Conversation

I'm secure enough to admit that I have a bit of a shoe fetish. Shoes rank right up there with beer, manners, and proper hygiene - that is to say, something on which I expend some mental energy. Not in the fussy, dapper way some men contrive their appearance, just so. More like the relationship between a carpenter and his favorite tools. And after seven various minor surgeries for ingrown toenails, I can authoritatively state that good shoes are proper hygiene.

With my big, meaty, wide, "Yaba-Daba-Doo!" triple-E twelves, I have come to value fit over fashion. At one point, I had more than twenty pairs of Birkenstocks in the closet, under the bed, and under foot. You'd trip over them, piled like firewood, upon entering my house. Lest you judge to harshly, too prematurely, I should disclose that I was managing a Birkenstock store in Seattle's University District at the time. I amassed my collection at significant discount. Still, the label of fetishist probably sticks well before twenty.

An annual ritual, Mom would return from J.C. Penny with spanky back-to-school garb (think Beaver Cleaver chic), and a new pair of Chucks. Charles Hollis "Chuck" Taylor joined forces with Converse Shoes in the 1920's, promptly redesigned their basketball shoe, signed it, and dubbed it the Chuck Taylor All-Star. Constructed of rubber and canvas, in low and high-top versions, these "gymboots" have become the best selling shoe in history. I would snatch the shoe box, and bolt out the door to find my friend Matt, a virtuoso in the art of breaking in new sneakers. We'd soak them in water and roll them in dirt, grinding the mud into the fabric, scuffing the white rubber toes and outsoles.

These days, Chucks are made overseas in factories owned by Nike (so I'm told), and no longer constructed with two plies of canvas, but remain essential in their form. I found some on sale last January and bought two pairs, mixing the black and grey, keeping a mismatched pair in reserve. Occasionally, my odd shoes are noticed in the locker room at station 41, with two-dozen firefighters at shift change. The minority opinion consists of agitation, confusion, disapproval. I explain that Converse means opposite or reverse, left vs. right, black vs. not black. This seldom furthers my case for individualism, and usually results in head-shaking and a cautious retreat.

But, they still feel right. I can walk miles in my All-Stars, the flat sole flapping down the sidewalk, the heel squeaking a little as my foot lifts. I like them knotted low, and jam them on like loafers. During the sockless season, they get washed frequently, and emerge from the dryer hot but still damp, stinking of rubber and canvas, evoking memories - shoe stores, gym class, the excitement/dread of a new school year. Olfactory memory resides in a powerful corner of the brain, and the ghosts of these experiences spring forth fully fleshed-out with the emotions of the moment. But now, a new memory, a recent memory, a happy memory, competes for my attention when I get a whiff of All-Stars - fire hose.

Your bread-and-butter fire hose is constructed from a rubber tube and fabric jacket, similar to the Converse Chuck Taylor shoe. I am sure, in both cases, that the particulars of the materials employed have evolved a little over the years, but their essence remains the same. Both are unrelentingly robust and reliable. Both require periodic washing to prolong their service life. And both smell the same when wet.
You will find us rolling a thousand or more feet of hose after a good-sized house fire, stooping to start the coil, straining to carry another dirty length to the tailboard. Back at the station, we replace the missing hoselines on the engine. We unroll the fifty-foot lengths of soiled hose, laying them out in parallel rows on concrete apron, and wash the grime from the fabric. The washed hoses are doubled and hoisted into the hose tower, hung from the bars where they air-dry for days. One of our Saturday station chores is to lower any dry hose, re-roll it, and arrange it on a rack, like so many books on a shelf, until needed after the next fire.

I'm drawn to hose towers. They usually contain tools, supplies, and flotsam from the fire station collects there, in lieu of a proper hook or shelf. Spare bunks, giant squeegees, brooms might hang from a pegs. Washing a fire engine begins and ends with a trip to the hose tower for the bucket, soap, and brush. Some towers double as a drill facility, and the ladder, to the hose rack at the top, intersects steel gratings pretending to be floors in a building. The ladder is, at best, perilous, at worst, outfitted with some abominable safety belt that slides on a cable, and sanitizes the visceral thrill of the climb. My preference is for a window at the peak, from which you can scan the neighborhood for smoke, or shoo pigeons for sport.

As I drive around, tooling along back roads or side streets, I occasionally spot an old fire station, converted into a garage or re-purposed for the city or county. The hose tower, an architectural feature as distinctive as a steeple, always gives it away. I dream of living in an old fire station someday, with a brass pole, and a hose tower stacked with books. An antique fire engine might drip its fluids quietly, slowly greasing the floor, and I will be cautious - Chuck Taylors, Chucks, are positively dangerous on an oily floor.