“DeStasio drinks?”
“I guess he must,” the rookie said. “You know their son Tony died, right?”
I shook my head. There was a lot I didn’t know about DeStasio.
“Yeah,” the rookie said, “about two years ago. Drunk driver.”
I winced.
“Except that Tony was the drunk driver.”
“Poor DeStasio,” I said. No wonder he never laughed.
The rookie nodded. “He’s had a tough few years. Add the back injury, and he’s a superhero for just getting out of bed every morning.”
I found myself wanting to come up with ways to fix his loneliness. “Maybe we could set him up on a date,” I suggested.
“Would you want to go on a date with DeStasio?”
“Maybe we could start a Friday night barbecue club and just start showing up at his place for dinner,” I said.
“Have you seen DeStasio’s place?” he asked. “It’s like a war zone.”
“We could clean it up.”
“He’d hate that. He’d chase you out with a broom.”
I gave the rookie a look. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Some guys don’t want to be helped.”
“We can’t just let him suffer.”
“I said the same thing to the captain. But he said DeStasio’s got too much pride.”
“So we ignore him?”
“The captain’s going to take him fishing next week.”
“That doesn’t sound like a long-term solution.”
“Neither does tossing him into the dating pool.”
This might sound strange, but as sad as the topic was, I found myself enjoying talking to the rookie.
Some—maybe even most—conversations are hard work. With the rookie, it was the opposite. I didn’t have to think about what to say next; all I had to do was decide between the options that popped into my mind as I listened. The conversation didn’t happen so much as blossom.
My mom and I used to have conversations like that, I remembered suddenly. In general, though, in life, they were pretty hard to come by. It made me almost sad to enjoy the conversation so much. I found myself missing it already, even as it was happening.
Bittersweet, for sure.
When it was time to clean up, I wanted to do all the dishes. The rookie had cooked; I should clean. But it was hard for him not to help. He hovered, and kept turning the water on and off for me and handing me the soap.
“You’re not supposed to help me,” I said.
“I like washing dishes,” he said, stepping right up next to me, so close I could feel him there even without touching.
Then the rookie added, “But I always listen to music.” He leaned forward to flip on the little radio by the sink. DeStasio kept it tuned to an oldies station. Marvin Gaye came on.
And so I gave in and let him help. We listened to Smokey Robinson and Diana Ross and the Temptations, and scrubbed to the rhythm, and swayed, and occasionally bumped into each other. Which I enjoyed.
When we were done, and there was no good reason left to stay there, and it really was time to go back to bed, the rookie dried his hands with a dish towel and said, “I want to say something to you, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”
I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, either. I glanced over. “Okay.”
“I think I know why you avoid me.”
“I don’t avoid you.” Lying.
“You know you do.”
“Fine,” I said. “When the captain is not ordering you to stick me with needles, I sometimes avoid you. A little.”
“Sorry about the needles,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s fine.”
“The thing is,” he said then, “and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—”
“I’ll try not to.”
“You’re tough and strong and capable and totally fearless…”
I waited.
“But I wonder if you need a hug.”
What? “A hug?” I said, stepping back.
He hunched into a shrug. “Of everybody on the crew, I always feel like you’re the one who most needs a hug.”
“You think I need a hug?”
He winced a little, like he knew how dumb it sounded. “I do.”
“A hug is like the last thing I need, dude.”
“Just—because you’re so self-sufficient and you never need any help and you just keep to yourself all the time.”
How dare he tell me I needed a hug. What the hell? “Are the guys all going around at work hugging, and I just haven’t noticed? Did I miss a bunch of hug-fests?”
“No, but—”
“Because I’m not sure what you’re saying, but it sounds like there’s an insult in there somewhere.”
He shook his head. “I’m not trying to insult you.” He knew he was fumbling this conversation. “I think I’m just saying…” He didn’t know where to go. “I think I just want you to know…” He shook his head again while I waited. “There’s just something about you. Something I feel about you. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s a powerful thing…”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m just saying that … pretty much every time I see you, all I want to do is to put my arms around you.”
I held still. That was a hell of a statement. “Well,” I said at last, “you can’t.”
He lifted his hands in innocence. “I know.”
“That’s on you, man. That’s all about you.”
“More than likely.”
“Maybe you’re the one who needs a hug, and you’re projecting that onto me.”
“It’s distinctly possible.”
Here is the deep-down truth that I would never admit: I did need a hug. I’d needed one all those weeks ago when Hernandez said it, and I’d needed one every day since. Not just one—a thousand. I would have given anything for the rookie to put his arms around me right then and wrap me up and let me stay like that till morning. I wanted him to. I wanted it so bad, my whole body ached for it to happen.
So, of course, the only response I could muster was to take a step away.
My whole life—everything I’d worked for—hung in the balance. This was not the moment to lose focus. Yes, he was warm, and kindhearted, and surprisingly empathetic, and shockingly good at cooking—but none of that was relevant. As I stood across from him, my brain started issuing alerts about all the disasters that would befall me—and my career, my stability, my carefully constructed sense of order, my sanity—if I didn’t get out of there, pronto.
I should have thanked him for the food. I should have said good night, at the very least. But I didn’t. I just pointed at him. “Do not hug me.”
He took a step back, too, and lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to.”
We stood like that, facing off, for a minute. Then I took another step backwards. “Don’t ever talk to me about hugging again.”
He could tell he’d freaked me out—or insulted me, or something. He lifted his hands a little higher. “Okay.”
Another step back. “This”—I gestured down at my body—“is a no-hug zone.”
Now deeply regretting he ever brought it up: “Got it.”
“Stick me with all the needles you want, pal,” I said then. “But if you try to hug me? I will kick your rookie ass.”
* * *
A WEEK LATER, the guys pranked me by saying we were going to do ladder drills, convincing me to suit up in my bunker gear and climb onto the roof of the station to “show the rookie how it’s done.” This prank took a lot of planning, because our station didn’t even have a ladder truck.
They had to borrow one from Station Three.
I had a bad feeling, even as I climbed. Still, there it was: chain of command.
I got to the top and dismounted the ladder, and the guys drove away.
It was fine, I told myself. I hadn’t been pranked in a while. Worry if we don’t prank you.
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I waved. I bowed. I let them have their moment.
I watched Case and Six-Pack steer the ladder truck off down the street to return it to its proper station, and I watched the rest of them strut back inside, arm in arm.
Finally, I turned and scouted out my new surroundings. I’d be here all night, for sure.
I checked out the views. I took some deep breaths. I told myself this was an opportunity to take some personal time, reflect on my life, and think all those deep thoughts I never had time for. They were doing me a favor, really.
When the sun was gone, I sat against a brick wall, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes, like I might fall asleep.
I wasn’t sleeping, exactly—but was definitely starting to drift—when I felt my hackles rise like there was somebody nearby, just as I heard a footstep right beside me.
I popped up like a jack-in-the-box, launched a serious, full-body kick, and didn’t realize until I was making impact with my foot that I was kicking the rookie.
He doubled over and hit the ground.
I dropped beside him. “Rookie! What the hell?”
I’d knocked the wind out of him. He was down on all fours.
It’s scary to get the wind knocked out of you. It means the impact was hard enough to scramble the nerve signals to your diaphragm. Needing to breathe but not being able to is never an easy feeling.
“Okay,” I said, switching from attacker to coach. “Straighten up.” I pushed his shoulders back to guide him. He let me. “Put your hands behind your head.”
He did it, and with that, his breathing came back.
“That’s right,” I said, breathing with him, watching his chest rise and fall. “In, then out.”
I knelt there next to him while his breathing normalized, keeping a hand on his back.
When he was ready to speak at last, he looked a little mad. “What the hell, Hanwell!”
I gave him a look like, What the hell, yourself! “You startled me.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” he said, like that mattered.
“I was fast asleep, pal,” I said. Okay, hardly fast asleep—but close enough. “What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said, somehow annoyed and sarcastic and appealing all at once. “Maybe open your eyes and say, ‘Hey, rookie! Thanks for being awesome.’”
“What are you even doing here?” I asked.
He blinked for a second, like he thought we should already be clear on that. “I’m rescuing you,” he said. Then he gestured across the roof.
Sure enough, I could see the tip of the ladder pointing up over the edge of the roof, in the same spot as before.
He was watching me closely, like he hoped I’d be impressed.
But I refused to be.
“How did you get the ladder truck?”
“I talked the guys into it.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I just, you know, advocated for you during dinner. About how they’d had their fun and it was time to let you down. And then I plied them with some cookies I baked. I guess they got tired of hearing about it, because Case and Six-Pack gave in.”
I shook my head at him. “That’s not what happened.”
He frowned. “Pretty sure it is.”
“You only think that’s what happened,” I said.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes. But you’re not actually rescuing me.”
“Why not?”
“Because they just drove away.”
To his credit, he didn’t turn right away, or run to the place where the ladder had just been. He kept his eyes on me and let all the pieces click into place.
Then he got up, walked to the edge where the ladder had been, and looked down.
“They drove away,” he confirmed.
I walked up behind him. “Hey, rookie,” I said. “Thank you for being awesome.”
That made him smile. I watched the sides of his eyes crinkle up. Then he smacked himself on the forehead.
I said, “That’s what you get for being a hero.”
He gave me a half-smile. “I can think of worse punishments.”
I just shook my head.
“I guess I really must have bugged them at dinner,” he said, still putting the pieces together.
“I suspect this was the plan all along.”
“You’re saying this was a long con to get me up on the roof, too?”
“Bingo.”
“How did they know what I’d do?”
“That’s just the kind of guy you are, rookie. You’re a gentleman.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not bad,” I said. “Just exploitable.”
I walked to the edge and waved down at the guys, who were cackling with glee.
“Keep him out of trouble, Hanwell!” the captain called up.
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
* * *
THE ROOKIE SPENT the next hour confirming that there was truly no way down. No buildings nearby, no trees, no useful ledges. There was a hatch door down into the building, but it was padlocked.
Yeah. We were stuck.
Within the hour, he’d tried shimmying down the drainpipe (fail), lowering himself down to the second-floor fire escape (scary fail), and calling out to passersby for rescue. Triple fail.
You had to admire the optimism.
Once all hope was lost, we sat on the edge of the roof, dangling our feet over and watching the street below, in the quiet camaraderie of people who have literally nowhere else to be. A couple of Harley-Davidsons with no mufflers went by on the street. We watched the riders, noting silently that neither wore a helmet. In EMS, we call motorcycles “donor-cycles.”
Then the rookie turned to me. “I’m sorry, by the way.”
I looked over. “Sorry for what?”
“Sorry you’re stuck up here with me.” Then he added, “I feel bad that we started on the same day, and now they’re making you babysit me.”
“They’re not making me babysit you.”
He gave me a look, like, Come on.
I shrugged. Okay. “All rookies need a little babysitting, at first.”
He studied me for a second. Then, like he’d made a big decision, he said, “Speaking of babysitting, I’m wondering if I can ask you to do me a favor.”
Oh God. I studied his face. “This can’t be good.”
“It’s not terrible,” the rookie said. “But before I ask, I want to remind you of what you just did to me.” He lifted up his shirt, revealing a red welt across his stomach.
Also, just—revealing his whole naked, sculpted torso. A shocking sight of its own.
I glanced away, then said, “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”
His smile was barely mischievous. He bent down to peer at the mark. “I think if you look closely, you can see the boot treads.”
“Guilt doesn’t work on me,” I said. “If anything, it makes me less likely to give in.”
“I’ll just ask you, then.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t mind, right?”
Was he stalling a little? “I’m not going to physically stop you, if that’s what you mean.”
“You can say no, I should mention,” the rookie said. “It’s fine to say no.”
I motioned with my hand, like, Get it over with.
“Okay.” He took a breath. “It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary this weekend. And we’re having a big party.”
Oh God. Was he asking me to go? He couldn’t do that! It was totally against every single rule. He shouldn’t even be thinking about asking, much less doing it. My head started shaking on its own.
He went on. “It’s their thirty-fifth, in fact. But it’s an even bigger deal than that because my dad had a heart attack last year. He wound up retiring from Boston FD, and they moved up here to Gloucester, and when you talk to him, he tells you he’s living the dream, but the truth is, he’s pretty depressed. My mom
says he just watches TV most of the day, wearing dirty socks. And she came up with this idea that if they threw a big party, he’d have to pull it together. She’s convinced it’s going to work.”
It didn’t sound like the most promising idea.
“Anyway,” he went on, “all my sisters arrive tomorrow.”
“All your sisters? How many do you have?”
“Four. It’s going to be mass chaos—grandkids and dogs everywhere—and the whole family’s counting on this party to be the thing that turns everything around—and I’m going to be the guy to ruin it and break my mother’s heart because she’s expecting me to bring my girlfriend, Amy—but I haven’t told her yet that we broke up.”
“Wait—what? You have a girlfriend?” I’d never heard anything about a girlfriend. In all this time, the concept of a girlfriend had not even occurred to me. But my voice had sounded way too shocked at the idea. Calmer, more like we were just making conversation, I added, “Named Amy?”
“Had,” he said. “We dated for two years. My family loved her. Polite. Well groomed.”
“You make her sound like a poodle. Hey—whatever happened to that puppy you got?”
The rookie grinned. “The Poo-huahua?”
I shook my head at him.
“I gave him to my mom,” he said. “She named him Valentino and bought him a little sweater. He pines for her when she walks out—even just to get the mail.”
I shook my head again. “Everything works out for you.”
“Not everything,” the rookie said. “Not Amy.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“Nothing. She was fine. Perfectly acceptable. Just a totally vanilla, garden-variety girl.”
“She sounds awful.”
“My mom really, really wanted us to get married. So did my sisters. So did my dad.”
“But you broke up.”
“There’s not much I wouldn’t do for my family,” the rookie said, “except possibly marry the wrong girl.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“But it was complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
The rookie frowned down at the city below, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to say next. “I used to have five sisters. My sister Jeannie—the second youngest—died about four years ago from a viral infection in her heart.”
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