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This story was inspired in part by the song On the Way Down, by Ryan Cabrera.
I leave the ending open. It’s yours to decide what happens after.
The sun has gone down over the borough of Brooklyn. Outside, the cars still fly back and forth on Hamilton Avenue underneath the Gowanus Expressway, heading down to Third Avenue or up to the entrance to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway or the entrance to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, only about four blocks up from the firehouse. It’s finally completely dark; the last rays of the sun disappeared somewhere around eight, and the last bit of light faded away sometime around nine. It’s ten o’clock now. I’ve worked since nine this morning, and I’m halfway through my twenty-four hour tour. Upstairs, the guys are playing cards or watching movies in the kitchen. We’ve only had a couple of runs all day, and none worth mentioning. I’m sitting down in the housewatch on the apparatus floor, wishing the air conditioner to the tiny room worked just a little bit better. I’m listening to music while I idly read over firefighting procedures; I’ve got a whole two and a half years on, but family and friends both say I should be ready for the next lieutenant’s exam. I know it’s a raise, but I’m not all that sure if I want to be a leader. I’m told chauffeur school will be right around the corner for me. One of our chauffeurs has already been promoted, and the next one is due to go in two weeks. So in three weeks, I’m of the chart and into the academy to learn how to drive the tower ladder.
Of course, it’s not like that’s the only thing bothering me. Two nights ago a few people threw me a party for my birthday, a surprise since they knew I wouldn’t show up if they told me beforehand. Two people showed up from Long Island. One is a friend of mine since college. I’ve known him for almost ten years now. He’s on the Police Department in Manhattan. The other is a girl he brought with him to a wedding for one of my other friends. I’ve known her for about a year; I’ve been in love with her about a day less. She’s nine years younger than me, but she’s just terrific. It’s about the worst situation for me. I’ve gone out to the bar she works at in Long Island almost a dozen times, watching football during the winter (she’s a tremendous Giants fan), and then I made up other excuses. Sunday Mets games, my friend invited me up (even though he’s not at the bar and is, in fact, working), and “I just happened to be in the neighborhood”. When I started this odyssey of lovestruck stupidity she was just breaking up with her boyfriend, which didn’t make me feel any better about the whole deal. She’s always laughed off my half serious advances, usually made just before I leave the bar and she probably thinks I’m a little less sober than I actually am, but always asked me when I would come up again before I went home. I always held out hope that maybe she would see how much I cared for her, but if she noticed she wasn’t letting on. I asked my friend to say something to her, to help me out, but I think he either avoided the situation or knew the outcome and just didn’t want to hurt my feelings.
But she was there, at my favorite hole in the wall bar, with some of my friends that came back from where they had scattered across the United States or, like me, had always lived on Staten Island. Some of the regulars at the bar, friends of mine since I started going there almost seven years ago, were also on hand. She made it worth the ordeal of sitting through the recognition that I was getting older. And so, after about nine beers, I finally said a little something more serious to her when we went out to smoke. My friend gave me room to operate for once, and even went so far as to block off someone else that was going out for a smoke long enough for me to say what had to be said.
She said she didn’t know. She said we lived far apart, and that she had still had feelings for her ex that she was working out, and that she needed a little time. She said she would call me soon, to give me a more definite answer, but that she just didn’t know then. The rest of the party went by with me drinking maybe just a little too heavy, but at the end of the night my friends got me back to my parents’ house right around the corner.
I guess it goes without saying that, drunk or not, I spent the night alone.
And so here I am now. My cell phone is in my pocket as I try to think of something else. Anything else. I keep glancing to the computer, hoping for something. A fire. A collapse. An odor of gas. A water leak. I’ll take a carbon monoxide run at this point. It’s a night where I just want to be able to forget my ruined love life, get on the rig, and fly out into the muggy Brooklyn night. To our left is Red Hook and the projects, to our right Park Slope. If only the tones would go off and give me something to do. Anything. Again I look to the computer, silent for the moment, its screensaver sending “Engine 279 Ladder 131 The Happy Hookers” continually across the screen. I look at the clock sitting just underneath. Twenty to eleven. Pretty soon my relief will come down to take over the watch and I’ll head up to the bunkroom to try and catch an hour or two of fitful sleep between stupid calls for ovens that won’t shut off, carbon monoxide detectors that need their batteries replaced, or water leaking through the ceiling from a vacant apartment one floor up. I turn back to my reading, roof operations in row frame fires, but can’t really concentrate. I keep waiting for my phone to ring, or for the tones to go off. In frustration I snap the binder shut, pick up my cigarettes off the desk, and open up the housewatch door. I put the cigarette to my lips and strike a match. I take a long drag.
Ladder!
The computer generated voice calls out the truck just as I exhale. I toss the cigarette to the concrete floor and rush back in. Acknowledge the run. Read it off.
“Truck goes, 231 Twenty-eighth Street, between Third and Fourth Avenues!” I read out. “Fire on the top floor of a multiple dwelling! Phone alarm, truck is second due!”
There’s sudden action. Guys are coming down the steps or sliding down the poles. I grab the ticket and hurry over to the truck side, throwing the ticket on the chauffeur seat of the tower ladder before rushing back to my gear and jumping into my boots. I pull my bunker pants on and toss my radio over my shoulder. I leave my cell phone on the red aluminum rack where I hang my gear. I have the roof; it’s with mixed relief and irritation that I grab my bunker coat. This isn’t the first time we’ve gone to Twenty-eighth Street.
‘What was it?” the chauffeur asks, pulling on his own bunker pants.
“Top floor fire, 231 Twenty-eighth Street,” I repeat. “We’ve been getting false alarms over there the last two weeks.”
The chauffeur nods as he jumps into the cab. The irons man has already gone out the front door, while I wait back in the house to shut the door behind us. One of the enginemen has come down to take over the watch, and as he sees me he waves me out
“Go ahead, bro,” he says. “I got the doors.”
I sneak out in front of the tower ladder before it pulls out of quarters. The irons man jumps into the rear cab of the truck, holding the door open for me as I finish pulling on my bunker coat and climb into the seat. I face forward, able to see everything coming (on the chauffeur side at least), but as I pull my hood down over my head and slip my arms into the straps of my mask set into the seatback, I hardly have any interest in the run. All this means to me, right now, is that I’ll have to fight my way through a scuttle with a mask, saw, halligan, and hook to find out that some kid wanted to see the shiny trucks pull up in front of his house again. At least I’ll get my mind off of her for a little while, and maybe if I’m lucky it won’t be a false alarm.
“Brooklyn calling the 48 Battalion.”
I barely perk up as the radio plays out on the back step. I pretty much know what the dispatcher will say. Three and two, engine 239 will be the 10-14 Engine.
“48, K.” The predictable reply from the chief.
“You’re getting three and two on the box,” the dispatcher says. Surprise. “Engine 239 will be your 10-14 Engine.”
“48, 10-4,” the chief says. The siren is wailing as we blast down the last stretch of Hamilton Avenue to where it turns into Third Avenue.
“Brooklyn calling the 48 Battalion.” I look up now. The dispatcher calling again can only mean one thing…
“48.”
“Alright, we’re receiving multiple calls for this box. You’re now receiving four and two, Engine 279 will be your fourth engine, and you’ll be receiving Rescue 2 and Squad 1 on the box.”
“48, 10-4.”
“I think we got something!” the chauffeur yells out from the front cab. I glance around quickly. The irons man pulls his gloves on quickly. The outside vent man, the OV, sitting on the other side of the rig, puts his hood back up and grabs his helmet. The can man, sitting opposite the irons man and facing the OV, glances nervously over his shoulder. He’s been in house only two months, if that.
“Gonna be your first job, kid!” the OV yells with a grin. I think quickly of what I’ll have to do, how I’ll get up to the roof. It’ll be a pain in the ass; 114 Truck is the first due truck on the box, and they’re also a tower ladder. I’ll need the saw, my hook, and my halligan, and chances are I’ll have to drag it all through a scuttle that’s barely big enough to accommodate me without the twenty-five pound cylinder on my back.
“Engine 228 to Brooklyn, urgent!” comes an excited shout over the radio.
“228, go ahead,” the dispatcher replies calmly. The chauffeur pounds on the window to the rear cab with one hand as the truck speeds up. We all know what’s coming next.
“10-75 the box, fire on the top floor!” Engine 228 reports. We’re going to work.
“10-4,” the dispatcher says. There’s a loud beep over the radio, and then the dispatcher comes back on. “In the Borough of Brooklyn, all companies going to work at Box 1425, that’s 231 Twenty-eighth Street, for fire in the top floor of a multiple dwelling. Brooklyn calling Battalion 48.”
“48.”
“Ladder 122 will be your FAST Truck, and the 32 Battalion will be your 10-75 Chief.”
“48, 10-4. We’re 10-84 at the Box. Extra engine and truck, I’ll get back to you with the particulars.”
There’s more chatter on the radio. The dispatcher will call 122 to let them know that they’re the FAST(Firefighter Assist and Search Team) Truck. They’ll call the 32 Battalion to notify them that they’re the All Hands chief. The 48 will come back with the initial report on the fire; where it is, the exposures, the control of the fire. But I lose all that as we round the corner and I can see what’s happening. The OV shouts over to me, but I miss what he says in the roar of sirens and my own size up of the scene. The fire is on my side, blowing out every window of a row frame house and peeling the siding off. This one is big.
“What?” I shout back to him.
“I’ll put you up in the bucket!” the OV shouts back. “Just bring everything up with you! Rope, saw, everything you think you’ll need!”
“You got it!” I shout back. Thank God, no fighting my way through a scuttle. The truck screeches to a halt. 114 already has their bucket to the roof to the other side of the fire building. As I jump out the captain rushes up with his inside team, the irons man with his forcible entry tools and the can man with his fire extinguisher and hook, while the chauffeur and the OV drop the tormentors and set the tower for my ascent to the roof. I grab the roof rope from its cabinet right behind the cab door, then grab the saw from its box just behind the rear wheels. The tormentors have barely hit the ground when I climb up to the bucket and throw my gear inside. The OV is a step behind me.
“131 to Brooklyn, we have a heavy smoke condition in Exposure 2!” my captain shouts. Top floor fire in a row frame, he’s going to the most severely exposed building. The building whose roof I’ll be stepping onto in less than a minute.
“48 to Engine 239, stretch your line to Exposure 2,” the chief orders. The bucket starts to ascend, and I can look down and see Engine 239, backed up by 279, bringing their line to the front door of the building just below me. I can already see smoke starting to seep through the partially opened window on the top floor, which is now directly in front of me. We ascend a little more, and I’m in line with the roof. I throw my halligan onto the roof, through swirls of heavy smoke. I hear it land in the gloom.
“I’m gonna take these windows here!” the OV says to me as I throw my hook onto the roof next. There’s another satisfying clang as it hits a solid roof. “You call if you need me!”
“Piece of cake!” I say, shouldering the roof rope and grabbing the saw. I pound one boot on the roof before I exit the bucket, just to make sure. The smoke is getting heavier; I have a feeling I’ll need my mask once I start cutting. I step off and grab the tools I’ve already thrown, then start to the fire building. Engine 228 is calling for more water, saying the entire top floor is involved. 131’s inside tam is reporting heavy smoke on the top floor of Exposure 2. The chief is already calling for a second alarm assignment.
I can see 114’s roof man through the smoke as he fights to open the scuttle. Smoke and a little bit of fire are showing through the shattered skylight. I can read the name on the back of his coat; I went to probie school with him, but we don’t really have time to catch up on old times right now. As I leave my saw and rope on the roof next to the chimney, he yanks the scuttle free, releasing a plume of heavy smoke and more fire.
“You check the rear yet?” I shout.
“Shit, no!” he replies. “Fucking scuttle gave me problems!”
“I got it!” I shout. I take four steps to the rear of the building, moving quickly. I need to let the guys below me know if they have rear fire escapes, or if anyone is at a window, or…
There’s a snap below me. There’s a nightmarish second when I look down and watch the roof give way. There’s a blast of heat and smoke from below. There’s a brief moment of realization that I’m about to fall into a swirling inferno.
And then I fall.
I drop my hook and halligan as I fall. My mask bounces off a rafter behind me, shoving me forward. More scorched plywood and tar membrane snap and break as my chest punches through it, until the rafter in front of me blasts the wind from my lungs. I’m stunned for only a second; the realization that I’m going to die if I don’t do something keeps me from losing it completely. My gloves slide across the roof in front of me until I drive my fingers into the tar like claws, trying to slow my progress. More of the roof gives way, but it gives me a grip on the rafter before I plunge to my death. The heat is unbearable; I’ve just made a chimney for the fire and blocked it with my own body. I try not to imagine my boots melting to my feet. I concentrate on trying to pull myself up.
“Holy shit!” I hear behind me. I hear my radio wail out the mayday alarm next. “Mayday mayday mayday, 114 Roof to battalion mayday!”
He does it perfectly, but his tone, desperate and more than a bit rushed, doesn’t put me at ease at all. I’m praying my situation isn’t as bad as it looks from where I am.
“48 to 114 Roof, go ahead with your mayday,” comes the reply from the chief on the ground. Kind of funny, his calm voice manages to calm me slightly. I try again to pull myself out of the hole I’ve fallen into, but between the weight, the confined space, and the awkward position of my arms, I’m stuck.
“131 Roof has fallen through the roof of the fire building!” my fellow Roof Man informs the battalion, and everyone else. God, this is embarrassing. I’d be humiliated if I wasn’t worried about burning to death. I need to get myself out before they get up here. “He’s holding on up here, but I don’t think I can get him out alone!”
“48 to the FAST Truck, get to the roof of the fire building,” the chief orders. I can imagine what’s going on below me.
They’re on their way with no further prompting. 122 Can clears out the Stokes basket, the basket they’ll use to get 131’s Roof man down once they get him out of the hole. 122 Irons grabs the roof saw, while their roof man throws the roof rope on his shoulder. 122’s captain starts up first, followed immediately by his roof man and irons man. 122’s OV is shoving the Stokes, empty of everything except a backboard, up in front of him, while the can man stays behind him. The chauffeur starts up last, making his way up the ladder just as the captain tosses his officer’s tool onto the roof to make sure he isn’t the next man to fall through the roof.
The captain is a seasoned veteran of the FDNY. He knows the guy from 131 has to be removed quickly, or he’s going to roast to death even if he doesn’t fall into the raging top floor fire below. He’s probably already taking burns to his legs and feet as he dangles over the flames. 228 is having a hard time pushing the fire back, and even an additional line from 240 Engine, first due on the second alarm, may not be enough to douse the fire quickly. The fire is spreading everywhere.
114’s Roof man is making an attempt to get him out of the hole, but the heat is driving him back and the weight of a fully bunkers up man wearing a Scott mask is too much for one person to dead lift out of the hole. But the captain sees something else. He sees the roof starting to give way beneath the roof man, threatening to make another victim out of the man from 114. Quickly he sprints across the roof, his irons man a step behind him. He barely has time. He reaches 114’s roof man and grabs him by the back of his mask, yanking him away from the widening hole as the roof gives way again.
“Get off the roof!” the man in the hole shouts. “It’s all giving way, get off the fucking roof!”
“Hang on, brother!” the irons man yells to 131. “We’re coming to get you!”
I was trying to tell the guy from 114 to get of the roof before he ended up like me. I thought for sure he was going in, and the look in his eyes told me he thought it was a definite possibility right before the captain from 122 hauled him back. What I said was on reflex, but true. If I was going to die, I didn’t want to take anyone with me. Still, when the guy from 122 tells me to hang on, that they’re going to get me out, it makes me feel better. It makes me forget, for a brief instant, that I’m starting to cook inside my bunker gear. The captain turns around and yells something to his roof man. I try not to think of what’s going on below me.
I think of her. Blond hair, those dark, dark brown eyes, and that smile. She’s amazing. I can remember all those times I argued with her over whether or not Eli Manning would save the Giants, telling her I hoped that she was right about him and I was wrong. That awesome smile as I asked what had made her think I came up to visit my college buddy. The way she danced with me when I first met her at that wedding almost a year ago. I wonder if my cell phone is ringing back at the firehouse. It’d be bad timing, that’s for sure. She’s calling me to give an answer, and here I am dangling over a fire in what is probably not Brooklyn’s best neighborhood. I wonder what will happen if I can’t walk again. If she’s not sure about her feelings for me now, what will she feel if I’m in a wheelchair?
“Hang on, brother! Stay with us!”
I snap my head to the voice. It’s a guy from 122, leaning out as far as he can over the same rafter I’m clinging to for dear life. I realize I’m starting to slip, and try to claw my way back onto the rafter as far as I can. It’s getting hot. The smoke is making me tear up. Sweat is pouring down my face. The heat on my feet and legs is getting unbearable. I have to be burning.
Don’t think of that. Think of her showering you with sympathy. Think of that smile, those eyes. Think of that perfect little body. Think of anything other than the flames below you.
“Ah, Jesus Christ!” I scream out. I hadn’t intended to start screaming, to start blubbering like a child, but here I am, venting curses to the wind and smoke and the guys from 122 who are doing everything they can to save my life. I promise God I’ll be a nicer guy, that I won’t give my family any more trouble. I promise to go back to church. I promise to end world hunger, as long as I don’t cook here. I hope I’m not crying, but the pain and the smoke are getting to be too much.
The guy leaning out over the fire with me on the rafter clips the roof rope around the back of my mask at the straps.
“We’re gonna pull you out!” he tells me. “Come on, brother! Eyes here! Stay with me!”
“Fucking do it already!” I scream. “I’m burning up!”
“When we start pulling you gotta fold your arms across your chest, or the mask’ll slide off!” he directs me. “You hear me? You with me?”
“Yeah, yeah!” I answer. I force clarity back into my smoke addled brain. I’m hurting real bad, but I ain’t out of this yet. Arms across my chest.
“Cap, you ready?” he yells back over his shoulder. I don’t hear any acknowledgement, but I guess the captain is ready. The guy backs off slightly. “Okay, now!”
I fold my arms across my chest as they yank, pinning my mask in place. For a second I go down, heading for that fire, but then they’re pulling me, ripping my mask through the roof until someone grabs me by each shoulder and hauls me out of the hole. I’m screaming as they bounce my legs all over the place, off the jagged edge of the hole and onto solid roof. 122’s can man sprays me down with water, trying to cool my bunker gear before I burn any more.
“Come on, come on, get him into the Stokes!” the captain orders. I scream again as they move me; I’m too far gone now to worry about being embarrassed. They get my mask off and drop me into the Stokes basket. They’re lashing me in as I hear the captain on the radio. “122 to 131 Bucket! Bring the bucket up here to get him off the roof! We’ll meet you on Exposure 2!”
“131 Bucket, 10-4!” I hear the anxious reply. They finish tying me in, and then we’re up and moving, skirting to the front of the building to avoid the expanding hole in the back where I fell through.
“Is the roof vented?” the guy from 131 asks, his head lolling back to see the captain.
“You did fine, kid,” the captain replies. “You got the roof open. Just take it easy, you’ll be at Cornell in no time.”
“I need to get my cell phone,” the guy from 131 says. He’s definitely delirious now. “She might call tonight, and I can’t miss her call.”
“Don’t worry,” the captain says. ‘We’ll stop back at your house and get it on the way. Okay?”
“Okay,” the roof man says. He winces in pain as they reach the front of the Exposure 2 building, where 131’s bucket is already waiting for him.
“Is he alright?” the OV in the bucket asks. He’s worried, fearing the worst.
“He’s out of it, but he’s gonna live!” the captain answers. “Get him down to the ambulance!”
“Come on, man, hold on!” the OV says as the rest of 122 shoves the Stokes onto the bucket. 122’s irons man jumps in to take the ride, to make sure they don’t lose the Stokes off of the bucket before they hit the ground. As they move away from the building and start their descent, 131’s OV takes his roof man’s hand, telling him to hold on for a bit longer, that everything is going to be fine.
As the captain turns back to the rest of his unit, to inform them that no one is going back on the fire building’s roof, he can only hope that 131’s roof man will be fine.
“What’s your name?” she asks me as she does something above my head. I hope she can still recognize me. I answer, hoping my voice isn’t as weak as it sounds to me. I want to be strong in front of her. “Okay, I’m going to put this on you,” she says, slipping an oxygen mask over my head. “It’ll help you breathe.”
I nod, and try to smile slightly. She smiles back.
God, she’s amazing.
