The captain kept moving, now pointing at Sullivan. “This is Sullivan, our engine operator. Stand up, Sullivan.”
Sullivan stood up. I revised my earlier guess. He was six-five, at least. Maybe six-six.
“What do you think we call this guy?” the captain asked me.
It was a challenge—to see if I could think like a firefighter.
“It’s either Shorty or Tiny,” I guessed.
All the guys burst out with laughs and shouts. “She got it!”
Tiny took a bow.
The captain gave me a nod of respect and went on with the introductions. “The cranky one with back trouble is DeStasio. I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you can ever make him smile. Whatever you do, don’t park in his space. He’s taking over cooking duties in the wake of the Patterson brothers’ departure. He can make a total of three different meals, and they’re all burned.”
DeStasio didn’t say hello. In a voice of pure dismay, he asked the captain, “Why is the new guy a girl?”
The captain nodded, like,Good question. “I thought you guys could use a little surprise. Plus, she’s a hotshot medic. And we were desperate.”
Then Six-Pack said, “I for one am all for it. I’m tired of looking at you ugly bastards.”
Another cheer of rowdy laughter and protest.
The captain put his hands out to settle them down. “Now, I know what you guys are all thinking about women.” Here he paused, seeming to think about women himself for a minute. “But this is who the chief hired, and you can be men about it or you can whine like little—”
He caught himself, glanced over at me.
“Puppies,” he continued.
Case piped up again. “But where is she going to sleep?”
“Where’s she going tocrap?” Tiny said. “We don’t even have a ladies’ room.”
“Where is she going to put her lady products?” DeStasio demanded, and the whole room moaned in disgust like there was nothing on earth that could be grosser than that. As if these guys hadn’t seen every unspeakably nasty thing in the world. As if they hadn’t literally walked over slimy dead bodies and charred human remains. As if any of them could be shocked by a tampon.
But I was actually wondering those same questions myself. In Austin, our firehouse had been pretty close to brand-new—out in a newer suburb, with plenty of natural light and gender-neutral accommodations, and even flexible sleeping areas for different groupings of men and women on different shifts. This firehouse, in contrast, was at least ahundred years old and had not, shall we say, been built with a progressive eye toward gender politics.
“There’s only one shitter,” Tiny called out, “and it’s mine-all-mine.”
“No ladies in the poop zone!” Case chimed in.
“Whereisshe going to sleep?” DeStasio asked.
The captain had a ready answer. “I asked the chief the same question. The guys up top said to put her in the supply closet.”
I squinted at him. Was he kidding?
“I’m not kidding,” he said. “When you take the shelving out, there’s room there for a bed.” He gave me a wink. “We’ll paint it pink for you, sweetheart, so you’ll feel right at home.”
I gave him a look.
“Unless,” he went on, “you want to sleep with all the guys.”
“You can sleep with me, baby,” Six-Pack called out, and they all laughed.
In truth, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t love the idea of the supply closet, away from the group, but whether sleeping in a big room with these guys would help or hinder our sense of camaraderie was going to depend very much on the guys.
“What’s it going to be?” the captain asked.
