Until right now.
Because on the very first morning of the very first day of the rest of my firefighting life—the very moment I needed that immunity more than I had ever needed it before—I lost it.
Nine
THAT’S WHEN THE captain started introducing “our other newbie.” Me.
That’s also when I started to wonder if anybody had mentioned to the crew yet that the other new guy was a girl.
Later, I would reflect back on the captain’s pronouns as he introduced me. Did he ever actually use the word “she”? Maybe not, after all.
Because when he finished describing the new member of the crew to the team, everybody looked around the room.
And kept looking.
Like I wasn’t even there.
I mean, there I was, a total stranger in their kitchen, wearing department-issue Dickies and an unmistakable FD uniform shirt. I walked over and stood next to the captain, for Pete’s sake. I was the only unaccounted-for person in the room. There was no one else it could possibly have been. But their eyes swept past me—more than once—as the room murmured in confusion.
Was this really possible? Could what you expected to see alter so much what you actually saw?
Finally, somebody said, “Check the basketball pole.”
That’s when the captain, who seemed to be enjoying how flummoxed they all were, finally decided to clear things up. “Friends,” he said, sweeping his arm in my direction, “meet the new guy.”
The room fell silent.
“We thought she was a student,” one guy said.
“We thought she was the stripper,” another guy corrected.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Captain Murphy said, meeting my eyes. “New guy—meet the crew.”
Next, the introductions. The captain pointed at the most calendar-like guy in the room. “The ladies’ man right here with the six-pack is Drew Beniretto.”
“You’re too pretty to be a fireman,” Beniretto said to me.
I gave him a look. “Right back atcha, pal.”
The crew chuckled at that, and the captain added, “We call him Six-Pack.”
Six-Pack lifted his shirt to show us his abs, and a couple of guys threw things at him—a paper cup, a Nerf football, a set of keys.
The captain went on. “The plump dumpling next to him is Tom McElroy. We call him Case.”
“’Cause Drew’s got a six-pack…,” one guy called out.
The rest joined in: “And Tom’s got a case!”
McElroy smiled and slapped his round belly. “Tight as a drum,” he said to me.
“Not sure that’s a good thing,” I said.
Case took a step closer to me. “Punch it.”
I shook my head. “You really don’t want me to do that.”
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 to crap?” 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 a hundred 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.
“Where is she 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.
I shrugged. “Whichever room has the least number of farts,” I said.
A burst of laughter.
“Don’t sleep near Tiny, then!” somebody shouted.
“If she takes the supply closet,” Case asked, “where will we keep the supplies?”
“Are you talking about a certain stack of supplies that we keep on the bottom shelf?” the captain asked.
“A certain stack of supplies that’s been handed down from crew to crew for decades?” Six-Pack added.
“I’m talking about the supplies that”—Case glanced at me now, wanting to make his meaning clear to the others but not to me—“some of the guys in the house spend time with when they are feeling—” He looked at me again. Words seemed to fail him.
“Restless?” Tiny offered.
Captain Murphy tried to take the high road. “We will find new storage spots for all supplies. Don’t worry, Case. Your porn is safe.”
Six-Pack burst out with a laugh. “’Cause that’s the only exercise Case gets.”
A couple of guys reached out to pat Case on the shoulder.
“Okay, rookies,” the captain said, turning to the rookie and me.
I raised my hand. “I’m not a rookie.”
“Noted,” the captain said, and then began again. “Okay, rookie and newbie, let me tell you a little bit about Station Two. We play hard, but we work harder. I’ll joke around like anybody else, but when I give an order, you don’t think about it, you don’t question it—you follow it. Live
s depend on our chain of command, and the one thing I will not tolerate is insubordination.”
The rookie and I nodded in unison.
“I expect everybody on our crew to pull their weight and do their share. There’s no complaining here. You do your job, and you’re grateful for the opportunity. And you stay in shape. How you do that is up to you, but twice a year, we run the obstacle course out back in a crew competition. Even Case,” he said, with a glance at the fat guy.
“We’re going to tease you and prank you and bust your balls,” the captain went on. “Don’t worry about it. Worry if we don’t prank you. Otherwise, no matter how mean we are, just know we’re glad you’re here.” He looked at me. “Even the lady.”
Captain Harris had been right. Not much of a filter.
Next, the captain turned to the crew.
“I know what you’re all probably thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking having a girl here is going to kill all the fun. We won’t be able to play the way we like to, or relax the way we like to, or joke the way we like to. You’re thinking she’s going to have no sense of humor and get offended at everything. She won’t let us curse. She’ll be weak and terrible. It’ll feel like having your mom around all the time, nagging you to pick up your underwear. I get it. In a hundred and twenty years, our station’s never needed a woman for anything. Not to do with the job, anyway. But things change, boys.” He jabbed his thumb in my direction. “This one’s supposed to be very good, for a girl. Her chief said she was a rising star down there in Texas, and not just because promoting a female looked good on paper.”
“Her captain said she was actually good?” DeStasio asked, like it was impossible.
Murphy shrugged like he was just as baffled as the next guy. “That’s what she said.”
“She?” Tiny called out.
“Her captain was also a woman?” Case demanded, like, What next?
The whole room broke out in speculation and questioning. Was a woman captain even qualified to judge a woman firefighter? Was it possible she’d lied about me to help me get this job? Could we ever take her assessment as anything other than affirmative action for females?
Unanswerable questions, all.
But I had an answer for them.
Looking back, maybe it wasn’t the best idea. My plan had been to lay low at the beginning and get my bearings—to be strategic about how I presented myself. Maybe if the outrage over my non-maleness had dissipated in some reasonable amount of time, I would have let it go.
But it didn’t. If anything, it fed on itself, like a runaway structure fire.
And I didn’t have the patience to let it burn itself out.
I guess you can only watch people willfully underestimate you for so long.
Finally, I shouted, loud enough to halt all conversation, “How many pull-ups do you think I can do?”
They all turned to stare at me.
“Three,” Tiny guessed, after a minute.
“Two,” Captain Murphy said.
“Women can’t do pull-ups,” Case announced, like I’d tried to pull a fast one.
“Fifty bucks,” I said then, “says I can do at least seven.”
Wallets started hitting the table.
I should note: The only one who didn’t bet against me was the rookie.
They walked me out back to “the course,” which turned out to be a military-sized obstacle course, complete with poles, hurdles, monkey bars, ropes, and a ten-foot climbing wall.
We stopped under a pull-up bar, and the guys gathered around.
Here’s a problem I didn’t anticipate: This pull-up bar was high. Built for six-foot guys. Standing under it at five foot five, it was pretty clear that I couldn’t reach.
As I waited for the snickers and offers to spot me to die down, I felt a creeping sensation that this idea was going to backfire. Had I just invited them all out there to watch me jump like a munchkin for a bar I’d never catch? Had I just gotten everyone’s attention only to humiliate myself?
I stared up at the bar.
I waited so long that a few of the guys started to walk back toward the station.
“Wait!” I said.
I wrapped my arms around one of the poles that held the crossbar, and I climbed. At the top, I grabbed the bar and swung out. A few splinters—but worth it.
There was a murmur of appreciation that I’d solved it.
I grasped the bar with my fists, hung there for a second, and then, very deliberately, when I had everyone’s attention, took one hand off the bar, lowered it, and planted it on my hip.
The whole group went silent.
I began. As I lifted myself up, one armed, I crossed my ankles and held myself in tight form. With each pull, I exhaled with a sharp shh and then inhaled as I let myself down. I could usually do seven, but I knew that today adrenaline would give me a little boost.
Eight one-hand pull-ups in quick succession.
And then an extra one for luck.
At the end, I dropped down and landed in a crouch. Then I stood and took a minute to walk off the burn in my shoulder. When I turned around, no one had moved.
The guys were just staring at me, mouths open.
Then they broke into applause.
And started handing me money.
Which felt like a pretty good start to the day.
Ten
THAT NIGHT, ON my cot in the storage room, it took me a long time to fall asleep. New place. New sounds. Lumpy cot. Sleeping wasn’t my greatest skill in the first place. Plus, there was a weird bug on the ceiling I had to keep an eye on.
I finally dozed off, only to be woken seconds later by a loud stampede of firefighters whooping and hollering and bursting through the storage closet door.
I should have expected them. I did expect them. But they scared the hell out of me anyway.
In response, I shouted and launched up into a jujitsu crouch on top of my mattress. The first face I saw was Case, who had been trundling toward me gleefully—but as soon as he saw me flip up into self-defense mode, he froze and put his hands up.
They all froze, actually.
I must have forgotten to mention I’d had a second job as a self-defense instructor.
In the still of that moment, as we all stared at each other, I got why they were there: Of course. They were hazing me.
I looked at their shocked faces. They’d clearly assumed it would be easier than this.
“Are you guys here to haze me?” I asked, lowering my arms.
Tiny gave a little shrug. “We’re supposed to duct-tape you to the basketball pole.”
I nodded and relaxed out of my crouch. Fair enough. “Okay, then.”
Tiny didn’t step forward, so I waved him toward me.
“Let’s get it over with,” I said.
He gave a little shrug and stepped closer, and I bent over his shoulder so he could carry me out the door, down through the engine bay, and out back to the parking lot.
Along the ride, I realized that they’d grabbed the rookie, too.
Next thing I knew, they had pressed us together, standing back to back against the basketball pole, running a roll of duct tape around us to keep us there. It was late summer and starting to get chilly. I’d been sleeping in a T-shirt and boy-shorts-style underwear. I felt glad in that moment that I always slept in my sports bra when I was on shift. I’d caught a glimpse of the rookie on the way down—and I felt pretty sure he wasn’t wearing much of anything at all.
Please, God, I thought. Don’t let him be naked.
We stood obediently as the crew duct-taped us from shoulders to hips, accepting our fate with as much dignity as possible, waiting for the guys to go back inside.
The guys knew their way around a roll of duct tape, I’ll give them that.
After they left, we were quiet for a good while. I could hear the rookie breathing. At one point, he coughed, and his elbow grazed mine.
“I’m spending a lot of time with this pole,” he said th
en.
“At least they didn’t turn the hose on us,” I said.
“That is lucky.”
“You knew they’d have to haze us.”
“Sure,” the rookie said. “Of course.”
“It’s part of the fun,” I said, starting to shiver.
“You bet,” he agreed.
“Rookie—” I started, but that was as far as I got.
“You can call me by my name, if you like.”
He hadn’t been on the crew list I’d studied. I didn’t remember his name. “I think I’ll stick with ‘rookie.’”
“Okay.”
I asked, “What temperature would you guess it is?”
“Sixty?” he guessed. “Sixty-five?”
“Kind of on the chilly side.”
“For sure.”
“What’s your clothing situation?”
“Just—” He hesitated. “Just, um, boxer briefs.”
So. Not naked. Relief.
But still pretty close.
I tried not to picture him in his boxer briefs, but my mind seemed bent on conjuring the image. He wasn’t a real firefighter yet, but he sure did look like one. An image of him with his sandy blond hair falling over his forehead—longer in the front, shorter in the back—just drew itself in my mind, despite every protest. In some ways, even as a total beginner, he fit in better than I did. Everything about his tall, broad, earnest demeanor shouted “helper.” He looked the part. He’d grown up in this culture. He was so … male. Even his Boston accent—mah-ket, gah-den, disappeah—was right out of Central Casting.
Not cool. And now my mind was drawing him shirtless. “Not even a T-shirt?” I asked, hoping to be wrong.
“Nope,” he said, awfully cheerful for a person who must have been covered in goosebumps. “But at home I sleep naked, so the underpants feel like a lot.”
Perfect. Now an image of him asleep in his bed at home, naked, curled up in his sheets, popped into my head. I squeezed my eyes closed to blot it out.
What color would those sheets be, anyway? I found myself wondering. White? Heather gray? Maybe like a faded blue chambray?
Just then, an upstairs window slammed open and the guys hurled a blanket down toward us—though it landed a good two feet away.
Things You Save in a Fire Page 8