Page 2 of Burn
Case in point. If you came upon the scenes we do, you’d understand.
Just ask this guy trapped in his car suspended in wires sixty feet off the ground. I bet you a hundred bucks how his car got up there is agoodstory.
I take that back. I don’t have a hundred bucks. I’m a firefighter. Our pay is shit.
“How in the fuck did he manage this is what I want to know?” Captain Gibson asks, scratching the side of his head under his helmet.
Looking up at the car, my eyes strain to make out if there are any passengers in the car with the driver.
“It’s impressive,” I mumble, stepping to the side and then eyeing the guy-wire. I bet he wasn’t paying attention, hit them and launched his car up in the air. Surprisingly, I’ve seen this kind of thing before, just not as high up as this guy managed to get.
“Holy shit.” Owen laughs, patting his pockets on his bunker gear searching for his cell phone. “This guy is my fuckin’ hero,” he says, just before taking a selfie with the car in the background.
Our job as firefighters is to stabilize the scene and this guy so the paramedics can tend to him if needed, but I’m thinking he’s not feeling a thing when we get up there. Extended in the air by an aerial ladder and he smiles at us like he’s just been awarded a prize. He has. Biggest Dumb-ass prize and by the smell of him, a free ticket to jail for drunk driving.
“Seattle fire department to the rescue.” Owen nods to the guy who’s staring at us with wide eyes. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Asher.”
“Well,Asher, I hope you’re not in a hurry, bud,” Owen says to him with a smile, tipping his head to the side and eyeing the car.
“Nah, I got time,” he mumbles, slurring his words. It’s then I notice he’s just a kid. Probably not even twenty-one.
When he opens his mouth, we know just how drunk he is. It’s so bad I feel I’m contact drunk, if that’s such a thing.
“Yeah, you do.” Owen chuckles, giving a nod to the Captain below. “Get the PUD down here.”
“Can I ask how exactly you did this?” I ask, still trying to understandhowhe got up here.
“Over corrected in the corner?” His reply comes out in the form of a question.
“So . . .” Owen’s voice is drawn out like he’s surprised by what he’s saying.
The kid sighs, as if he can’t believe he has to explainhowthis happened. “I hit a fence . . . then I guess the wire? Next thing I knew I was up here.”
Owen and I look at the street, both ways before saying, “What corner?”
The guy shrugs. Just shrugs.
Sure, we find entertainment in these calls, but this isn’t the sort of action we sign up for when we decide to become a firefighter. You don’t think as a kid, “Fuck, man, I can’t wait to go to a house, find a dead guy with a penis pump in hand, a box of porn and a fridge full of PBR.”
True story, I swear.
If you do . . . man, you’re in it for the wrong reasons, but more power to you.
The guys I know, wewantfire calls. We crave those voracious flames, the untamable monster of incinerators, the infernos we hardly ever see but dream of. We’re adrenaline seekers, and there’s nothing better than running into a fire to save lives. I guess in a sense it’s the idea that in those moments upon entering a fire, I’m more alive than ever, confronted by the possibility of death, surrounded and vulnerable to it.
I love bashing in steel doors, smashing out windows, tearing holes in steep-pitched roofs with metal spears and iron hooks. I find comfort in ripping into ceilings and walls as I chase veins of fire hiding behind plaster.
And it all hits me when I step outside, gasping for fresh air through puddles of sooty water and ladders stretching up a hundred teetering feet. It’s that sensation, the sights, sounds, smells, as horrifying as it sounds to others, it’s exhilarating and nothing like anything else I’ve experienced in life. Or will ever as far as I’m concerned.
WALKING BACK TO the truck, I glance down at my phone to check any missed calls. Mom said she’d send me a text with what time to come over tomorrow for Christmas dinner but had yet to say when.
“She call you again?” Owen asks, walking beside me, the lights of the police car with the kid in the back for driving under the influence and being only sixteen, flashing like strobe lights.
He doesn’t have to say her name. I know theshehe’s referring to. My ex-girlfriend.
I don’t want to be talking about my ex-girlfriend, but unfortunately, she’s the topic of conversation more often than not in the firehouse since we broke up.
