Second Chances

by William Umansky

  —Mitch Albom

  Being a firefighter is a dangerous and sometimes thankless job. Some days, a large portion of the job consists of just trying to take up time until a call happens. Calls can be of any magnitude—it might be a toaster that burned part of a person’s living room or it might be a full-on fire that threatens to engulf an entire block of houses. A normal day is made up of long hours of boredom and inactivity punctuated by perilous encounters with flames and the scared, frantic, tired victims.

  I loved my job for awhile. I felt heroic. I saved people’s lives. It was a hands-on job. I was not confined to a cubicle.

  But the dangerous part of the job eventually got to me. It wasn’t that I became scared of what we did, but that I became aware—very aware—of the potential for danger. If I saw a fire engulfing a building in a certain way, my super-senses would kick in and I would know what we should do. But I would worry about my coworkers, especially the newer guys. I would worry they wouldn’t see what I saw when we were on a call. I had one guy lose his leg in a fallout because he went into a room that was weak from having burned. The room caved. It was horrible. Three people living in that complex died that night—one fifty-seven years old, one ten years old, and one five-month-old baby. You don’t soon forget things like that.

  I’d been injured a few times, too. Nothing really serious—a few blows to the head, some neck and back injuries. You get knocked around every other day. This wasn’t any big deal at first. When we’re young, we’re resilient. But the arm and back pain bothered me like hell after awhile. It started to affect my performance.

  And then there was the thankless part of the job. It wasn’t that people stopped appreciating me—I know that. But the thank-yous, the grateful hugs from children and parents, the special letters and notes from grateful people … they all became fewer and farther between. It felt like an ordinary job without these more personal touches.

  I was thinking of quitting. I was getting close to retirement age anyway. Perhaps it was time to do something else.

  These were the thoughts I’d been having during a boring week at the station when a call suddenly came in. We slid down the pole, into our clothes, and out the door. When we arrived at 23rd Street, we found that a fire had engulfed the second floor of a duplex.

  We started battling the fire. A few guys and I put on our masks and went into the house and up to the second floor. As soon as we got into the living room of one of the areas, a dog ran up and started barking. We kept searching for people. I wanted the dog out of the way, but something told me not to order the guys to take him out yet.

  The dog stood by the door and barked to get our attention. I followed the dog, and it led me across the top floor of the building to another living area. It scratched at a door that had a teddy bear hanging on the doorknob. I broke down the door with my ax and found a baby trapped in a toppled playpen. I picked the baby up and met up with the other guys so we could haul ourselves out of the building.

  By then, the guys with the hose had the fire under control. We had saved the only child and the dog. The owner of the building, a thirty-year-old in grad school, was still missing. We would soon find out he was killed when part of the building collapsed. The family was immensely grateful when I handed their one-year-old daughter to them.

  When the scene settled down, I told everyone the story of the dog leading me to the baby. It was hard to express how uncanny it was. It was also uncanny that my firefighting senses didn’t tell me, “Get rid of the dog; it’s in the way.” I knew, in some way, the dog was there to help us.

  As the hour got later, I expected someone to come forward and take the dog, but no one did. It camped out near the truck most of the evening, out of the way but alert. I decided we would take him to the station with us and then try to find any friends or family of the deceased building owner who wanted to take him.

  That same week, the mother of the deceased building owner called the station. I got on the phone with her and immediately expressed my condolences for her loss. She was very broken up at first. We got to talking about the dog, though, who had been enjoying himself at the station, playing with the guys all week.

  The woman knew the story about the dog leading me to the baby. She pointed out that the dog did not take me to Sean, his owner, which I hadn’t thought about before. He didn’t take me to Sean, she said, because he knew Sean had already perished. He took me to the child in danger because it was the only other living person in the building.

  The woman told me that Sean’s dog, Perry, was very smart and well-behaved and would have taken me to Sean if he had been alive. She said the two of them had a very close relationship and that he had owned the dog since graduating college. She said she knew I would have saved Sean if it was possible, and that after Sean’s death, the dog had come to me for a reason. She thought that I, or the station, should keep Perry.

  I didn’t know what to say at first. But I knew that, even if we couldn’t keep him at the station, I would love to have a new friend in my life. I offered to take him. It felt like the right thing to do, especially after Sean’s mother told me that she wanted me to have him. She was certain I would have saved her son if he was alive when I arrived. Giving Perry to me was like an act of gratitude on her behalf. I was so thankful for this new friend I had gained in my life.

  I went back to firefighting with renewed purpose. I’m good at it. The guys at the station are my good friends, and a lot of them look up to me. The parents of the little girl sent me a thank-you note and a basket of food and gifts, and I have a new dog who is always waiting for me and happy to see me when I come home from work. I’ve decided the meaningful moments outweigh the fatigue, the tiresome routines, and the frustrating people. It isn’t about the gifts, the kind words, or the camaraderie, though. I’ve regained that heroic feeling I used to have when I was younger. I remembered what it is to be a firefighter. It is about working with people and for people.

  I still experience physical pain, and sometimes it is a grind of a job. But this is what I do. I am a firefighter. Maybe I’m not a spring chicken anymore, but I have the chance now to pass my knowledge on, to train other practiced and talented fire-fighters to battle the flames and save innocent people’s lives. I am a lucky man.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE PRIEST AND THE DRUG DEALER

  Sometimes you’ve got to believe in someone else’s belief in you until your belief kicks in.

  —Les Brown

  I was one of the hottest drug dealers in the area. When Hollywood stars came through town, they would come directly to me to get some coke, some pot, some Ecstasy, whatever. I won’t tell you who I’ve met. I was huge, and I had my own employees—armed employees—who doubled as debt collectors. There was a time in 1999 when you had a 67% chance of buying coke in the metro area from me or from someone who worked for me.

  Those times didn’t last.

  We got busted in February 2003. We were raided by federal agents. They seized multiple pounds of marijuana and kilos of cocaine from my house and took us away in cuffs. I was dating a woman at the time. I never got to say good-bye to her. There was nothing my lawyers could do. I went to prison.

  This all happened when I was twenty-five. I had more cash than someone who works the nine-to-five, happy-horse-shit grind until they’re forty. My 10,000-square-foot house was a revolving door for beautiful women who wanted a hit. I could do whatever I felt like doing. I had a Porsche and a Lamborghini.

  I went from that lavish lifestyle to wearing an orange jumpsuit, going to the bathroom in front of everyone, and getting beaten up on a weekly basis in the federal penitentiary. Just like that, I was stripped of all of my confidence and positive thoughts about myself.

  I was never particularly religious. I guess I am Catholic. I started to read the Bible in jail because I knew I wasn’t going to excel over some of the more hardened inmates at lifting, fighting, or anything else competitive. When I first came to prison, I thought I had to fig
ht to save face. But after some dental work and stitches on my lip and face, I decided that I could not keep that up. I had to find something else to do—something that would not attract attention. I decided that I’d read the Bible. I suppose if there was another religious text available I might have read that one, but I knew a little bit about Christianity. Maybe I would find some answers in the Bible.

  Father Henley was the chaplain at the prison. He was a young man with short brown hair and glasses. He found me reading the Bible one day, and he struck up a conversation. We talked about the Last Supper scene in the New Testament. I wanted to know how much Jesus knew about when and how he was going to die.

  Father Henley really knew his stuff about the Bible, and the more questions he answered, the more questions I wanted to ask him. I was a little bit suspicious of him—I’d always been suspicious of organized religion. There was always a catch. But he wanted to talk about the parts of the Bible that I was interested in. He seemed more concerned that I understand God has a plan for me than that I make a decision right now about my faith. He wanted me to know God gave me many gifts and talents. Our discussions of the Bible would sometimes turn into trips to the library, or we would even play a game of cards, chess, or checkers. He came around whenever he was allowed, but we would usually meet on Sunday for mass and discussion afterwards.

  I got a job in the cafeteria at the prison. I started to study more, not just the Bible, but also history and biology. I was interested in God’s role in those things, if he had any at all. Father Henley was always there to help me and encourage me. I was not so suspicious of him anymore after studying with him for a few months. I could see that when I trusted him, I accomplished things. He told me that he genuinely believed that I could succeed in the real world after a long prison sentence. He told me that even though I would face prejudices from other people, I would be able to show everyone that I was an articulate person who cared about bettering himself.

  The week came, after nearly seven years in prison, when I was up for parole. Monday of that week, I talked with Father Henley. I told him that parole meant I could go back into the world with limited freedom, and that would be its own reward. To be honest, I hardly knew how I would get by. I couldn’t go back to pushing. For the glamorous lifestyle I once had, all of the pain, war, enmity, and getting mixed up with the law was not worth it. If I did it again, they’d probably put me away for good.

  I asked Father Henley, what the hell should I do? Go back to school? With what money? He told me that if I had a positive attitude and used the talents that God gave me, then I would be rewarded. I was not entirely happy with that answer, though I knew it was probably the right attitude to have. Near the end of the conversation, he put his hand on my shoulder and said to me very frankly, “If you can’t get any work, you can work for my parish rectory. It will at least pay minimum wage, and you have every quality that the job requires. You are absolutely welcome there. Taylor, I want you to know that God loves you, and I love you, and neither of us will ever abandon you.”

  I didn’t let Father Henley see me cry after that conversation. But I did. I’d never had a teacher, father, or any other person like that who cared so much about my success and well-being. I really believed him when he told me he loved me. It was not something I was used to. I wish that Father Henley could have been around earlier in my life.

  After six months on the outside, I’d gone to a few job interviews, connected with some old friends, and visited my mother. I hadn’t violated my parole. I was borrowing money from friends and didn’t always have a place to stay. I found myself thinking a lot about Father Henley. I wasn’t sure if he knew that what he’d said to me had struck certain chords. He took on a role for me that I wasn’t sure he even knew he filled. I felt a little strange going to him again. He had seen me at such a weak time in my life. I decided I would go, though, and apply for the job he had offered me in prison.

  When I showed up at the parish rectory, Father Henley was standing on the steps looking at the sky. I knew he was praying. When he met my gaze, he smiled as if he was very moved, as if he knew that someone had heard his prayers.

  We embraced, and I asked him what he had been praying for when I walked up. He said he had been praying for me. He had been praying that God would give me a second chance in whatever way he saw fit. He told me he had prayed for me to find that second chance every day since we met. I knew that he believed that the prayer was answered that day because God had brought us back together. I was overcome with happiness. I had a feeling he truly did understand the role that he had taken in my life and how important his mentorship and guidance was for me.

  I’m forty years old now. These days I work in a department store. I wear a tie to work every day. I make a little bit more than minimum wage, plus bonuses and benefits. It hardly ever comes up that I went to prison. It’s not necessarily the most exciting job I’ve ever done, but I’m glad the turbulent part of my life is over. Father Henley helped me move past that. He helped me gain confidence in myself and believe that I was not condemned to be a criminal for good. He not only helped me obtain another chance on the outside, but he allowed me to have someone to look up to, who I respect and who respects me back. That was something I was missing in my life. Perhaps I would have struggled with the absence of that figure for the rest of my life, if not for the person I now consider to be my best friend, Father Henley.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE JOURNALS OF JEANNIE

  We achieve inner health only through forgiveness—the forgiveness not only of others but also of ourselves.

  —Joshua Loth Liebman

  The following are excerpts taken from the journal of Jeannie S., a woman suffering from inoperable cancer.

  June 10, 2006

  I found out today that I have cancer. The doctor said there is a group of tumors in the bile ducts that connect my liver and small intestine. They are inoperable. She said I may have had them for months or even a year. I only started getting sick with chills two weeks ago. Now I have cancer.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. I probably have only four years to live. I’m scheduled to check into the hospital and undergo chemotherapy, but I just don’t know. Every time I remember I have this, I just cry and have a hard time stopping. I’m probably going to die. I feel trapped and helpless, like my fate is sealed. I wish that I was just sleeping and this was all a bad dream.

  July 20, 2006

  Two days ago, I checked into the medical center and was given my own room and bed. I’m connected to a bunch of wires and bags and machines. They’ve shaved my head. I feel like an ugly, useless creature.

  The therapy is painful. I have a hard time eating, and I still get sick every day. Everybody is very kind, but it feels more like pity. Maybe this is all for nothing. It might not even work. I can’t believe this is my life now. I suppose no one ever thinks this sort of thing will happen to them.

  Writing, I guess, will be my outlet for now, while I’m in the medical center. I don’t know how else to get out some of the awful thoughts I have.

  September 2, 2006

  I’ve lost a lot of weight. I have a hard time going to the bathroom alone because I have so little energy. I can’t keep food down. I thought I would get used to the therapy, but it seems to hurt more and more every time. I cry a lot because I’m frustrated over my inability to do anything for myself. I feel like a burden on the people around me.

  Mostly, though, I feel lonely. Dale died so long ago, and Holly and I haven’t talked since our falling-out during the holidays four years ago because of her lifestyle. I guess you would call us estranged.

  Every time I look out the window and see the sun, the birds, and people laughing and playing, it crushes me because that life isn’t for me anymore. Even if I do recover, I won’t ever be loved like when I had my family, and I’ll probably never go out to the movies or dancing or any of those things I could do when I was young and healthy. I just get to lie here all day, surrou
nded by strangers who are trying to keep me alive. I almost wish that if my fate is sealed, my time would just come today.

  August 29, 2007

  Today the most unbelievable thing happened. When I opened my eyes this morning, I saw two figures in the room. One I recognized as the doctor, and the other was a young woman with short red hair. I thought I didn’t know her, but when everything came into focus, I saw that it was Holly! She had come to see me!

  She has been living in Oregon with her significant other, and she’s been starting her career in business out there. We haven’t talked in years. She hugged and kissed me and we started catching up. She told me about her new life and her love interest, about her job, and about where she’s been living. We must have talked for about three hours before I had to do my therapy. She told me she would come back, though, because she is staying in the area and will come and visit as often as she can.

  Today was such a happy day.

  November 10, 2007

  Holly wants to be in my life! She told me today that even though she has a career in Oregon, she’s going to put it on hold so she can move into our old house for awhile. She has so many opportunities right now, but she told me that I am important to her and that her opportunities can wait until she returns.

  I feel exhilarated. I’m so glad I didn’t wish my life away before Holly came back. We never sorted out the problems we had with one another, but that doesn’t matter anymore. She is here now. I can go to sleep tonight knowing that someone cares about me. Someone cares enough to see me live!

  February 8, 2008

  I haven’t been writing as much lately, but it’s not because I’m in pain—it’s because I’ve been having such a good time with Holly! I still have to stay in the medical center, I still don’t have any hair, and I have to do things mostly in a wheelchair.