate him. Not that he said anything we weren't all thinking, but you have to take opportunities when you find them. Especially with C-shifters.

Gus, not about to concede, said, "So what if she's married? A lot of those married broads are players. I bet she's a player. She had that look. And she was lookin' righ at me, boys. Eat your hearts out."

"Fifty bucks," I said, "that even if she's the type, 'if she do, it ain't with you'," I finished, using a favorite firehouse saying.

"You're on," said Gus, cocky and now with a point to prove.

We didn't have long to wait. The vision emerged from the rectory, accompanied by Pat, who called to us from the porch. Now we would see whether there was any flirtatiousness. Firemen are ver good at picking up this sort of thing. We have to be. It's a very important people skill. We have to be good with people to work with the public, right?

"Johnny," called Pat. "Come here. There's someone I'd like you to meet. Come on, guys, you too. Come on over here."

This was unusual. Usually it takes hours to gain an introduction, and it takes a lot of work. Pat was certainly eliminating the middle man.

We crowded around the porch. If we had been wearing hats, we would have taken them off. Kerchiefs mopped sweat and dirt from sun-reddened faces. We wiped garden-soiled hands on our shirttails in anticipation of shaking the slender, soft hand of the golden vision before us. We were nothing if not a troop of angels with only slightly crooked halos.

"I'd like you to meet Sister Jean. She has recently returned from El Salvador and will be the new athletic instructor at St. Kieran's. Don't know if any of you guys have kids in school here, but thought you might like to say hi."

Well. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop, but since there were no pins involved, it's fair to say that the dropping of expectations was nearly audible. It seemed to be a win for gravity, that's for certain. We all shookhands politely, mumbled "Hi, Sister," as we were all taught to do years ago in school, and stepped back, almost as if we were afraid she'd break.

Sister Jean laughed, a sound like the clear pealing of a single chapel bell, and said, "Please, guys. It's Jean. I'm only 'Sister' to my students."

Well, it was fair to say we'd all learned something that day, but I'm sure that's not what she meant.

Later, order being restored and back to our work, we discussed the situation in hushed tones.

"Jeez, Sully, I bet you're glad you didn't say anything to her," said Bones. "You're usually the bigget mouth in the bunch."

"Grace of God, I guess. Hey, at least I didn't think she was married."

Cullen chimed in, "She must be a Dominican sister. They wear a wedding ring to show they're the betrothed of Christ."

"Hey, cadet, how do you know so much?" said Derrico.

"I read a lot," said Cullen.

"Yeah, read this," I said, making the universal gesture. "Let's finish up here; the Tribe's playing the Yankees tonight and I don't want to be dipshittin' around with this at game time."

Gus didn't say anything. But it was a very, very long time before he asked to work landscape with us again.

And probably even longer before he hit on his next nun.