Page 3 of Fire and Icing

“I’ll show you to your locker,” Patrick says.

The guys disperse, each to whatever task they have to get done. Before I started as a volunteer back in California, I imagined guys sitting around the station playing video games or watching movies, just waiting on a call. I had no idea the list of tasks firefighters accomplish on the daily. The academy opened my eyes to real life at a fire station. It’s an odd combination of orderly and unpredictable. No day is the same, but whenever possible, the routine is followed with military rigor.

I follow Patrick through the building out toward the bays. A large truck and engine are parked side by side on the concrete floor. Along one wall are lockers where each man keeps his turnout gear. Next to the lockers, they’ve taped a piece of paper with the printed words:We fight fires, save kittens, and show rookies the ropes (and the mop).

I point to it and glance at Patrick.

“All true. Except the kittens. Most of them save themselves.”

His grin is wide.

I smile back at him. “Better get this over with.”

“It won’t be so bad,” he says. “I was the rookie last year. The worst I got was a bunch of teasing for liking to read too much. Oh! And fire hydrant duty.”

“Fire hydrant duty?” I ask.

“I’d tell you, but then I’d catch it from the other guys. Trust me. It’s not all that bad. We’re in this together. I can’t think of another job where a man relies on his coworkers for his very life. Us and the police.” He pauses. “And you won’t hear me saying those two words in the same breath again.”

“The rivalry is real?”

“Very. Mostly in good fun. Mostly.” Patrick smiles again. Then he pauses, grabs a list from his pocket and hands it to me. “Oh! Before I forget. Here’s your unofficial list of duties. Can’t post these. Captain might get a little … Well, let’s just say this is between the guys and you. Welcome to Station Number One in the middle of a lot of nowhere Tennessee.”

I nod, crack open the paper and read the first item on the list.

Manage Vanessa. This includes fielding her visits, keeping her away from the other men on your crew, and answering any calls she makes to the station.

I look up from the paper and shout after Patrick as he walks back toward the door leading into the front office.

“Vanessa?”

His full laugh is the only answer I get.

When I catch up to Patrick, his voice is low. “Remember, that list is just between us, Rookie. And trust me, you’ll be begging for hydrant duty after you deal with item number one. She’s a handful. She has her heart set on marrying a firefighter. We’re all single except the captain. That makes us riper than a blueberry patch to a grizzly. And trust me, under those high heels and short dresses, that bear has claws.”

Without another word, Patrick steps up into the office, and I follow him. Captain David is still at the desk. The other twofirefighters are in the kitchen cooking breakfast. The smell of bacon and toast wafts through, making my mouth water.

“Let’s eat. Then you can get to work,” David says to the two of us.

Out of the blue, the alarm rings through the station. The mood shifts instantly. Breakfast is abandoned while everyone rushes out the doors into the bay. I’m stunned for only a moment and then my brain gets a shot of adrenaline that sends me flying after my crew toward the lockers. I stuff the private to-do list into my pocket. I’m still wearing my jeans. I’m not even in my station uniform yet! My jeans won’t fit under our fire gear.

I do the only thing I can think of as the other firefighters efficiently grab their turnouts from their lockers and don them with precision and speed.

I drop my pants.

All eyes turn toward me. No one stops gearing up.

My pants get stuck on the tops of my boots, halfway down my legs.

Now I’m hopping around with my legs essentially tied together, trying to get my boots off. I’m in my own personal sack race, trying to balance and disrobe at lightning speed. Meanwhile, I’m fully aware that time is ticking and someone’s house is on fire.

I yank one boot off, tossing it behind me without a thought. The sound of it skidding across the bay barely grabs my attention. I make quick work of the other. It goes flying. I tug my pants off my legs, leave them in a heap and grab my turnout, setting it onto the bay floor and stepping in, pulling the suspender straps up over my T-shirt, and finally covering, yes, my Cheetos boxers.

“Nice chonies,” Patrick mumbles as he rounds the engine.

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