Chapter Twelve
Last night we had a couple of standard runs to factories for accidentally tripped alarms, and we also had a small apartment fire with no injuries and only one unit involved, so life is good. I am going home in about an hour to take care of the house, of Chester, the no-good cat, and to get a head start on the landscaping leads for the coming spring. It's not too cold, about 45 degrees F outside, and there's a nice February mix of sun and clouds. Can't complain, wouldn't do any good, as the old saw goes. No reason to, really.
It's kind of odd being home in the middle of the week sometimes. It's like you're out of step with the rest of the world. I am headed home on the freeway at an hour when most people are headed off to work. I like that feeling. It's almost as if I'm playing hooky in a way, even though I just put in a twenty-four hour tour. I have always liked going against the grain, so I suppose in many ways this job is a natural. Firefighters do a lot of things in their lives the opposite way of the rest of the world.
When I get home, Chester will be waiting for me with a sob story of how terribly he's missed me and how cruelly his world has treated him, how he has done nothing but sit by the window and cry throughout the lonely hours. This is mostly bullshit. I know it and he knows it. He's a cat. A big, fat, lazy ginger tomcat who was on life number eight when I pulled him out of the alley behind the firehouse and brought him home with me. Chester's life prior to our acquaintance consisted mostly of scrounging from garbage cans and dumpsters, fighting other male cats, and servicing all the female cats in the neighborhood. That and spraying like a mad bastard. Amazingly enough, that stopped after he was neutered. For some reason, even though I had the vet take a chop at Chester's package and deprived him of his harem, he has not been angry enough with me to spray my house. Gratitude, I guess.
This isn't the story with the other cat, the firehouse cat. We keep him around because he is a good ratter and mouser, because he is friendly, and because he can be good company when he's not in a biting and fighting mood. We took him down to the Animal Protective League and had him neutered too, just because it's a healthier thing for them -- keeps them from wanting to fight and roam. My sister Katie has a bunch of cats, and this is what she says, so we did it. Katie is on a first name basis with the docs down at the APL, and they gave us a two-for-one special on Chester and the firehouse cat.
This cat, however, rather than being grateful that he will spend his days being fed and cared for, developed an attitude. Derrico says he doesn't blame him; if somebody took a whack at our testicles, we'd be in none too shiny and happy a mood either, and I suppose put that way, it makes sense. But the only place in the firehouse that this cat is allowed is on the apparatus floor, where there are hoses and drains. This is because he can spray at a greater radius, at greater volume, and with greater gusto than any animal I have ever seen. This is how he got his name, "Seagrave". A standard Seagrave engine can pump about 500 gallons of water a minute. I would say that Seagrave would give Engine 19 a run for its money. If there was a Cat Piss Olympics, I would bet my house and two vehicles on Seagrave. I have seen him hit moving targets from a good twenty feet away.
We had a Lieutenant who didn't like Seagrave. Lieu would aim a boot at him every chance he got. Seagrave appreciates subtlety and paybacks -- a legacy of his years on the street. So he waited until Lieu was having a conversation with the Batallion Chief after inspection one morning, took aim from across the apparatus floor and doused him across the back of his dress jacket. Lieu jumped a few feet, whirled and dodged. Seagrave wasn't finished. He let Lieu have it right across the shirt front, finishing up with a good blast to the eye. Lieu was jumping and yelling, "That son of a bitch is GONE! OUTTA here! Sully, let's get this bastard!" Seagrave, no stranger to the principle of cause and effect, was suddenly nowhere to be seen, a black and white streak of lightning between the rigs and then nothing. Lieu dove under the ladder trying to grab him and came up with a handful of nothing. The Chief was laughing like hell. I was laughing like hell. Derrico was practically in hysterics. Lieu was as red as 19 and probably a little louder than its siren. Bones was standing in the office doorway, shaking silently with mirth, tears in the corners of his eyes. Cullen came in from the yard, where he had been doing a little work on the flagpole lanyard, sized up the situation and dove into the kitchen lest Lieu see him laughing. A couple of other guys, McCann and Williams, were in the kitchen and immediately called the guys over at 43 to let them in on the hilarity. Good sports reporting requires a color commentator, and we could hear McCann's detailed description: "Yeah...all the way across the goddamn apparatus floor...oh, Christ..Lieu was screamin' like a woman, I tell ya...."
It wasn't long after that we got a new Lieutenant, a guy named Walsh, who's still here now. We like him pretty well, a little better than the old Lieu. We've never had a really bad one in all the years I've been with 19, but let's just say that Walsh is a little more flexible and a little less likely to become flustered at an unexpected apparatus malfunction.
Well. This morning I expect to go home and feed Chester, change his litterbox, do a little laundry, pay some bills and catch up on correspondence. I'm sure there will be a bunch of messages on my machine. There's a girl I was really hoping to take out for Valentine's Day -- since I will be working, it will have to be before or after that. She works second shift at Metro Hospital, so she'll probably understand. I met her in the ER at Metro when I was on a medical run. The EMT's didn't take the run because it was a minor emergency -- some guy was choking on a fish bone, had since dislodged it and was now just being transported for evaluation and a possible psych eval as well -- my work calls for such heroism sometimes -- and she was on the admissions desk. Her name's Jenny -- really pretty girl, smart, good sense of humor. Our patient was obviously going ot pull through, which left us a little time to talk while doing the paperwork. Turns out her brother and my brother Mike worked with the same PAL softball league. We hit it off, at any rate, and it will be nice to have a date with somebody who actually understands the complications of working emergency services for the city. I've been getting a little tired lately of girls who get mad at me because I have to work weekends.
Anyway, I think this morning I will avoid the stop at the Tap House on the way home. As I said, there's something fun about going against the grain, and sitting in my favorite bar on a Wednesday morning drinking beer and watching the rest of the world speed off to work is kind of funny. It's like that Sheryl Crow song about the people drinking across from the car wash. And really, that is all I want to do today is have some fun. But I have bills and house chores, and I am pretty sure I will need to get some serious quality sleep if I am planning a date with Jenny -- I'm sure we'll be out late.
I just wonder what it was that Grace wanted when she stopped by last night. I really want to call her, but I'm afraid to. What can it all mean that she's not married any more? And what is it that she could possibly find so important to talk about after all these years? I'm curious, but, and I hate to admit this, I'm also afraid. A conversation with Grace is always a can of worms -- I have never known a woman who can say more in less time, nor one who could start more trouble,internally and externally, with a few simple declarative sentences. Still, we have known each other many years, and one of the hallmarks of our relationship is that no matter what kind of dealings have gone before, we remain friends always. We have always been there for each other, sometimes in the most unlikely of circumstances, and if Grace needs to talk, then we are going to talk.
I have never forgotten that Grace was there for me when my little brother Paulie died, back when we were kids, and that she understood in a way that none of the adults were able to just what was going on inside me. I know she'd say I owe her nothing for that, but I will always be grateful. And when Grace's brother, Sean, was killed in Viet Nam a year after that, I clumsily tried to return the favor. I don't know if I was a comfort to her, but it seems to me that at times when nothing that can be said makes sense, the greatest comfort anyone can be is to be there for you. Also, when Grace came back home after her divorce form Seanny's father, she leaned on me in ways that neither of us ha forgotten -- I don't think they ever had much of a marriage, and I don't think Grace had ever experienced much happiness in an adult relationship, and, well, we taught each other a lot. During the days after Grace's divorce, we cried together a lot, sometimes for sadness at the bittersweetness of it all, but also sometimes for pure joy. For Grace, the experience of joy is not a simple thing; her joy is transcendent almost in the religious sense. We share a powerful bond, Grace and I. I owe it to her not to leave her waiting to hear from me.
Still, this is going to be difficult, especially after so long a time, and especially knowing that she must be going through more trials, seeing as she made the remark about not being married any more. We shall see, I suppose.
Okay. I am very nearly out of here. I can hear the B-shifters rolling in for their briefing now. I need to make sure that I stop on the way home and get some Pounce treats for Chester and maybe a cold half-rack of beer. And laundry soap. Always laundry soap. I suppose I could pick up some actual food, too, though I am not too fond of cooking for one. Maybe I will grab a couple of steaks for the grill. Grace likes steak....
What am I thinking? Beer for one, steak for one, and Pounce for Chester. That's the list. At least, for now. More later, I suppose. Always more later. I think that's what I want on my headstone. "More later".
Take care and stay safe 'til God wills we meet again, as Uncle Owen would say.
It's kind of odd being home in the middle of the week sometimes. It's like you're out of step with the rest of the world. I am headed home on the freeway at an hour when most people are headed off to work. I like that feeling. It's almost as if I'm playing hooky in a way, even though I just put in a twenty-four hour tour. I have always liked going against the grain, so I suppose in many ways this job is a natural. Firefighters do a lot of things in their lives the opposite way of the rest of the world.
When I get home, Chester will be waiting for me with a sob story of how terribly he's missed me and how cruelly his world has treated him, how he has done nothing but sit by the window and cry throughout the lonely hours. This is mostly bullshit. I know it and he knows it. He's a cat. A big, fat, lazy ginger tomcat who was on life number eight when I pulled him out of the alley behind the firehouse and brought him home with me. Chester's life prior to our acquaintance consisted mostly of scrounging from garbage cans and dumpsters, fighting other male cats, and servicing all the female cats in the neighborhood. That and spraying like a mad bastard. Amazingly enough, that stopped after he was neutered. For some reason, even though I had the vet take a chop at Chester's package and deprived him of his harem, he has not been angry enough with me to spray my house. Gratitude, I guess.
This isn't the story with the other cat, the firehouse cat. We keep him around because he is a good ratter and mouser, because he is friendly, and because he can be good company when he's not in a biting and fighting mood. We took him down to the Animal Protective League and had him neutered too, just because it's a healthier thing for them -- keeps them from wanting to fight and roam. My sister Katie has a bunch of cats, and this is what she says, so we did it. Katie is on a first name basis with the docs down at the APL, and they gave us a two-for-one special on Chester and the firehouse cat.
This cat, however, rather than being grateful that he will spend his days being fed and cared for, developed an attitude. Derrico says he doesn't blame him; if somebody took a whack at our testicles, we'd be in none too shiny and happy a mood either, and I suppose put that way, it makes sense. But the only place in the firehouse that this cat is allowed is on the apparatus floor, where there are hoses and drains. This is because he can spray at a greater radius, at greater volume, and with greater gusto than any animal I have ever seen. This is how he got his name, "Seagrave". A standard Seagrave engine can pump about 500 gallons of water a minute. I would say that Seagrave would give Engine 19 a run for its money. If there was a Cat Piss Olympics, I would bet my house and two vehicles on Seagrave. I have seen him hit moving targets from a good twenty feet away.
We had a Lieutenant who didn't like Seagrave. Lieu would aim a boot at him every chance he got. Seagrave appreciates subtlety and paybacks -- a legacy of his years on the street. So he waited until Lieu was having a conversation with the Batallion Chief after inspection one morning, took aim from across the apparatus floor and doused him across the back of his dress jacket. Lieu jumped a few feet, whirled and dodged. Seagrave wasn't finished. He let Lieu have it right across the shirt front, finishing up with a good blast to the eye. Lieu was jumping and yelling, "That son of a bitch is GONE! OUTTA here! Sully, let's get this bastard!" Seagrave, no stranger to the principle of cause and effect, was suddenly nowhere to be seen, a black and white streak of lightning between the rigs and then nothing. Lieu dove under the ladder trying to grab him and came up with a handful of nothing. The Chief was laughing like hell. I was laughing like hell. Derrico was practically in hysterics. Lieu was as red as 19 and probably a little louder than its siren. Bones was standing in the office doorway, shaking silently with mirth, tears in the corners of his eyes. Cullen came in from the yard, where he had been doing a little work on the flagpole lanyard, sized up the situation and dove into the kitchen lest Lieu see him laughing. A couple of other guys, McCann and Williams, were in the kitchen and immediately called the guys over at 43 to let them in on the hilarity. Good sports reporting requires a color commentator, and we could hear McCann's detailed description: "Yeah...all the way across the goddamn apparatus floor...oh, Christ..Lieu was screamin' like a woman, I tell ya...."
It wasn't long after that we got a new Lieutenant, a guy named Walsh, who's still here now. We like him pretty well, a little better than the old Lieu. We've never had a really bad one in all the years I've been with 19, but let's just say that Walsh is a little more flexible and a little less likely to become flustered at an unexpected apparatus malfunction.
Well. This morning I expect to go home and feed Chester, change his litterbox, do a little laundry, pay some bills and catch up on correspondence. I'm sure there will be a bunch of messages on my machine. There's a girl I was really hoping to take out for Valentine's Day -- since I will be working, it will have to be before or after that. She works second shift at Metro Hospital, so she'll probably understand. I met her in the ER at Metro when I was on a medical run. The EMT's didn't take the run because it was a minor emergency -- some guy was choking on a fish bone, had since dislodged it and was now just being transported for evaluation and a possible psych eval as well -- my work calls for such heroism sometimes -- and she was on the admissions desk. Her name's Jenny -- really pretty girl, smart, good sense of humor. Our patient was obviously going ot pull through, which left us a little time to talk while doing the paperwork. Turns out her brother and my brother Mike worked with the same PAL softball league. We hit it off, at any rate, and it will be nice to have a date with somebody who actually understands the complications of working emergency services for the city. I've been getting a little tired lately of girls who get mad at me because I have to work weekends.
Anyway, I think this morning I will avoid the stop at the Tap House on the way home. As I said, there's something fun about going against the grain, and sitting in my favorite bar on a Wednesday morning drinking beer and watching the rest of the world speed off to work is kind of funny. It's like that Sheryl Crow song about the people drinking across from the car wash. And really, that is all I want to do today is have some fun. But I have bills and house chores, and I am pretty sure I will need to get some serious quality sleep if I am planning a date with Jenny -- I'm sure we'll be out late.
I just wonder what it was that Grace wanted when she stopped by last night. I really want to call her, but I'm afraid to. What can it all mean that she's not married any more? And what is it that she could possibly find so important to talk about after all these years? I'm curious, but, and I hate to admit this, I'm also afraid. A conversation with Grace is always a can of worms -- I have never known a woman who can say more in less time, nor one who could start more trouble,internally and externally, with a few simple declarative sentences. Still, we have known each other many years, and one of the hallmarks of our relationship is that no matter what kind of dealings have gone before, we remain friends always. We have always been there for each other, sometimes in the most unlikely of circumstances, and if Grace needs to talk, then we are going to talk.
I have never forgotten that Grace was there for me when my little brother Paulie died, back when we were kids, and that she understood in a way that none of the adults were able to just what was going on inside me. I know she'd say I owe her nothing for that, but I will always be grateful. And when Grace's brother, Sean, was killed in Viet Nam a year after that, I clumsily tried to return the favor. I don't know if I was a comfort to her, but it seems to me that at times when nothing that can be said makes sense, the greatest comfort anyone can be is to be there for you. Also, when Grace came back home after her divorce form Seanny's father, she leaned on me in ways that neither of us ha forgotten -- I don't think they ever had much of a marriage, and I don't think Grace had ever experienced much happiness in an adult relationship, and, well, we taught each other a lot. During the days after Grace's divorce, we cried together a lot, sometimes for sadness at the bittersweetness of it all, but also sometimes for pure joy. For Grace, the experience of joy is not a simple thing; her joy is transcendent almost in the religious sense. We share a powerful bond, Grace and I. I owe it to her not to leave her waiting to hear from me.
Still, this is going to be difficult, especially after so long a time, and especially knowing that she must be going through more trials, seeing as she made the remark about not being married any more. We shall see, I suppose.
Okay. I am very nearly out of here. I can hear the B-shifters rolling in for their briefing now. I need to make sure that I stop on the way home and get some Pounce treats for Chester and maybe a cold half-rack of beer. And laundry soap. Always laundry soap. I suppose I could pick up some actual food, too, though I am not too fond of cooking for one. Maybe I will grab a couple of steaks for the grill. Grace likes steak....
What am I thinking? Beer for one, steak for one, and Pounce for Chester. That's the list. At least, for now. More later, I suppose. Always more later. I think that's what I want on my headstone. "More later".
Take care and stay safe 'til God wills we meet again, as Uncle Owen would say.
posted by CB | 9:36 AM
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