Beneath the Flames

by Gregory Lee Renz

  Mitch took her hands in his. “Why you so pissed?”

  “In four months, you couldn’t come back once? Come on, be honest. Who you seeing?”

  “I told you I had to stay and help Jamal and his friends on the weekends.”

  She rammed her finger into his chest. “You promised you’d come back and see me. You lied, Mitch Garner. Damn you.” She shoved him with both hands. “You promised.”

  He reached for her. “How about you stay for the weekend? We can talk.”

  “Talk? Right. You talk?” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anyway, I have to work tonight, then clinicals Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Can’t you call in sick tonight?”

  “If you cared about me, nothing would have stopped you from coming back. Nothing.”

  “I couldn’t come back.”

  “Not even once?”

  “Jen, it’s not you. I wasn’t ready.”

  “Ready? Ready for what?”

  Mitch clenched his lips.

  “I’m done,” Jennie said and stomped off.

  She climbed into Big Jim’s truck and slammed the door.

  * * *

  Shortly after Mitch told the others that Jennie was waiting in Jim’s truck, they left. He had several rounds of shots with his classmates, then went back to the flat, agonizing over Jennie’s words. Did she mean she was done talking or done forever?

  The following afternoon, he headed to the quarters of Engine Fifteen to meet his crew and get a quick orientation before reporting for his first twenty-four-hour shift on Monday, August twelfth, a red-shift day. The other shifts in the three-day cycle are green and blue.

  On the short drive from Miss Bernie’s house to the firehouse, most blocks had at least one decaying, boarded-up house, some had several. The streets were deserted. Papers and trash fluttered over empty lots. The muggy August breeze carried the faint odor of rotting waste. Two blocks from the firehouse, mounds of charred roofing and shingles smoldered next to a burned-out house.

  * * *

  The cream-colored brick firehouse stood alone in the middle of the block, bordered by a green, manicured lawn. An American flag snapped in the breeze from a tall flagpole. Through the two open overhead garage doors, Mitch saw three men scrubbing flattened hose with wide brooms while another hosed it off. On the cement platform in front of the firehouse, the cherry-red fire engine shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. The four men stopped working and rubber-necked as he turned into the side drive.

  He pulled around back and parked in the fenced-in lot. Razor wire lined the top of the fence. Mitch took a deep breath and walked around front.

  The firehouse smelled of tires, diesel, and wet concrete. A broad man with a pockmarked face and bulging thyroid eyes met him on the platform, scrutinizing him. “You the new paperboy?”

  “I’m the new cub.”

  “Yeah? What stunted your growth?”

  “I, uh…”

  The man pointed at the door. “Office is in there. Hope you’re sharper than you look.”

  The three others leaned on their broom handles, smirking.

  Inside the doorway was a desk referred to as the joker stand, contain­ing a red telephone, desktop paging microphone, computer, and printer. Opposite the joker stand was a small room containing a twin bed and television. Past that was another room with a closed door, then a long hallway. Mitch knocked on the closed door, praying this was the boss’s office.

  “Enter.”

  Behind a wide cluttered desk, sat a stocky man with thick, graying eyebrows. “Ah, our new cub.” He came around the desk and extended a hand. “I’m Stan Reemer. Stockley said you were quite the star at the academy, hey?”

  “Just glad to make it through, sir.”

  “Humble. Good. These guys’ll eat you up if you come in here spouting off. I’ll show you around. Crew’s busy with hose work. We caught an attic fire this morning just down the block.”

  “I saw it on the way in. Looks like it was a good fire,” Mitch said, trying not to sound stupid.

  “Just a squib attic fire in a vacant. Stockley work you guys over pretty good at the academy?”

  “It wasn’t too bad.” Mitch tried to think of something intelligent to say. “How’d he get that scar?”

  “Caught an axe in the face. What about you? How’d you get the ding on your forehead?”

  “Crashed a combine.”

  “Don’t see much of that around here.”

  Captain Reemer took him upstairs and showed him the locker room, showers, and dormitory. The shower area smelled of Ivory soap. Bars of it were everywhere. The dormitory had four beds, all neatly covered with army-green bedspreads.

  Captain Reemer took him to the basement where the turnout gear was stored in racks. The canary yellow gear was blackened and had saturated the basement with the smell of hundreds of fires. The captain pointed to the workout area. “Good idea to keep yourself in shape. The way we eat around here can balloon you up in a hurry. You’ll see when you meet our driver.”

  When the recruits received their assignments the last week of training, Hager informed Mitch he would be working at the busiest firehouse in the city with one of the best officers. Of course, Hager had to add that he sure as hell better not make him look bad.

  The captain headed to the stairs. “Let’s go meet your partners.”

  Mitch followed the captain into the cavernous kitchen that smelled of baking ham mingled with cigar smoke. Four men were seated at a long solid-oak table with wooden benches on each side. Thyroid Eyes puffed a fat stogie. “See that fucking stone from Ladder Nine go ass over tea kettle?” The three others laughed hysterically.

  Captain Reemer rapped his knuckles on the table. “This is our new man, Mitch Garner.”

  The laughter stopped. Mitch stood at the end of the table, not sure what to do.

  A stout, burly man whose T-shirt strained to cover his rotund belly pointed to the bench next to him. “Grab a seat.”

  The man pressed against Mitch when he sat. “Stick close. I’ll protect you from these animals.”

  “That’s Crusher, our driver,” the captain said, shaking his head. He motioned toward the man with bulging eyes and five-o’clock shadow. “And this is Ralph Eberhardt, our resident grouch.” The others laughed.

  “Or Mr. Angry, as he’s known around the battalion,” Crusher said. More laughter.

  Ralph ignored them. He studied Mitch with the look of a man waiting for an answer. Mitch didn’t know the question.

  Captain Reemer continued, “This is the man you’re replacing, Al Jenkins. He’s dumping us to work over on the east side.”

  “Hey, boss, wasn’t my idea.” The lanky, black firefighter with a short afro extended a hand to Mitch. “You lucked out. These old fucks know their stuff. Just have to put up with their shit.” He grinned at the captain. “No offense, honorable, all-exalted leader.”

  The captain pointed toward a gaunt man with red, wavy hair and a putty nose plastered in the middle of his face. “This is our resident nut bag and cook extraordinaire, Kenny Slowinski.”

  Kenny reached across the table and pumped Mitch’s hand. His eyes flicked around the room like a rabid dog. “I wouldn’t trust any of these assholes. You need to know anything, you come to me.”

  More laughter.

  They asked Mitch what he did before joining. He told them about the farm and the small community of Milroy. They seemed interested, except Ralph, who stared at the ceiling while puffing his cigar.

  At three o’clock Kenny rose from the table. “Enough bullshitting. To the alligator pit.” He left.

  Ralph followed, scowling at Mitch with a look of pure disgust.

  “They call the dorm the alligator pit,” Captain Reemer said. “Best to catch an afternoon nap. Things heat up down here after dark.” The captain nodded. “Glad to have you aboard.” They shook and the captain headed to the office.

  Al escorted Mitch outside. “We call this area
the Core, where hot bricks fly. You’ll be right in the middle of some of the most incredible drama you could imagine: gang shootings, knifings, accidents where people are dismembered, and raging fires that’ll scare the fuck out of you. Just know you’re working with some of the best firefighters in the city. Learn from them.” Al stepped back. “Hang on a second.”

  Mitch heard rattling from above. He glanced up in time to see Crusher and Kenny leaning over the top of the roof with buckets. Before he could move, he was struck by an icy waterfall.

  Al grinned. “You’ve now been baptized with the holy water of Engine Fifteen. You’re now absolved of all your civilian sins and accepted into the brotherhood of firefighters. Bless you, and may Saint Florian, the patron saint of firefighters, keep you safe. Or some shit like that.”

  Mitch stood dripping at the front of the firehouse.

  Chapter 12

  The early morning sun cast an orange hue over the cream-colored firehouse. Mitch was relieved to find the front door open. The last thing he wanted to do was ring the bell and disturb the blue shift on his first day. All he thought about the last two days was what he did to piss Ralph off.

  The apparatus floor of Engine Fifteen was eerily silent and deserted. He walked around the front of the rig and found a young woman bent over a pile of turnout gear alongside Engine Fifteen. Her strawberry blond braid fell to the top of her back. A red, orange, and black tattoo of flaming wings peeked between the top of her navy-blue Dickie work pants and the bottom of her matching T-shirt. He didn’t want to startle her but felt stupid standing there. “Morning,” he said.

  She straightened and spun. “Jesus, you always creep up on people?”

  Mitch gulped. She looked like she should be riding waves in Malibu, not sorting dirty turnout gear in the hood. His eyes were drawn to her snug T-shirt.

  “Hey, buster, up here,” she said, pointing two fingers at her turquoise eyes.

  His face burned.

  She smirked. “Nice to meet a man I can embarrass. Not like the pervs around here. I’m Nicole. You can call me Nic.”

  “I’m ah, Mitch,” he said, trying to avoid staring. “Who do I take down?”

  “What time they tell you to report for duty?”

  “Seven-thirty at the latest.”

  “Okay, you’re one of those. You do know it’s only six-thirty. Your crew won’t be here for another hour.” She shook her head. “DeWayne’s the cub on the blue. That’s his gear. I’ll show you where to take it.”

  Mitch collected the gear and followed her down the stairs mesmerized by the sway of her Dickies.

  “Here’s DeWayne’s cubby hole,” she said.

  He stashed the gear. When he turned around, he caught Nic checking him out.

  “I’m up here,” he said pointing at his eyes. Her smoky laugh was intoxicating.

  “How long you been on?” Mitch asked.

  “Five years.” She raised her eyebrows. “You seeing anybody?”

  “Ahh …”

  “Not an essay question. Yes or no?”

  “I think I still have a girlfriend back home.”

  “Shame. Stay safe, Cub Mitch. Don’t let the red shift get to you, espe­cially that dickhead, Ralph.” She trotted up the stairs. He resisted the urge to watch. She called down, “Lose interest already?” Her seductive laugh trailed off.

  DeWayne, a buff black guy with short-cropped hair and a trace of a mustache, met him by the rig. “Get the bread rolls?”

  “Yeah, a dozen.”

  “Wait ’til your crew comes in to put ’em out or the blue shift’ll pound ’em down and deny it. Then you’ll be in deep shit.”

  DeWayne went into the long list of cub duties which included checking the air pressure on the masks, going over equipment on the rig, cleaning the boss’s office, swabbing toilets, ensuring the coffee pot was never empty, and on and on.

  “Don’t worry, miss anything, they’ll let you know. Man, will they let you know.” DeWayne wasn’t smiling.

  Mitch started by checking the masks, then checked over the hose lays. He was checking the extinguishers when Ralph marched through the open overhead doors smoking a fat stogie.

  “Everything squared away, kid?” Ralph said through the side of his mouth, his voice sounding like tires on gravel.

  “One of the masks was a little low, so I changed the bottle. Everything else looks good.”

  “Better be or it’ll be your ass.”

  Ralph flicked a large ash onto Mitch’s shoe. “Make sure you clean that up.”

  Mitch shook the ash off his shoe.

  Ralph flicked another ash onto his shoe and blew a cloud of cigar smoke in his face.

  Mitch stared at the ash, balling his fists.

  After several long seconds of glowering at Mitch, Ralph left.

  Mitch continued with morning duties, stewing about Ralph. He was at the joker stand reading the entries in the company journal when Crusher, the pot-bellied driver, came up behind him. “How’s it going so far, kid?”

  “Hope I’m not missing anything.”

  “Got the rolls?”

  “Yup. A dozen.”

  “Good, put ’em out.”

  The others were waiting when he entered the kitchen. Kenny snatched the bag of rolls and pulled one from the bag and examined it. “Where’d you get these hockey pucks?”

  “Value Mart over on Vine Street.”

  Captain Reemer buried his face in the newspaper.

  “We got discriminating tastes around here, kid,” Crusher said. “We don’t eat just any swill thrown at us.”

  Kenny pointed at Crusher’s belly. “Couldn’t tell by that Milwaukee goiter you’re growing. Looks like you’re sitting on a slow leaking air hose.”

  “Hey, asshole, I’m building reserves for when I’m an old fuck and start wasting away.”

  Crusher waved his middle finger at Kenny, then said to Mitch, “You want to keep us happy, you bring us Sciortino’s rolls. And you do want to keep us happy, don’t you?”

  Before Mitch could reply, five rings of the alarm system chimed over the loudspeakers.

  Mitch was surprised by how fast they all moved, especially the aging captain and portly Crusher. The captain rushed down the hallway to get the computer printout while the others dashed to the rig. They were in their turnout gear and on the rig in seconds. Mitch struggled to straighten his bunker pants that had snagged on his boots.

  “Jesus, kid, get your ass on the rig,” Ralph hollered.

  Mitch climbed into the jump seat behind the captain and before he closed the rig door they were flying down the street, siren screaming. Adrenaline electrified every cell of his body.

  “Give her hell, Crusher. Don’t let those jags from Thirty’s beat us in,” Ralph said.

  They raced up Fond du Lac Avenue in the opposite lane of traffic. A car stopped in the middle of the road.

  “Get the fuck out of the way,” Crusher shouted into the windshield as he swung around the panicked driver, the rig seeming to go onto two wheels. “Goddamn morons.” He flailed his arm out the side widow waving oncoming cars to the side of the road. The fire engine’s air horn sounded like a freight train roaring down the tracks.

  The exhilaration of racing to an alarm through busy city streets with the screaming siren, blaring air horn, and stormy crew had Mitch’s insides jumping.

  “Try breathing, kid,” Ralph said, shaking his head.

  Kenny laughed. “Couldn’t drive a penny nail up his sphincter right now.” He pulled a package of chewing tobacco from an inside pocket and stuffed a wad into his mouth.

  A fire engine and ladder truck were positioned at the front of an eight-story apartment building when they arrived on scene.

  Ralph slapped the back of Crusher’s seat. “Fuck. Thirty’s beat us in.”

  “Kenny, you and Mitch grab the hotel pack,” the captain ordered. “Ralph stay with the rig. Crusher, secure the hydrant.”

  When the rig stopped, they jumped off. Mitc
h and Kenny pulled the portable hose pack off the back of the rig and followed the captain. Kenny paused and spit the wad of tobacco onto the sidewalk. They pushed through occupants scrambling by them and stopped in the lobby while the captain talked into the radio. Mitch couldn’t hear what he was saying over the deafening wail of the fire alarm.

  The captain raised his hand. “Somebody pulled a hook. Thirty’s is checking it out. Stand by.”

  Mitch’s breathing returned to normal while they waited.

  The alarm stopped blaring. The captain headed to the entrance. “False alarm, fellas. Let’s pick up.”

  Mitch and Kenny followed the captain down the sidewalk, stopping at the wad of tobacco Kenny had spit out. It looked like a brown dog turd.

  Kenny sneered at him with a mischievous grin. “Watch this.” He bent over the wad, picked it up and examined it. Eyes widened as Kenny sniffed it and then plopped it into his mouth. The crowd gasped, some covering their mouths, others turning away. They cleared a wide path for Kenny as he strutted to the rig.

  Back on the rig, Kenny said to Mitch. “Enjoy that?” Before he could reply, Kenny leaned forward. “Hey, boss, how about we stop at the store on the way back?”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Cub’s first day. Let him pick.”

  How would he know what they liked? “Um, chicken?”

  Ralph and Crusher groaned.

  “First you put shit rolls in front of us and now you want us to eat ridge runners?” Crusher said. “Jesus, kid.”

  “Screw these guys. You want chicken, you’ll get chicken,” Kenny said.

  Ralph glared at Mitch.

  On the slow drive to the store, the rig radio came alive. “Engine Fifteen, your location?”

  Captain Reemer keyed the mic. “Twenty-third and Fond du Lac.”

  “Engine Fifteen, respond to an unresponsive party at 1919 West Clarke Street.”

  The siren activated and they were tearing over the narrow inner-city streets again.

  “Puke run, kid. Take your coat off,” Kenny said.

  The two-and-a-half story house appeared vacant with half the windows of the first floor boarded. 1919 was an upper flat, so they went to the back entrance with Crusher staying behind to guard the rig. A scripted “19” was scrawled in black paint across the gray, warped door. Captain Reemer pounded on it. “Fire department.” No answer. The captain tried the door handle. “It’s locked.” He moved aside and Ralph bashed it open with a fierce mule kick.