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

he’s O.K.”
    The boy really isn’t O.K. What Ed means is that he will live. The Fire Department does not like to give medals for saving
     people who die, and since the boy is still living Don Butts has a better chance of getting a medal.
    I go to the company journal to check that my name has been entered by the housewatchman. It has, and I’m officially on duty.
     I go to the rack on the side of the apparatus floor and get my rubber coat, my boots, and my helmet. I make sure I have a
     pair of gloves and a flashlight in my coat pocket. I put my gear on the pumper and go to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
     Jerry Herbert is sitting in the comer. I’m ready for one of his inevitable wisecracks. He spots me and says, “I see you finally
     took that sweatshirt home for an oil change.”
    “No Jerry,” I return, “I took it out to your house and your old lady did it for a dime. If you gave her some money once in
     a while she wouldn’t have to work on the side.”
    “Ahhh, so that’s what kind of a night it’s gonna be,” Jerry says to the eight guys sitting around the kitchen. “Dennis must
     have ate a tough pill, and thinks he can hit flies with the big guys. Well, lemme tell ya pal,” he says, directing the words
     to me now, “you better go upstairs and eat about ten more of those pills ’cause I’m gonna eat you up.” He emphasizes the “up,”
     and everybody laughs. I know now that the joke is over so I pinch him on the cheek and say, “What we need around here, Jerry,
     is more love.” He makes a dirty gesture, everybody laughs again, and he continues the conversation that was going on before
     I entered.
    Jerry is the oldest member of Ladder 31. He is thirty-eight, the chauffeur of the truck, and the senior man. He is called
     the “first whip,” a term which has survived from the days when horses pulled the fire engines. He is also the union delegate
     of Ladder 31, and he is talking now about a cousin of his who is a waiter in a fancy restaurant in Manhattan.
    He says, “I’m tellin’ ya, the guy makes at least three grand more than me each year. I know. My other cousin does our taxes.
     The people of New York are willin’ to pay a guy who does nothin' but bring them food a damn good salary—20 percent tips on
     everything. But, do they support the firemen when we demand a livin’ wage? Damn right they…”
    The bells start coming in. Everybody stops what they are doing. I stop putting sugar in my coffee. Jerry stops talking. Two
     bells. Seven. Four. Then three. We know that box well—2743—Charlotte Street and 170th. We go to that intersection more often
     than any other. It is usually a false alarm, but there is no such thing as “crying wolf” in this business.
    As we hustle toward the kitchen door, the housewatchman yells out, “82 and 31 goes.” I kick my shoes off by the pumper and
     shove my feet into my rubber boots. Jim Stack slides the pole from the second floor. He is the senior man in Engine 82—the
     first whip—and I always feel good when I work with him. He’s thirty-nine, and in great shape because he loads soda trucks
     on the side. Like most of us, he has a wife and a few kids, and a house in the suburbs. If he didn’t work that extra job he
     would be still living in the Bronx. He is the most experienced engine man in the house, and when he is with me on the nozzle
     I could fight my way into the core of the earth.
    As I put on my rubber coat I see Vinny Royce standing next to me on the back step of the pumper. He is a quiet, sincere guy,
     and the Fire Department is his whole life. He used to work in Harlem, but he transferred to Engine 82 when we became the busiest
     company in the city. There is enough action in Harlem to keep any fireman running, but Vinny wanted that little extra that
     made him part of the busiest.
    The pumper starts to roll out and I lean down to help Carmine Belli up to the back step. Carmine is an exercise buff. He runs
     three to