Report from Engine Co. 82 by Dennis Smith Read Free Book Online

They’re hanging in my closet.”
    O.K. Now where is my shirt? “Hey Mom, did you see what happened to my shirt?”
    “It’s here in the kitchen. I just pressed it.”
    I walk to the kitchen and kiss her cheek. “Thanks. It looks fine.” I sit at the table and spoon sugar into my tea. My mother
     puts two pieces of toast in front of me and goes to the refrigerator for a jar of jelly.
    “You know, Mom,” I say, “you should have been named Goldberg. I’m surprised you don’t give me some chicken soup.”
    “Well,” she says, “I was born a Hogan, and I married a Smith, but a name doesn’t make any difference to a mother. A mother
     is supposed to mother, and that means to take care of her children.” She sits down opposite me. “And while I’m at it,” she
     continues, “maybe I shouldn’t mention this, but you really aren’t getting enough rest lately. I don’t know why you don’t transfer
     out of that place you work in. You’ve been there over five years now, in that rotten neighborhood, with all those fires. Can’t
     you get a job working in the Mayor’s office or something?”
    My mother thinks that having a city job should entitle me to have a say in its government, that the job should be a sinecure,
     and I’m not supposed to do any actual work. Many people in New York, like my mother, remember the old Democratic clubs, and
     the dying days of Tammany Hall patronage, but they never realized that the system died.
    “Listen Mom,” I say as forcefully as possible, “there are a lot of hard-working people in that rotten neighborhood, but because
     they are black, or because they speak Spanish, they can’t live in midtown Manhattan, even in a tenement like this. Even the
     people who could work, but don’t, are entitled to city services. That’s what I do. I provide a service—an emergency service.
     And that’s what I like to do for a living. When the day comes that I’m not happy doing what I do, then I’ll transfer, but
     until then I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I guess you know best, but I still think you’re crazy to work there when you could go downtown
     and work in a nice clean office.”
    “Thanks for the tea, Mom. I’ll call you in a few days.” 1 learned a long time ago that one explanation a day, regarding anything,
     is enough. If I had to explain everything I did, I’d never get a chance to do anything.
    I’m on the Lexington Avenue subway, on the way to the Bronx. The seats are filled with Saturday shoppers returning from a
     day downtown, and there are a few people standing. Sitting across from me is a dark-haired Puerto Rican girl, about twenty-five
     years old. I don’t want to stare at her, but the smoothness of her olive skin, the perfect symmetry of her lips, and the brightness
     of her dark brown eyes have attracted me beyond control. Her synthetic fur car coat is opened, showing a soft blue pleated
     skirt, which sits above the middle of her thigh. Tucked tightly into her skirt is a white nylon blouse, her full rounded breasts
     pushing against it. The muscles in her legs slope gently, and the underside of her thighs sit flat on the hard plastic seat.
     Her whole body moves in small, graceful motions as the train starts and stops at the stations.
    Thank God that she has not been victimized by the Seventh Avenue mid-calf skirt. But even if she were, if her legs were completely
     covered, if I couldn’t see the shadowed triangle where her skirt falls over her thighs, if the nuances of movement were hidden
     beneath the modern style as she crosses and uncrosses her legs, even then, I would still have her face to look at.
    She is made uneasy by my staring, and pretends to read the advertisements plastered all over the car. She is probably wishing
     she had a book, a newspaper, or anything to focus her eyes on. I’ve taken possession of her beautiful face, and if I had pencil
     and paper I could sketch her perfectly, even