Tales from a firehouse kitchen...
#1
09-11-2010, 11:54 PM
Tales from a firehouse kitchen...
Mostly annecdotal stories I conjured up from memories and experiences that I think some of you might enjoy. Just remember, any time you see fire apparatus out on a call... no matter how dark or morbid... something ridiculous will, has, or is happening:
We're sitting around at the hall, when our dispatch center sets off the tones for an E-call. "Station 8, respond to your hall for a bird in a tree." Silence. "Uh, dispatch, can you confirm your last?"
"I know, I know. We're still processing the call." Dispatch later informed us that the caller was concerned because a peacock had slammed into her enormous picture window and become disoriented. It then fumbled into a nearby tree where it stayed. Of course, the fact that it's in a tree naturally means that it's our problem... right?
Few people, it turns out, even know that peacocks can fly- so accustomed are they to seeing them at the zoo walking around with clipped wings and fans that, for all intents and purposes, look like technocolour yawns.
So the rescue truck rolls out with 3 and the aerial unit responds with one guy who, it so happens, used to raise peacocks with his dad "back in the old days." Another member -a particularly sarcastic and grouchy type character on the rescue truck- walked down the street once they arrived, looked back and forth and reported on the radio, "Yeah, I have a seagull over here... I've got a magpie over there..."
"Alright," the chief interrupted, having been monitoring the call over the radio. "I get it... Just get it done."
The peacock was actually about 30 feet up, so the aerial ladder deployed its big stick out to the site and the sarcastic fellah suits up. Dozens of people have gathered to behold this rare spectacle of the town's finest assembled to pull a bird out of a tree. As Mr. Sarcasm ascends the ladder with cat-like finesse, the peacock- maintained an awe of structural anesthetic, sitting still except for the occasional head tilt across an arc of about 180 degrees from left to right. Closer... closer- Finally, Sarcasm reaches out with wanting hands... as if beholding a female breast for the first time.
Now, one thing that surprises me is exactly how big peacocks really are- especially when they're suddenly awakened from an otherwise comfortable daze by a man who looks like his face was built in a high school shop class. This thing lept into the air, spread its wings with the magnificence of a golden eagle and arched into a hastily designated flight plan. It squawked in protest as it left us all behind- its wings crashing desperately against the air to gain some altitude. The sound of its unbridled majesty was interrupted only by the hollow thunder of it slamming into the same window that had brought us there in the first place...
The bird hit the ground hard and then strapped on his (or her) Ben Johnson (Flo Jo) legs and took off with renewed enthusiasm and a total lack of direction. Men and women alike scurried like cats dropped into a bathtub as the peacock quick timed through the crowd, down a hill and out of sight... For now...
Okay, so the assumption is the call is over. Sure, the peacock is probably no better off than when we got there- it was probably twice as disoriented as it had been when we showed up; but it WAS out of the tree. That is- after all- why we were there.
Satisfied, the trucks were packed up and everyone started heading back to their respective halls. We almost made it. Dispatch called us on the radio.
“We have the original caller on the line and they have apparently found the peacock and it is still disoriented. They are asking if you could come back and help protect it until animal services arrives.” Silence… at least on the radio. I counted about 40 laser guided F-bombs in the 10 seconds. Sarcasm finally keyed the mic, “Roger dispatch.” The consummate professional! The chief then cut in on the radio again- “I’m on my way too… I’ve got to see this.”
Upon our return, the peacock was- as described- sitting out in some grass like a pimple on a fresh faced teen. Residents were gathered like a herd of protective elephants around their young in the wild. The peacock idled nervously- its head tilting back and forth as it had been before… hopefully a little bit more going through its brain than there appeared to be.
Sarcasm grabs his bunker coat, flanked by a guy we’ll call “Sir Laughsalot.” This guy is so mild mannered and charismatic- and laughs ALL the time… He’s been in the background throughout, giggling away as the rest of us poked at Sarcasm and his new pet.
As we approached, the residents relaxed their protective vanguard to make room for the dramatic rescue effort. Sirlaughsalot hung back and Sarcasm took the lead, holding the jacket out in front of him slightly at first- then opening it wide. The intention was to drape the jacket over the peacock in hopes that the next step would somehow figure itself out. On reflection- I’m not sure what we were going to do with this thing when we caught it.
Sarcasm begins his approach with his trademark feline grace. Step, after slow- careful step. 10 feet. People watched with silent enthusiasm as he crept forward, under the dizzy supervision of his prey. 7 feet. Sarcasm then slowly began to crouch down, with the jacket in front of him- walking as if having recently graduated from Mallard University.
The peacock remained carelessly still, facing impending capture with conspicuous courage or indifference. Sirlaughsalot stopped laughing… everyone was absolutely silent. 4 feet.
3 feet…
I’m not sure if the wind changed direction, or someone coughed, or the peacock was smarter than everyone imagined and had the sense of humour to match. In about .4 seconds, this thing bolted to full speed- ran through the coat and slammed beak-first into Sarcasm's grapes. I can’t remember who hit the ground first- Laughsalot almost had a seizure he laughed so hard and Sarcasm went down with expected urgency.
And this is when the chief shows up, to see 3 men down as if riling in agony, a peacock running a racetrack pattern around them and a crowd of people in hysterics.
The peacock was seen again on a couple of different occasions- but none quite lived up to our first “Encounter of the Bird Kind.
We're sitting around at the hall, when our dispatch center sets off the tones for an E-call. "Station 8, respond to your hall for a bird in a tree." Silence. "Uh, dispatch, can you confirm your last?"
"I know, I know. We're still processing the call." Dispatch later informed us that the caller was concerned because a peacock had slammed into her enormous picture window and become disoriented. It then fumbled into a nearby tree where it stayed. Of course, the fact that it's in a tree naturally means that it's our problem... right?
Few people, it turns out, even know that peacocks can fly- so accustomed are they to seeing them at the zoo walking around with clipped wings and fans that, for all intents and purposes, look like technocolour yawns.
So the rescue truck rolls out with 3 and the aerial unit responds with one guy who, it so happens, used to raise peacocks with his dad "back in the old days." Another member -a particularly sarcastic and grouchy type character on the rescue truck- walked down the street once they arrived, looked back and forth and reported on the radio, "Yeah, I have a seagull over here... I've got a magpie over there..."
"Alright," the chief interrupted, having been monitoring the call over the radio. "I get it... Just get it done."
The peacock was actually about 30 feet up, so the aerial ladder deployed its big stick out to the site and the sarcastic fellah suits up. Dozens of people have gathered to behold this rare spectacle of the town's finest assembled to pull a bird out of a tree. As Mr. Sarcasm ascends the ladder with cat-like finesse, the peacock- maintained an awe of structural anesthetic, sitting still except for the occasional head tilt across an arc of about 180 degrees from left to right. Closer... closer- Finally, Sarcasm reaches out with wanting hands... as if beholding a female breast for the first time.
Now, one thing that surprises me is exactly how big peacocks really are- especially when they're suddenly awakened from an otherwise comfortable daze by a man who looks like his face was built in a high school shop class. This thing lept into the air, spread its wings with the magnificence of a golden eagle and arched into a hastily designated flight plan. It squawked in protest as it left us all behind- its wings crashing desperately against the air to gain some altitude. The sound of its unbridled majesty was interrupted only by the hollow thunder of it slamming into the same window that had brought us there in the first place...
The bird hit the ground hard and then strapped on his (or her) Ben Johnson (Flo Jo) legs and took off with renewed enthusiasm and a total lack of direction. Men and women alike scurried like cats dropped into a bathtub as the peacock quick timed through the crowd, down a hill and out of sight... For now...
Okay, so the assumption is the call is over. Sure, the peacock is probably no better off than when we got there- it was probably twice as disoriented as it had been when we showed up; but it WAS out of the tree. That is- after all- why we were there.
Satisfied, the trucks were packed up and everyone started heading back to their respective halls. We almost made it. Dispatch called us on the radio.
“We have the original caller on the line and they have apparently found the peacock and it is still disoriented. They are asking if you could come back and help protect it until animal services arrives.” Silence… at least on the radio. I counted about 40 laser guided F-bombs in the 10 seconds. Sarcasm finally keyed the mic, “Roger dispatch.” The consummate professional! The chief then cut in on the radio again- “I’m on my way too… I’ve got to see this.”
Upon our return, the peacock was- as described- sitting out in some grass like a pimple on a fresh faced teen. Residents were gathered like a herd of protective elephants around their young in the wild. The peacock idled nervously- its head tilting back and forth as it had been before… hopefully a little bit more going through its brain than there appeared to be.
Sarcasm grabs his bunker coat, flanked by a guy we’ll call “Sir Laughsalot.” This guy is so mild mannered and charismatic- and laughs ALL the time… He’s been in the background throughout, giggling away as the rest of us poked at Sarcasm and his new pet.
As we approached, the residents relaxed their protective vanguard to make room for the dramatic rescue effort. Sirlaughsalot hung back and Sarcasm took the lead, holding the jacket out in front of him slightly at first- then opening it wide. The intention was to drape the jacket over the peacock in hopes that the next step would somehow figure itself out. On reflection- I’m not sure what we were going to do with this thing when we caught it.
Sarcasm begins his approach with his trademark feline grace. Step, after slow- careful step. 10 feet. People watched with silent enthusiasm as he crept forward, under the dizzy supervision of his prey. 7 feet. Sarcasm then slowly began to crouch down, with the jacket in front of him- walking as if having recently graduated from Mallard University.
The peacock remained carelessly still, facing impending capture with conspicuous courage or indifference. Sirlaughsalot stopped laughing… everyone was absolutely silent. 4 feet.
3 feet…
I’m not sure if the wind changed direction, or someone coughed, or the peacock was smarter than everyone imagined and had the sense of humour to match. In about .4 seconds, this thing bolted to full speed- ran through the coat and slammed beak-first into Sarcasm's grapes. I can’t remember who hit the ground first- Laughsalot almost had a seizure he laughed so hard and Sarcasm went down with expected urgency.
And this is when the chief shows up, to see 3 men down as if riling in agony, a peacock running a racetrack pattern around them and a crowd of people in hysterics.
The peacock was seen again on a couple of different occasions- but none quite lived up to our first “Encounter of the Bird Kind.
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#9
09-16-2010, 07:33 AM
A lot of people ask me what I felt about Ladder 49. Few people ever hear this story.
Okay- so Sir. Laughsalot (known by most from the Peacock story) and I decided we were going to head down to the theaters one night and catch the flick. It had received pretty good reviews (always a concern) and we both knew from doing our research that they had some pretty experienced advisors working on it. We figured it might actually shed some light on what we do; the goose in the probie’s locker was promising…
So we’re sitting there, watching the film and generally muttering grunts of discontentment. I really enjoyed how “the star” uses a patient like a battering ram to get through what would have probably been industrial grade triple laminated glass in that high angle sequence. It’d be sort of like trying to stuff a deer through a brick wall. Sure, you could get it through there- with predictable results: Hair and blood.
Anyways, we got through to the end where buddy dies (sorry for the spoiler for those of you who haven’t seen it- and sorry for apologizing for the spoiler AFTER I spoiled it) and it hit me. I could very well go out on a call one day and not come back. My family, friends, co-workers and other associates… people who know me from town- firefighters from all over the region and in some cases even the country may come as a part of an honour guard to parade beside my casket as I am ferried lifeless through town on the back of a pump with dead gray covers over the lights. People would think about the firefighter I was, and the ultimate sacrifice I had made- hopefully in the line of duty… and hopefully doing something brave and not stupid. A very fine line- the definition often measured by the results. I can just imagine the guys who knew the whole story of my passing yielding their cheeks to the splash of saltwater- or maybe instead muttering their disappointment amongst themselves at what an idiot I was.
And yes, I have to admit- the realization of what I had decided to do with the rest of my life and the potentially catastrophic result took hold of me and shook me like a British nanny. EVERYONE knows what I’m talking about when I describe that nagging tickle behind the eyes, and that ever so subtle spasm just under the cheek bone. If you’re REALLY good you can ride it out, but one wrong thought and you’ll have yourself the B rated sequel to “The Perfect Storm” on your hands. Here I am sitting next to another rough, tough firefighter and we’d been mocking the movie just about all the way through. Alright Eno… look up a little- that’s right. Apparently if you look to the ceiling and keep your head straight and blink 1000 times a minute, that opens your tear duct back up and drains your eyes out with gravity. Counting to 1000 in 60 seconds was about all I needed to distract myself from the emotions that were surging between my brain and my eyes.
Who am I kidding?! They began to load “his” casket into the back of the pump- and that combined with some music, not to mention my active imagination clobbered every successful intervention I’d attempted at that point. I realized that I had at least 10 minutes to go in the film, and could likely conceal the salty excretion with the subtle scratch of the nose and slurp of my oversized diet coke. It felt like my sinuses had just watched the WW2 movie Dam Busters, and was fixing to make a sequel of their own. A good nose blowing was just what I needed- but it’d have been a dead giveaway. Damn, I was really going down hard here. I was on the verge of an emotional disaster, and instead of risking a potential organ rupture trying to contain it, I slowly started to let it out- comforted by the fact that I could do so behind a shield of dar….
Just as they were finished pushing the casket into the pump, the music stopped and the movie went white. Then, I could hear some radio programming in the background. Not long after that, the lights went up. Oh Christ, here I am bubbling like lava with snot and tears pissing out of every hole in my face. How I was going to face down Laughsalot without taking the most fearsome ribbing I’ve yet endured was WAY beyond me. I did an emergency decon in about 2 seconds and put on my best “What are YOU looking at” face before I turned to act all surprised about the movie ending so abruptly. To my immense relief, I was already about 5 steps ahead of Laughsalot, who was still doing the 1000 blink shuffle and looking at the ceiling. I could tell that there was no small degree of embarrassment on his face either, and I understood completely. He had a little boy at home and twin girls on the way… I couldn’t even begin to contemplate what it must have been like to think about his wife explaining to his two little girls that daddy didn’t come home because he was killed in action trying to save some idiot named Eno.
It was at that point I decided that like the good firefighter I was, I was going to have to express heartfelt words of understanding and appreciation for the struggle he faced. I reached deep inside myself, and from one firefighter to another offered the only word of encouragement I could think of:
“Sissy!”
Okay- so Sir. Laughsalot (known by most from the Peacock story) and I decided we were going to head down to the theaters one night and catch the flick. It had received pretty good reviews (always a concern) and we both knew from doing our research that they had some pretty experienced advisors working on it. We figured it might actually shed some light on what we do; the goose in the probie’s locker was promising…
So we’re sitting there, watching the film and generally muttering grunts of discontentment. I really enjoyed how “the star” uses a patient like a battering ram to get through what would have probably been industrial grade triple laminated glass in that high angle sequence. It’d be sort of like trying to stuff a deer through a brick wall. Sure, you could get it through there- with predictable results: Hair and blood.
Anyways, we got through to the end where buddy dies (sorry for the spoiler for those of you who haven’t seen it- and sorry for apologizing for the spoiler AFTER I spoiled it) and it hit me. I could very well go out on a call one day and not come back. My family, friends, co-workers and other associates… people who know me from town- firefighters from all over the region and in some cases even the country may come as a part of an honour guard to parade beside my casket as I am ferried lifeless through town on the back of a pump with dead gray covers over the lights. People would think about the firefighter I was, and the ultimate sacrifice I had made- hopefully in the line of duty… and hopefully doing something brave and not stupid. A very fine line- the definition often measured by the results. I can just imagine the guys who knew the whole story of my passing yielding their cheeks to the splash of saltwater- or maybe instead muttering their disappointment amongst themselves at what an idiot I was.
And yes, I have to admit- the realization of what I had decided to do with the rest of my life and the potentially catastrophic result took hold of me and shook me like a British nanny. EVERYONE knows what I’m talking about when I describe that nagging tickle behind the eyes, and that ever so subtle spasm just under the cheek bone. If you’re REALLY good you can ride it out, but one wrong thought and you’ll have yourself the B rated sequel to “The Perfect Storm” on your hands. Here I am sitting next to another rough, tough firefighter and we’d been mocking the movie just about all the way through. Alright Eno… look up a little- that’s right. Apparently if you look to the ceiling and keep your head straight and blink 1000 times a minute, that opens your tear duct back up and drains your eyes out with gravity. Counting to 1000 in 60 seconds was about all I needed to distract myself from the emotions that were surging between my brain and my eyes.
Who am I kidding?! They began to load “his” casket into the back of the pump- and that combined with some music, not to mention my active imagination clobbered every successful intervention I’d attempted at that point. I realized that I had at least 10 minutes to go in the film, and could likely conceal the salty excretion with the subtle scratch of the nose and slurp of my oversized diet coke. It felt like my sinuses had just watched the WW2 movie Dam Busters, and was fixing to make a sequel of their own. A good nose blowing was just what I needed- but it’d have been a dead giveaway. Damn, I was really going down hard here. I was on the verge of an emotional disaster, and instead of risking a potential organ rupture trying to contain it, I slowly started to let it out- comforted by the fact that I could do so behind a shield of dar….
Just as they were finished pushing the casket into the pump, the music stopped and the movie went white. Then, I could hear some radio programming in the background. Not long after that, the lights went up. Oh Christ, here I am bubbling like lava with snot and tears pissing out of every hole in my face. How I was going to face down Laughsalot without taking the most fearsome ribbing I’ve yet endured was WAY beyond me. I did an emergency decon in about 2 seconds and put on my best “What are YOU looking at” face before I turned to act all surprised about the movie ending so abruptly. To my immense relief, I was already about 5 steps ahead of Laughsalot, who was still doing the 1000 blink shuffle and looking at the ceiling. I could tell that there was no small degree of embarrassment on his face either, and I understood completely. He had a little boy at home and twin girls on the way… I couldn’t even begin to contemplate what it must have been like to think about his wife explaining to his two little girls that daddy didn’t come home because he was killed in action trying to save some idiot named Eno.
It was at that point I decided that like the good firefighter I was, I was going to have to express heartfelt words of understanding and appreciation for the struggle he faced. I reached deep inside myself, and from one firefighter to another offered the only word of encouragement I could think of:
“Sissy!”
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