Chapter Eleven
Blake
I pulled up to the station on Christmas Eve and saw that Chief had gone all out on the annual cookout we threw for members of the community. The lawn in front of the fire station was covered in lights, and off to one side was an enormous blow-up Santa blaring Christmas carols from the bag next to his feet. I laughed as I grabbed my bag out of the truck and walked up the drive.
Inside the station, Tony was in a foul mood as he slammed cases of soda and bottled water onto a dolly. I went back to the locker room and stored my stuff before I returned to the kitchen to help.
“What’s up, man?” I asked, as I took a couple of cases of soda from him and set them on the dolly.
“She’s driving me crazy, B!” Tony shouted, as he hauled three cases of water out of the storage closet and dropped them on top of the soda. “She’s got me doing things that aren’t my job!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I said, as I swung the dolly around and pushed it toward the back door of the garage.
“She’s supposed to do the inside stuff, and I’m supposed to do the outside stuff!” he protested. “She’s got me wrapping presents! You know I have no idea how to do that shit!”
“You know, you’re kind of a dick, Tony,” I laughed, as we began pulling the plastic off the water and tossing it into the large tubs we’d set up near the grills. “Wrapping packages isn’t a gendered thing, my friend.”
“But I shovel the walk and hang the lights!” he protested more loudly. “I’m supposed to be exempt from that girly shit!”
“Oh, Tony, you have my sympathies, man, but you’d be wise to get with the program,” I laughed. “This is, after all, the 21st century. Besides, who are the packages for?”
“My parents,” he said.
“Jesus Christ, man,” I said, shaking my head. “You are so lucky your wife doesn’t kill you in your sleep!”
“Hey, guys, who's killing who?” Cal asked, as he joined the conversation. Tony stared at him without saying a word as I ducked behind the cart and grabbed a couple boxes of soda and began putting them in a second tub. Cal tried again, “Seriously, what’s going on?”
“Why don’t you go grab the rest of the drinks, rookie?” Tony asked, without looking at him. Cal sighed and then slunk away as Chief and two of the guys lit up the grills and signaled the start of the party.
“Why do you have to be so tough on the kid?” I asked, as Tony rapidly threw bottles into the tub and then dumped bags of ice onto them.
“He’s an idiot,” Tony grumbled. “Asking questions when he should keep his mouth shut. Doing stupid shit that he should have learned not to do in basic training. Idiot.”
“We were all idiots, Tony,” I reminded him, as I grabbed a bag of ice and covered the cans I’d put in the tub.
“Well, he’s a special kind of idiot,” Tony muttered. I knew Tony’s irritation was about more than the rookie, so I let him stew while I helped Chief get the meat ready for the grill.
Every Christmas Eve our station threw a party on what was normally the slowest night of the year, to celebrate another successful year, and every year the members of the community came and brought food, drinks, and toys that we would donate to the Marines Toys for Tots drive and brighten the holidays for kids who might not otherwise get anything from Santa. We provided the food, and the community provided gratitude and gifts.
It was more than a fair exchange.
“You ready to light up the grill, Chief?” I called, as he emerged from the station wearing a tall white chef’s hat and a long white butcher’s apron. Chief loved playing the role of the chef every year, mostly because at no other time did he do any cooking at the station.
“Ready and waiting!” Chief bellowed, as he cranked the gas and lit held a match to each of the three gas grills we’d borrowed for the event. Soon the grills were flaming hot, and Chief began dropping burger patties on one and hot dogs on the other.
The smell of sizzling meat made my mouth water as the guests began to arrive, each carrying a side dish or a dessert. One after another they deposited their offerings, until the long tables groaned under the weight of all of the food. My stomach growled as I hugged two elderly women who’d been attending the festivities for longer than I’d been on the squad.
“Come and get it!” Chief hollered, as he set two trays, heaped high with still-sizzling meat, on the tables next to the buns and condiments.
“You guys eat first,” Bill Reynolds, the owner of Lexington Hardware, said as he gestured to the tables. “The rest of us have the luxury of knowing we definitely won’t be sent on a call tonight.”
The firefighters crowded around the table and made quick work of the first grill offerings as the guests served themselves appetizers and drinks. Chief threw more meat on the grill, and someone cranked up the Christmas carols as the party shifted into full gear.
Somehow the holiday magic extended to our station, and as the night wore on, things remained quiet. By midnight, the last of the guests had headed home to dream of the next day’s celebration, and we finished cleaning up the remains of the party. Tony’s mood had lifted a little, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught him telling the rookie that he’d done a moderately good job of keeping the drink tubs filled.
I smiled as I stored the rest of the leftovers in the fridge and then headed to the bunkroom to get some sleep. With any luck, we’d sleep through the night, and I’d be well rested for my family’s Christmas celebration in the morning.