Report from Engine Co. 82 (10 page)

Artie has a habit of saying “you know,” but he never says it questioningly. It is a declarative statement, and seems to reinforce
what he says. The rain beats harder on the Palisades now, and it is more difficult to drive.

I laugh a little, and say, “Listen Artie, the day is depressing enough.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “There must be something we can say to bring a little sunshine into this car. You know. We
can talk about the Miss America contest, or some other equally important American venture. Like, you know, television quiz
games or the vice-presidency.”

“I know, Artie,” I say. “There is a consistency of metaphor there somewhere.”

“At least you’re laughing,” he says.

I can see the vertical beams of the George Washington Bridge. We will be at the firehouse in fifteen minutes. The rain has
slowed to a drizzle again, but it is icing on the windshield. It is going to be cold riding on the back of the fire engine.

It is five minutes after five as we enter the firehouse. Engine 82 and both Ladder 31 and 712 are out. Engine 85’s pumper
is parked in the corner of the apparatus floor, and the Chiefs car sits in the middle. Bob Beatty and Marty Hannon—two of
the senior men in Engine 85—are playing gin rummy in the kitchen.

“Hey Beast,” I yell over the screaming unwatched television, “where are all the troops?”

Beatty throws his cards on the table, kicks his chair over, and hollers, “Ya doesn’t hafta call me Beast. Ya can call me Robert
if ya want, but ya doesn’t hafta call me Beast.” Hannon doubles over in laughter. Beatty picks his chair up, sits down, and
regroups his cards. He ignores us. Beatty is a tall, thin man who sports a handlebar mustache. He is a hard-drinking, good-looking
unmarried fireman, and a good man with his fists when the time comes. He is also the firehouse mimic.

“Bob is having one of his attacks,” Artie says. Beatty twitches a small smile, but concentrates on ignoring us. He must have
waited in the kitchen, silently practicing the routine, until we arrived.

“Let me try again,” I say. “Marty, would you happen to know where the other companies, and the firefighters assigned to those
companies, are?”

Marty Hannon has one of those fresh, rose-colored faces that makes him look like he just stepped off the boat from County
Meath. As he speaks his sullen Irish eyes smack of sincerity. “No, I’m sorry Dennis, I don’t. But the Beast probably does.”

Beatty again kicks his chair over. “Ya doesn’t hafta call me Beast.…”

As we walk out of the kitchen, Artie says, “You should have known better.”

“Yeah.”

As we walk up the stairs to the locker room, the man on housewatch begins to pull the heavy chains of the overhead door. The
companies have returned from wherever they were. I am halfway up the flight of twenty-three stairs, but I turn and walk down
again. Engine 82 backs into its spot, and I take my gear from the rack. With boots, helmet, and rubber coat in place I can
now change into my work clothes without having to worry about looking for them if an alarm comes in.

Benny Carroll’s locker is next to mine on the second floor. I am happy to see him, and we ask simultaneously, “How are ya
feeling?” and then laugh. I ask about his hand, and he shows me the silver-dollar scab, hard, and chocolate brown. He could
have taken another week of medical leave, but he was as anxious as I to get back to the firehouse. The bum still hurts him
if he stretches the skin, if he makes a fist, but he faked it at the medical office, and got a full-duty slip.

The bells ring as I change my pants, but it’s for Engine 85 and Ladder 712. As Benny and I are walking down the stairs, the
bells sound again. This time it’s for us. Box 2597. The house-watchman yells, “Union Avenue and 165. Eighty-two and Thirty-one
goes. Chief goes.” Men are sliding the poles, running from the kitchen, and from the cellar. Benny is looking for his gear
at the rack. John Horn takes his gear from the back of the pumper as Benny steps up on the back step. “Take up, John, you’re
relieved.” Vinny Royce steps up muttering that it’s about time we came back to work. Kelsey and Knipps, who are always together,
are riding the side step. The firehouse clock reads five-thirty.

The pumper tears screaming up Home street, down Prospect, over 165th Street to Union. Nobody there. We start to walk up the
street, then run back to the pumper. There are people waving down the block. The pumper stops in front of a three-story wooden
frame house. There is a little smoke seeping from a window on the second floor. The men of Ladder 31 run into the building,
O’Mann, McCartty, and Siebeck. Artie Merritt runs into the adjoining building to check the rear and the roof. John Milsaw
stands in front. The Chiefs aide walks into the house, followed by Chief Niebrock. A group of children come running up the
street to investigate the excitement.

It smells like food on the stove. Even the wind can’t hide the deep, putrid smell of burnt food. The rain has stopped, and
the streets are drying. The wind passes, but it is mild, and the temperature almost pleasant. Only light smoke leaves my mouth
as I open it, but the mist hanging beneath the street light tells me that the smoke will get heavier as the night grows. The
mass of cold air has broken, and the break is moving through the South Bronx. The colder half will soon follow.

Chief Niebrock comes out of the building. Benny has his arm through the hose folds just in case. “Food on the stove, Chief?”
The Chief nods. We are waiting now for our Lieutenant, Tom Welch, who is inside with the ruined dinner.

Lieutenant Welch is forty-three, but looks much younger. He is a hip-looking guy, with long hair. When he is off duty he wears
western clothes, and, occasionally, small beads around his neck. He plays the guitar even better than Carmine Belli, but because
his guitar is so expensive he doesn’t take it to the firehouse much. Things get stolen on Intervale Avenue. I get the feeling
that all things in his life come second to the Fire Department. He has worked in the South Bronx for over fifteen years, and
he has a reputation for getting in and putting the fire out no matter what the conditions. It’s good having him work with
us. If the fire can be reached, Tom Welch will reach it.

I open my rubber coat and take the pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket. Benny and Vinny Royce each take one. As I strike
the match I can hear a series of shouts coming from across the street. Some children have gathered there by the street light,
and have begun to chant. There are seven of them. Seven black youthful faces peering at us. The oldest of them can’t be more
than ten years old. At first their chant is disjointed, then finding harmony it fills the street. “Pig white motherfucker.
Pig white.…” It repeats, and repeats.

There is no discernible hatred in their faces. No wickedness. Seven young boys, as young as unweaned calves, yet filled with
words beyond their understanding. Like carolers they are grouped in a semicircle, but unlike carolers they are poised to run
if a fireman makes a quick move.

As youthful and spirited as colts, their voices are high and carry easily through the mist. I wonder what motivates them to
chant such an ugly phrase so naturally. Benny Carroll says, “What they need is a good kick in the ass.” Vinny agrees. But
I’m not so sure. Somebody needs a good kick in the ass, but not these boys. Chanting sin without being sinful, they need to
be talked to by someone who loves them, or by someone who finds value in loving. Father forgive them for they know not what
they say. But, that’s not important, for they haven’t sinned, they have no malice. So young, I think. So young. Who is the
sinner? Who teaches? His ass is the one to be kicked.

Tom Welch comes from the building and climbs into the pumper. John Milsaw makes a quick move, and the kids run down the street.
Everyone laughs, and John shakes his head.

The pumper moves, and the chant is forgotten. Benny and Vinny plan the evening’s meaL Broiled half chickens, they say. French-fried
potatoes. Salad. Creamed corn. I can hear what they are saying but all I can think of is pig, white, guinea, spic, hebe, motherfucker,
nigger, donkey, mick, fishhead. Each word brings with it a flash of remembrance. The final solution sounded like a funny thing
on the streets of the east Fifties when I was a kid. Any guy who didn’t look Irish was a wop to us. And nigger was a thing
we caught by the toe before we played stick-ball. If someone called one of us a donkey he’d get his lumps if he wasn’t too
big, and if he was too big three or four of us would lay for him.

Funny, isn’t it, I think. And who’s to blame for the way we thought as kids? Our neighbors, our teachers, our parents? It’s
too late. But it wasn’t too late for me. I got my ass kicked when I was sixteen. I quit school, and started reading books.
In that order. I have a lot of bruises. The milk bottle filled with black ink in the Baltimore Catechism No. 2 belonged to
me. That was the one where the ink stood for mortal sins. But if I’m still around as my own boys grow up they will be sure
to learn that people don’t hate other people. It is only when other people are dehumanized that they can become hateful. The
Jews in Poland, Hungary, and Germany were never people, but an abstraction called “final solution.” Slave ships were filled
with niggers, not people. Nobody would buy people. Guineas couldn’t join Irish-dominated trade unions, but people could. If
Brendan, Dennis, and Sean can understand that, then maybe the empty milk bottle in the Baltimore Catechism No. 2 will belong
to them. But those kids back on Union Avenue, they’ll have to work it out by themselves. The truly sad thing about it is that
I do realize how much easier it is if you’re white.

We have just come from a rubbish fire. It’s two-thirty in the morning. There have been eleven alarms for us since we were
at Union Avenue. Our meal was interrupted by two false alarms, but it didn’t matter. Chicken is as good cold as it is hot,
and I didn’t mind doing without the creamed corn.

I take my coat off, and throw it on the rig. My legs are beginning to tire so I climb the stairs to the second floor. One-half
of the huge room is taken up by our lockers, and the other half is filled with eighteen beds, spaced about twelve inches apart.
Theoretically, we can sleep here until we are relieved at 9:00
A.M.,
but like many theories, it never works out in reality. I don’t take off any clothes before I lie down, because I know I won’t
be here long. I fall asleep quickly.

As I awaken, the lights are on, and the bells are tolling. The housewatchman is yelling “85 and 31 goes.” Good, it’s not for
mel I lie back. But the housewatchman yells “82 goes too. Get out 82.” I look down as I slide the brass pole, and make sure
of my footing as I hit the floor. Benny slides the pole behind me. Kelsey, Knipps, and Royce come from the kitchen. The clock
reads three-thirty.

Engine 85 and Ladder 31 are going to Southern Boulevard and Jennings Street. We have been special called to Hoe Avenue and
172nd Street, and we follow them up Southern Boulevard. Suddenly, the pumper screeches to a stop. Ladder 31 has stopped before
us. But we have to go up to 172nd Street. As we pull around the Ladder truck we see that it has crashed into the back of Engine
85. Bob Beatty is lying in the street, blood gushing from his forehead. The pumper stops momentarily, and then races toward
172nd Street. Evidently Lieutenant Welch ordered the chauffeur to keep going. We all want to stop, to help Bob, but we know
that we have to get to the box on Hoe Avenue and 172nd Street. Every second will count if there is a fire.

There is a man at the corner of Hoe Avenue waving to us. He runs into a tenement house, and we follow closely behind. “What’s
the matter?” yells Lieutenant Welch. “Is there a fire?” But the man doesn’t speak English “Meda, meda,” he keeps saying. Come,
come. Here, here.

Lieutenant Welch and I follow up the stairs. The others wait below in case a hose line has to be stretched. The man leads
us into a bedroom on the fourth floor. A woman, I guess his wife, is lying under a sheet on the bed. She is sweating, and
breathing irregularly. The room is wet with heat, and the radiator is steaming. The place is stuffy, like the back of a saloon.

“We’ll have to wait until a Chief gets here with a resuscitator,” the Lieutenant says. “It looks like she may have asthma,
or it could be an emotional attack.”

That’s true, I think. I have seen many Spanish women gasping for air, only to be quickly revived when an ambulance attendant
puts smelling salts under their noses.

“Let’s get her to a window,” Lieutenant Welch says. “This place is like an oven.” He puts a chair in front of the window,
and motions to the man that we want her to sit on it. The husband understands, and pulls the sheet from her. She is naked,
but for a pair of panties.

Lieutenant Welch and I lift her to the chair, and her husband wraps her in a blanket. She is a young girl, about twenty-five,
and her breasts are full and erect. The blanket is draped over her shoulders, and opened at the front. I pull one end over
her bared breasts, and across her arm. How strange that the first rule of administering first aid to women is to cover them
up, because no matter what their injury might be, no matter how severe, they may worry more about their modesty.

Lieutenant Welch opens the window, as I wipe her forehead with a towel. The night air hits her, and she begins to understand
where she is. It looks like she’s all right, but that’s not for us to determine. I wish the hell we could get out of here.
I wonder how Bob is. Is he hurt bad? Will he live? Will I get to see him before he dies? Why do we always think of the worst
when a friend is involved?

The Chief of the Eighteenth Battalion arrives. He sends his aide down for the resuscitator. Lieutenant Welch and I carry the
woman back to the bed. She doesn’t speak English either, but it seems as if she is telling us that she feels all right.

The Chief asks her, “Do you need an ambulance? Do you want to go to the hospital?”