After Grampa Frank and I left that snooty woman with orange hair, I turned around. She was lighting another cigarette. Her dog with saliva hanging down both sides of its mouth tried to lick her. "No, Bernie. No."
"Yes, Bernie, yes," I thought.
Almost right away, we were at the fire station. All its doors were wide open. I could see flashing chrome bumpers, shiny black tires, red rims, and gleaming red hoods of two trucks. On the far side of the station, firemen were rolling huge canvas-covered fire hoses in ever growing circles. They looked like giant snails, lying on their sides. An older fireman I'd seen plenty of times leaned against the building's sun-warmed bricks. He kind of saluted us with index and middle finger as he watched the men working hard on the hoses. I'd seen him before, wearing a white fireman's helmet. All the other men wore black helmets. The Chief wore a red helmet. Whenever there was a fire to put out, the man who saluted us stooped behind the firetruck's driver, pointed, and yelled. I figured he was telling the driver which corner to turn next. But I didn't know for certain.
Today, he was wearing dull, black hip boots. Above them were the top of his faded blue jeans and thick black belt. His boots looked like the type fishermen wear in Ten-Mile Creek during the spring trout run. His shirt must've been blue a long time ago, but now it was faded to an almost gray color.
Fingers of white chest hair stuck out of the shirt where buttons were not fastened. That thatch of hair reminded me of a picture of a sea anemone I saw in the latest National Geographic magazine. He had plenty of arm and chest hair. As much as a gorilla, I guessed. But not so much on top of his head. "Howdy," he said.
"Howdy," Grampa answered back. The way Grampa said howdy, you'd think he was born in America instead of Italy. "What are your men doing?" Grampa asked. Grampa must've figured the guy was some kind of a boss. So did I because he wasn't working. Bosses don't work. They just watch workers and sometimes yell at them.
Every time kids in our neighborhood heard sirens plus air horns, we took off like rabbits chased by baying beagles. We made our way to the front of Turbin's grocery store on Baker Street. The way we could tell a firetruck from a police car was the firetruck's loud air horn. Police cars don't have air horns. They have regular car horns.
"They're learning how to roll up them hoses," he said. "They gotta be coiled just so-so, and that's what they're practicing."
"Oh," said Grampa.
"I'm Assistant Chief. The men call me AC. The chief calls me Russ. He's the only one who calls me Russ. The wife calls me Russel, which is my real name. Part of my duties is to teach guys proper firefighting procedures. We don't want hoses leaking, now do we? And if they ain't coiled just so-so, the canvas will crack and the hoses will leak like sieves. Couldn't have that, could we now?"
No," said Grampa, "you wouldn't want leaking hoses. Certainly not, if you want to put out fires with them."
"That's why it's good to practice."
The two didn't say anything for a long time. Itchy, I was ready to leave and pulled on Grampa's hand. He wouldn't budge. So I stood there, too. Finally, AC said, "You and your son out for a walk?"
Grampa patted my head. "This is not my son but my-ah grandson. He's one of Doctor Hoffman's sons. Doctor Hoffman's wife is my youngest daughter, Jean-ah. My grandson's name is Gordy."
AC's face scrunched up a bit, as if he just sucked on a lemon. "Didn't mean to offend ya' by thinking he was your—"
Grampa's hand came out, stopping AC. "You make me feel like a young-ah man, thinking I'm the boy's father. Have you put out many fires?"
"Sure have. Been putting 'em out for twenty eight years now."
"That's a long ah-time."
"Sure is." AC pointed to the paper mill across the river. "I worked in that place over there for four and a-half years before the city hired me. I figure you're retired, right?"
"Yes, I'm-ah retired."
"What'd ya' do for a livin'?"
"I worked in a casket factory."
"Ya ' talkin' about coffins?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Where, what?"
"Where'd you make 'em?"
"Chicago."
"In Illinoise, eh? Boxes for dead people, my, oh my."
"Yes."
"I never met a man who worked in a coffin factory before. AC jerked to watch the younger firemen who were now talking and laughing. "Don't you guys have anything to do?" They quieted down in an awful hurry. "Well, said AC, "you can undo them hoses, lay 'em out straight as you can, and then coil 'em up again."
"Do we hafta, AC?" asked a freckle-faced man. His hair color was almost the same as mine. As with the other men, he wore blue jeans, hip boots, and a blue work shirt.
"Scotty, ya know better than to ask. Yeah, ya hafta. You guys gotta do that enough times to be able to coil 'em in your sleep, ya' understand?"
"Yes, AC." Scotty and the others began unwinding the hoses and then slowly laying them out straight.
Nobody said anything for a long time. So, I told AC, "Grampa used to be a journeyman barber."
"Oh, yeah? A journeyman, you say. Tell me, boy, what is a journeyman?"
"A journeyman," I said, "is a man who spends four years as an apprentice, learning a trade. Grampa spent four years in a New York City barber shop, learning how to be a barber. That's how he became a journeyman barber."
"Yeah, you're a smart kid. Naturally, you're a doctor's son." He turned to Grampa. "Smart kid, ain't he?"
Grampa patted my head. "He's a smart-ah boy, all right. Sometimes too smart for his own-ah good."
"I know what you mean. I got sons of my own. So, you were a barber. How come you ended up in coffins?"
Grampa's shoulders popped up and down. More uneasy silence followed. AC broke it. He looked at me. "Name's Gordy, right?"
"Right."
"And you're a smart kid, right?"
This time, my shoulders popped up and down. "I guess so."
"And I suppose you're going to be a doctor when you grow up, eh?"
"No."
"What're ya going to be, then?"
"A fireman."
"Your dad and mom don't want you to be no fireman. You don't have to go to college to be no fireman."
"I want to be one after I join the navy."
"Navy, too, huh?"
"Yes."
AC pointed inside the fire station to a wooden pole that looked like a short telephone pole. "See that pole there. Can you tell me what it is?"
"It's a pole."
"Sure looks like one, don't it?"
"Yes."
"It ain't, though. Maybe you ain't as smart as I thought you were." AC laughed and patted Grampa on the back. "Just kidding, son." He then patted the top of my head as he addressed Grampa. "You wanna take a stab?"
"I-ah agree with Gordy. It's a pole."
"Say, Scotty—"
"Yeah, AC?"
"Go in the station and get that telephone pole of ours. You know what I mean. Show 'em what it really is."
"Okay." Scotty seemed happy to do something other than coiling and straightening out hoses. He marched into the fire station, lifted the pole, and brought it out to show us
"Still think it's a pole?" asked AC.
Grampa and I nodded.
"Scotty, go ahead."
Scotty grinned. All of a sudden, he lifted one side of the pole a bit and then pushed on other side. Finally, he pulled the two sides apart— Kazam. Standing before us was a ladder with rungs and all.
"That's unbelievable," said Grampa.
"Easy to stick in the back of the truck," said AC, "and we don't hafta attach it to nothin'. It comes off real handy like. Now, do you think your grandson would like to sit on the driver's seat of that fire truck there?"
"Can I, Grampa?"
Grampa smiled. "AC's the boss. If he says so, you can."
"That's exactly what I said. Let me help you up, Gordy. Lift up your arms."
I lifted my arms and AC lifted me up high above his head. "Okay, put your feet down and hold on to the back of the seat."
My feet down, I held the seat's back. I was shaking. "It's higher than I thought."
"Siddown," said AC.
I sat in the driver's seat. "It feels really good. There's room for another kid my size."
"Hold on to the wheel."
I did so.
"Turn it if you can."
The wheel wouldn't budge. AC smiled. "Honk the horn."
After I hit the button and that horn sounded like a stick of dynamite going off, Grampa jumped higher than I'd ever seen him jump. I almost fell out of the seat.
AC? He was laughing as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the world. "Okay, you can come on down, now." After I jumped into AC's arms, he let me down nice and easy. "Still want to be a fireman?"
"Yes," I said. Of that, I was certain.
"Yes, Bernie, yes," I thought.
Almost right away, we were at the fire station. All its doors were wide open. I could see flashing chrome bumpers, shiny black tires, red rims, and gleaming red hoods of two trucks. On the far side of the station, firemen were rolling huge canvas-covered fire hoses in ever growing circles. They looked like giant snails, lying on their sides. An older fireman I'd seen plenty of times leaned against the building's sun-warmed bricks. He kind of saluted us with index and middle finger as he watched the men working hard on the hoses. I'd seen him before, wearing a white fireman's helmet. All the other men wore black helmets. The Chief wore a red helmet. Whenever there was a fire to put out, the man who saluted us stooped behind the firetruck's driver, pointed, and yelled. I figured he was telling the driver which corner to turn next. But I didn't know for certain.
Today, he was wearing dull, black hip boots. Above them were the top of his faded blue jeans and thick black belt. His boots looked like the type fishermen wear in Ten-Mile Creek during the spring trout run. His shirt must've been blue a long time ago, but now it was faded to an almost gray color.
Fingers of white chest hair stuck out of the shirt where buttons were not fastened. That thatch of hair reminded me of a picture of a sea anemone I saw in the latest National Geographic magazine. He had plenty of arm and chest hair. As much as a gorilla, I guessed. But not so much on top of his head. "Howdy," he said.
"Howdy," Grampa answered back. The way Grampa said howdy, you'd think he was born in America instead of Italy. "What are your men doing?" Grampa asked. Grampa must've figured the guy was some kind of a boss. So did I because he wasn't working. Bosses don't work. They just watch workers and sometimes yell at them.
Every time kids in our neighborhood heard sirens plus air horns, we took off like rabbits chased by baying beagles. We made our way to the front of Turbin's grocery store on Baker Street. The way we could tell a firetruck from a police car was the firetruck's loud air horn. Police cars don't have air horns. They have regular car horns.
"They're learning how to roll up them hoses," he said. "They gotta be coiled just so-so, and that's what they're practicing."
"Oh," said Grampa.
"I'm Assistant Chief. The men call me AC. The chief calls me Russ. He's the only one who calls me Russ. The wife calls me Russel, which is my real name. Part of my duties is to teach guys proper firefighting procedures. We don't want hoses leaking, now do we? And if they ain't coiled just so-so, the canvas will crack and the hoses will leak like sieves. Couldn't have that, could we now?"
No," said Grampa, "you wouldn't want leaking hoses. Certainly not, if you want to put out fires with them."
"That's why it's good to practice."
The two didn't say anything for a long time. Itchy, I was ready to leave and pulled on Grampa's hand. He wouldn't budge. So I stood there, too. Finally, AC said, "You and your son out for a walk?"
Grampa patted my head. "This is not my son but my-ah grandson. He's one of Doctor Hoffman's sons. Doctor Hoffman's wife is my youngest daughter, Jean-ah. My grandson's name is Gordy."
AC's face scrunched up a bit, as if he just sucked on a lemon. "Didn't mean to offend ya' by thinking he was your—"
Grampa's hand came out, stopping AC. "You make me feel like a young-ah man, thinking I'm the boy's father. Have you put out many fires?"
"Sure have. Been putting 'em out for twenty eight years now."
"That's a long ah-time."
"Sure is." AC pointed to the paper mill across the river. "I worked in that place over there for four and a-half years before the city hired me. I figure you're retired, right?"
"Yes, I'm-ah retired."
"What'd ya' do for a livin'?"
"I worked in a casket factory."
"Ya ' talkin' about coffins?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Where, what?"
"Where'd you make 'em?"
"Chicago."
"In Illinoise, eh? Boxes for dead people, my, oh my."
"Yes."
"I never met a man who worked in a coffin factory before. AC jerked to watch the younger firemen who were now talking and laughing. "Don't you guys have anything to do?" They quieted down in an awful hurry. "Well, said AC, "you can undo them hoses, lay 'em out straight as you can, and then coil 'em up again."
"Do we hafta, AC?" asked a freckle-faced man. His hair color was almost the same as mine. As with the other men, he wore blue jeans, hip boots, and a blue work shirt.
"Scotty, ya know better than to ask. Yeah, ya hafta. You guys gotta do that enough times to be able to coil 'em in your sleep, ya' understand?"
"Yes, AC." Scotty and the others began unwinding the hoses and then slowly laying them out straight.
Nobody said anything for a long time. So, I told AC, "Grampa used to be a journeyman barber."
"Oh, yeah? A journeyman, you say. Tell me, boy, what is a journeyman?"
"A journeyman," I said, "is a man who spends four years as an apprentice, learning a trade. Grampa spent four years in a New York City barber shop, learning how to be a barber. That's how he became a journeyman barber."
"Yeah, you're a smart kid. Naturally, you're a doctor's son." He turned to Grampa. "Smart kid, ain't he?"
Grampa patted my head. "He's a smart-ah boy, all right. Sometimes too smart for his own-ah good."
"I know what you mean. I got sons of my own. So, you were a barber. How come you ended up in coffins?"
Grampa's shoulders popped up and down. More uneasy silence followed. AC broke it. He looked at me. "Name's Gordy, right?"
"Right."
"And you're a smart kid, right?"
This time, my shoulders popped up and down. "I guess so."
"And I suppose you're going to be a doctor when you grow up, eh?"
"No."
"What're ya going to be, then?"
"A fireman."
"Your dad and mom don't want you to be no fireman. You don't have to go to college to be no fireman."
"I want to be one after I join the navy."
"Navy, too, huh?"
"Yes."
AC pointed inside the fire station to a wooden pole that looked like a short telephone pole. "See that pole there. Can you tell me what it is?"
"It's a pole."
"Sure looks like one, don't it?"
"Yes."
"It ain't, though. Maybe you ain't as smart as I thought you were." AC laughed and patted Grampa on the back. "Just kidding, son." He then patted the top of my head as he addressed Grampa. "You wanna take a stab?"
"I-ah agree with Gordy. It's a pole."
"Say, Scotty—"
"Yeah, AC?"
"Go in the station and get that telephone pole of ours. You know what I mean. Show 'em what it really is."
"Okay." Scotty seemed happy to do something other than coiling and straightening out hoses. He marched into the fire station, lifted the pole, and brought it out to show us
"Still think it's a pole?" asked AC.
Grampa and I nodded.
"Scotty, go ahead."
Scotty grinned. All of a sudden, he lifted one side of the pole a bit and then pushed on other side. Finally, he pulled the two sides apart— Kazam. Standing before us was a ladder with rungs and all.
"That's unbelievable," said Grampa.
"Easy to stick in the back of the truck," said AC, "and we don't hafta attach it to nothin'. It comes off real handy like. Now, do you think your grandson would like to sit on the driver's seat of that fire truck there?"
"Can I, Grampa?"
Grampa smiled. "AC's the boss. If he says so, you can."
"That's exactly what I said. Let me help you up, Gordy. Lift up your arms."
I lifted my arms and AC lifted me up high above his head. "Okay, put your feet down and hold on to the back of the seat."
My feet down, I held the seat's back. I was shaking. "It's higher than I thought."
"Siddown," said AC.
I sat in the driver's seat. "It feels really good. There's room for another kid my size."
"Hold on to the wheel."
I did so.
"Turn it if you can."
The wheel wouldn't budge. AC smiled. "Honk the horn."
After I hit the button and that horn sounded like a stick of dynamite going off, Grampa jumped higher than I'd ever seen him jump. I almost fell out of the seat.
AC? He was laughing as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the world. "Okay, you can come on down, now." After I jumped into AC's arms, he let me down nice and easy. "Still want to be a fireman?"
"Yes," I said. Of that, I was certain.
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