Kidding Around

The citizens of the City I serve, like any metropolitan population, can be sorted by an infinite number of arbitrary criteria: income, education, age, gender, ethnicity, zip code, religion, and on and on and on. From the standpoint of a firefighter, the easiest distinction is between those we have seen on a call and those we haven't (yet). Or, perhaps, more accurately, the likely customer, and the unlikely. Middle-aged healthy guy in the nice house on the hill, with smoke alarms and health care: Unlikely. Homeless dude, napping off his Steel Reserve, in the bushes behind the Safeway: Very Likely. The likely demographic shares the common denominator of risk. Everyone risks something, but a likely customer's risks are numerous and serious. Bad choices and bad luck hit these people hard.

I love my job, and I remember daily that it's a privilege to be chosen to work in the fire service. Hardened by repeated visits to a particular kind of person, living a particular kind of life, it's an easy stroll to cynical. I try to treat everyone with respect and make things better. With few exceptions, the people who call us are having a very bad day and need our help.

Every now and then some kind of community event warrants fire department involvement. Sometimes it's a standby duty, waiting, with aid kits ready, to bandage a skinned knee or splint a strained limb. A parade or charity walk will find us riding bikes, carrying packs stuffed with EMS supplies. My favorite kind is of the "meet and greet" variety, just hanging out, maybe displaying the tools on the engine or aid car, modelling our protective gear, making friends. I've attended a couple of these soirees this month, mingling with the public. They press food into our hands, hot dogs, pizza, potluck fare, thanking us for the job we do, and maybe for taking care of a family member. It's flattering to see yourself reflected in their words. To be called a hero is tremendously high praise, but I am humbled by their esteem and the quality of the men I work with.

Two weeks ago I handed out bicycle helmets, sweat rolling down my back, in the August sunshine. Before they received one, the kids had to demonstrate proper hand signals for safe bike riding. Many had a limited command of English, and their siblings had to translate my questions into Russian or Ukrainian or Cambodian. Many confused left and right, but when I gestured in the direction to turn, they got it right every time. пожарник (po(r)-jzarrr-neek) means firefighter in Russian, they patiently taught me.

Kids are the best and worst part of the job. I like to wave to families as I ride in the back seat of the engine, cruising neighborhoods, returning from a call, or even on the way to an emergency, with flashing lights and screaming sirens. Sometimes the adults wave back, but the kids always wave. When we go on a call for a sick or injured kid I often involuntarily mutter an "Oh shit" when I hear the short report over the radio. We wear headsets in the cab, and the captain and driver can't help but hear me, but I never hear anyone else express overt dread on the way to such a call. Kids are resiliant, but moms and dads also need special attention when their child is hurt. I am reassuring and confident, but I worry that they will smell my fear for their kid's health or safety.

We regularly visit a number of apartment complexes, where a disproportionate fraction of our calls originate. Their names change regularly, as they pass through new slumlords' hands, and our map books often do not depict the latest moniker, so we use the address in the index. Without fail, there is a small mob of kids in the parking lot, riding bikes and scooters, playing in the dirt or mud. They flock to us as we approach the unit to which we were dispatched. If we are not running, I deflect their questions about who's hurt and ask them where their bike helmets are. On the way out, I make a point of talking to them, joking if I'm not wheeling a stretcher, handing out compliments while I back the driver out of the tight parking, avoiding the carport roofs' overhang. I hope I'm never dispatched to see one of these carefree kids.

There is a persistant myth that firefighters hand out stickers. No one on my shift carries any stickers, but when I was on probation I ordered 200 stickers on the Internet, depicting different kinds of ladder trucks. I tucked some in the EMS notebook in my hip pocket, which I rarely open except to fetch the spelling for a prescription medication. I also carry some in the breast pocket of my Class B blouse (yes, that's what it's called, I know, the shame). I was at a church picnic last week and as soon as we parked, two kids ran up to me, asking for stickers.

"Firefighters always have stickers," she confided to her friend.

"I think I might be out," I admitted, patting my T-shirt for pockets that didn't exist. I fished the EMS notebook out of my pants, and found the last two decals. Great, she's gonna tell every kid here to hit me up. The firefighter without stickers was not the firefighter I wanted to be. The rest of the time at the picnic kids climbed all over the aid car and asked their questions and answered mine. A bright trilingual ten-year old from Russia, named Victoria, told me of her plan to be a doctor. I joked for thirty minutes with an acting student named John, telling him he should think about firefighting when he gets older. I wish I could have given every one of them a sticker, but, luckily, none asked.

My own children live 1000 miles away, with their mother for most of the year. I see them once a month, for a weekend or a week or two in the summer. They mostly live a life without me, sometimes forgetting my birthday or father's day. They have a thin understanding of what I do, and how important it is to me. I think it makes me a little hungry for a child's unquestioning love, and fascination with the world. I wallow in the interaction I have with the City's children, but I miss my own kids.