December 25, 2009
It had been twenty-three years since anyone committed the cardinal sin of calling out sick on Christmas. Everyone knew a year in advance which holidays they’d be working, so making someone else lose time with their family was considered extremely taboo. In 1986, a lieutenant named Al Raddison called out sick Christmas morning and was promptly re-named “Al-bee,” for “Al-bee Home for Christmas.” This year, Kevin Wilson had been stuck on Rescue 2 for 96 hours. When he finally walked out the door Christmas Eve, he woke up Christmas morning with diarrhea and a 103-degree fever. Another guy, Ray Latanski, was in year two of an ugly divorce. He wouldn’t be allowed to see his kids this Christmas, so he was at the end of a three-day bender when he showed up drunk for work Christmas Eve. The guys at Station 4 drove him right back home and someone else got held instead. But justice was not long delayed. Those on shift Christmas Day promptly labeled them both “bags of shit” and immediately started torturing them by text. The Alert Tone hit at 10:23 am as Fire Alarm announced, “Attention Rescue 2 and Engine 3, Still Alarm. 161 Belmore Drive for a man in need of assistance …” “Sounds like my life story.” Lt. Russel Brodie headed for the truck. He was usually on Engine 5 but got forced to Engine 3 on the day shift between his night shifts. Surviving his third divorce without alcohol was bad enough, but working round the clock was pushing some guys to the edge. He was a tall man with a seven-foot wingspan. His blonde toupee, as always, was as fascinating as it was disconcerting. As he climbed into the truck, he said, “Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit smoking.” He was only half-joking. “Let’s go, morons.” Useless and Toe-Tag were the usual privates on C-Shift, but Toe-Tag, the worst EMT on the job, had swapped out his Christmas shift. Filling in was Blister, ironically nicknamed because he had no work ethic. He was also a strident Yankees fan, so Lt. Brodie had even more reason to hate him. As far as crews go, Engine 3 on C-Shift led by Lt. Cunty Conti was one of the worst on the job. Lt. Brodie was just hoping to survive the shift without having to rely in any way on either one of the men he commanded. “Jesus Christ.” He angrily pointed. “You just missed Belmore. This isn’t even my fucking district and I know that.” “I always get that confused with—” “Stop talking.” Lt. Brodie said into the mic, “Engine 3’s more or less on scene.” Because of who he was with and what he had just said, he could hear laughter in the background when Fire Alarm answered, “Engine 3’s on scene at 1029.” They circled the block before stopping in front of a single-story cape. It had a long wooden ramp extending off the front porch. There was no snow on it because of the unseasonable forty-degree weather. At the front door, Lt. Brodie knocked and called out, “Hello! Fire department!” A muffled return shout was unintelligible. Lt. Brodie tried the door but it was locked. He heard on his radio, “Rescue 2 to Engine 3. Whaddaya got?” Lt. Brodie answered, “Not sure yet. Still trying to gain entry.” “Roger. Two minutes out.” “Well don’t just stand there!” Lt. Brodie yelled at Useless. “Check the windows, see if we can’t get lucky and find one that’s unlocked.” Useless’ real name was Grant Ungerfelt. He was a cerebral sort with no common sense or intrinsic knowledge of anything medical or mechanical. Even worse, he didn’t care enough to learn. Lt. Brodie saw Blister still wandering around the truck and screamed, “What’re you doing?” “I can’t find the sawzall!” “Sawzall? Are you kidding me?” As Useless half-heartedly checked the first-floor windows, Lt. Brodie cupped his hands around his eyes and looked through the back door. In the center of the kitchen, he could see a man in a wheelchair. “Please help me!” the man shouted. “It won’t move!” “All right! Hang on! You got a spare key hidden out here?” “No!” Lt. Brodie already had a plan in mind. Like deputized criminals, firemen were taught how to break into cars, homes, and all types of buildings, in all types of ways. He pulled a putty knife from the pocket of his night-hitch. Most guys had pockets jammed with screwdrivers, knives, pliers, spanner wrenches, door-chalks, and everything else. He threw open the window and yelled, “Blister! Get over here!” Blister’s real name was Donny Aiello. Somehow, he was the disappointing son of a legendary battalion chief. Considered a big-talker who accomplished little to back any of it up, it was hard for others to take him seriously. Like B.C. McLoud, and even Chief Fishbakke, he was a political creature focused on all the wrong things. Skeptical of anyone that rode the coattails of someone else’s hard work, Lt. Brodie was no fan of Blister. Lt. Brodie knelt down and offered up his knee. “Here you go. I’ll boost you through.” “Me? Useless is the junior man—” “I’ll give you one choice. You can either climb through this window, or I get to kick you in the nuts.” “That’s not really fair. By contract I don’t think you—hey, wait!” Rescue 2 pulled on-scene just as Lt. Brodie’s boot landed squarely in Blister’s crotch, lifted him off his feet, and dumped him to the ground. Lt. Killmoor spit out his coffee. “God, I’m so happy we were here to see that.” “Me too.” Sack threw it into park. “Look. He ain’t even moving.” They opened their doors in time to hear Lt. Brodie losing his mind. “You piece of shit! Get in the truck! You make me sick!” “Merry Christmas, Russ!” Lt. Killmoor cheerily called out. “What’re you guys doing? Auditioning for the next Jackass movie?” “I might as well have come alone!” Lt. Brodie stepped back to the window and knelt again. “All right, Nut-Sack, in you go.” Sack stepped on the knee, grabbed the sill, and pulled himself through. He made sure to land on the toilet lid to avoid the urine-stained floor. Lt. Killmoor shook Lt. Brodie’s hand and said, “Where’s your other private?” “I don’t know. Probably hiding around back? Just look to where there’s absolutely nothing going on and he’ll be in the dead center of that.” “At least he’s consistent.” “Are you trying to send me over the edge, Dave? Cause I’m real fucking close.” Sack threw open the back door. Inside, the kitchen had one dim bulb. A man in a wheelchair was stuck inside its shadows. He was balding but had a ponytail and a look of total desperation. He said, “I’ve been stuck here for six hours. I really tried everything, but it’s a new chair—” “What’s your name?” Lt. Killmoor asked. “Buddy.” “Okay, Buddy. What’s going on with you physically?” “Nothing. I’m officially a quadriplegic but I have enough use of my right hand to steer this thing.” “So we’re just here because the wheelchair doesn’t work?” “You see this?” He pointed to his shirt that said, Not As Lean, But Still a Marine. “I’m a fucking veteran—” “Whoa, whoa. I didn’t mean it like that. I just want to make sure I know you’re otherwise okay. That’s all.” “I got no family left, man, believe me, I tried for six fucking hours—” “Is this the battery?” “Yes.” “You got a spare? Let’s try that first.” Nothing worked. Thirty minutes later, they had booted, re-booted, and gone through the small phonebook-sized manual. Buddy must have realized this because he suddenly said, “Please don’t leave.” “We’re not going anywhere.” Lt. Brodie scoured the manual for contact information. “If we can’t get this figured out, though, we might have to take you to the hospital.” “Please.” Buddy’s long dead legs were shrunken sticks. “I don’t want to go to the hospital on Christmas for nothing.” “I know, dude, but we can’t just leave you here like this.” “Then can you just put me into my bed?” “Do you have your old chair?” “No.” He was crestfallen. “I had to give it up to get this one.” “Where’d you get it from?” “Providence. Some distributor. Should be on the receipt.” “I got an idea.” Lt. Brodie had Fire Alarm contact the Providence Fire Alarm to look up the contact information for Mobility Distributors. He was given three numbers. The first two went nowhere, but the third rang an answering service. A pleasant man said the offices were closed but would re-open in the morning. “That’s not gonna work,” Lt. Brodie answered. “I’m at the home of one of your customers—” “This is just the answering service, sir.” “Be that as it may, I’m a lieutenant on the Sachem City Fire Department, and we’re open twenty-four hours a day. This man is a decorated combat vet—” “I was never in combat,” Buddy quickly said. “I got hurt flipping an ATV in Colorado Springs on leave.” Lt. Brodie shushed him and continued, “I want to be connected with either the owner or a technician or someone who can fix this thing. We’re not leaving a quadriplegic veteran stuck in the middle of his goddamn kitchen on Christmas just because your product is faulty.” “Sir, like I said, this is just an answering service—” “I don’t think you get it. This is not a negotiation.” “Hang on, please.” A series of phone calls finally produced a service technician on the line. Soon after, Buddy was back at full power and pulling celebratory donuts in his kitchen. He said, “I can’t thank y’all enough.” “No problem.” Lt. Brodie stacked the manuals on the counter. “Call back if this thing shits the bed again, okay?” “I really appreciate it, guys, Merry Christmas.” Buddy closed the door behind them. “I can’t believe it’s only eleven o’clock.” Lt. Brodie looked at Useless and Blister warming themselves in the truck. “I’m almost tempted to dump the entire hose-bed and force these two morons to repack every inch of it just for the fuck of it.” “Company drill on Christmas Day?” Lt. Killmoor smiled. “That would turn you into a legend.” “We’ll see how the day goes. At the very least, they’re cleaning all the bathrooms.” “Bring the pain, Russ.” “Yeah, Merry fucking Christmas.” “Fire Alarm to Rescue 2?” “Go ahead.” “Disposition?” “We’re getting ready to clear Belmore.” “Roger, sir. Start heading for 216 Morris Drive for difficulty breathing.” “Roger.” Lt. Killmoor called out to Lt. Brodie, “I’m climbing back into my sleigh! Put out some cookies at the 3’s and maybe I’ll slide down the chimney!” “No offense, Dave, but judging by your waistline, I’d say you’re chimney sliding days are over.”
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AuthorTom Trabulsi was born in the Midwest, attended high school in Rhode Island, and graduated from Boston University with a degree in American History. He was a bike courier in Boston and New York City, worked construction in the mountain west and east coast, and is currently a firefighter in a northeast city. Archives
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