Louie
I made a quick tour around the truck, making sure any valuable or potentially dangerous equipment was out of reach of curious little hands. After the fire-safety assembly, we’d bring the children outside and let them take a look at the trucks. Best to make sure the axes and other tools were tightly secured. Didn’t want one of the kiddos to accidentally lose a toe. I’d have no chance with the cute, curly-haired teacher if I let one of her kids get hurt.
Once I’d confirmed the truck was ready, I grabbed the large toolbox that contained a selection of instruments used in firefighting. A forcible entry tool. A roof hook. A lock pull. I also grabbed one of our masks. It was important for the children to see what a firefighter looked like with a mask on so that they wouldn’t be scared by it if one of us emerged from smoke to rescue them.
As I turned around, my eyes spotted a group of small kids clustered at the window of a classroom watching me and the trucks with eager expressions on their faces. Not to be a killjoy, but while fighting fires could be exciting and heroic, it could also be terrifying and tragic. Things did not always end well, no matter how hard we tried to douse the flames and rescue the victims. But these children were too young to fully understand the intricacies of the job, and the last thing I wanted to do was give them nightmares. We’d keep things light at our assembly, focus on what they should do if they found themselves confronting a fire.
Along with me today were four of our station’s finest. Francesca “Frankie” Kerrigan, a rookie firefighter with blue hair who played roller derby and had more than her share of moxie. Douglas Harrison was a skilled paramedic with three decades of experience under his belt. Whoever ended up in his ambulance, no matter how broken, had a better-than-average chance of survival. Lieutenant Seth Rutledge was a former Army explosive ordnance specialist who now served as a K-9 handler and supervisor on the department’s bomb squad. His explosive-detection dog, Blast, had come along, too. The kids always loved seeing the dog in action. Together, we’d teach the kids a thing or two.
Stepping inside the school, we were greeted by the smell of floor polish and a gray-haired woman in a glassed-in office who looked up from behind the counter. She raised a hand in greeting and motioned for us to come inside. “Good morning!” she said cheerily as we entered the office. “We’ve been expecting y’all. Sign in here, please.” She pushed a clipboard with an attached pen across the counter.
As we stepped up to the counter, she peered over her reading glasses, her gaze roaming over me, Seth, and Doug. Not to sound full of myself, but I was used to this type of response from women. Seth and Doug were, too. With muscles honed from regular workouts and heavy lifting on the job, our bodies were, as they say, ripped. Not that I honestly minded. Hell, as hard as I’d worked to earn these muscles, it was nice to get some appreciation for them. And after spending my childhood with the nickname “Meatball,” it was nice to feel proud of my physique rather than ashamed of it. But someday I’d like a woman to see past my body and want to know more about the man inside. For all the crap men get about being shallow and preferring women who make good arm candy, women could be just as superficial, in my experience. The last woman I’d dated took me to her high school reunion and trotted me around like some kind of show horse, telling all of her friends to feel my biceps. She never bothered to ask if I was okay with it. By the end of the night, I’d been squeezed more than an avocado in a supermarket produce aisle. That night had been our final date.
After we signed the visitor log, the woman leaned to her left and pointed down a corridor. “Gym’s at the end of that hall. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I said, retrieving my toolbox from the floor where I’d set it.
Blast’s claws tapped on the linoleum as we made our way to the gymnasium. There, we checked in with the coach.
I gestured to the folding blue vinyl gym mats stacked against the wall. “Okay if we use those?”
“Of course.” He swept an arm to indicate the expansive space. “Gym’s all yours. If you need me, I’m just a knock away.” With that, he disappeared into his office at the front of the room. Through the wide window in the door, I saw him slip into his desk chair and pull his computer keyboard toward him. Looked like he’d be catching up on paperwork today. Or maybe sports scores online.
Frankie dropped the hose she’d been carrying. “I reserve the right to roll my eyes if any of these single teachers throw themselves at you three.”
I scoffed. “That’s not going to happen.” Of course I secretly hoped it would. If the teacher with the curls threw herself at me, I planned on catching her.
Frankie rolled her eyes, just as she’d reserved the right to. “Of course it is. It happens every time. Women see all of this and that”—she swung her hand to indicate first me, then Seth, then Doug—“they get hot and bothered.”
Seth chuckled. “Any flirting would be wasted on me. I’m taken.”
Frankie pointed a finger at him. “And don’t you forget it.”
Seth was in a committed relationship with Frankie’s roommate, Megan Luz, a K-9 handler with the Fort Worth Police Department. In fact, it was Seth who’d first suggested that Frankie consider firefighting as a career. Back then, Frankie had been working nights stocking groceries, trying to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. Seth’s suggestion had proven to be a good one, not only for Frankie, who’d found a job she loved, but for the department as well. Frankie was strong, fierce, and fearless, never hesitating when given an order. We always knew we could count on her.
I turned to the wall, crouched down, and began to unload my tools, laying them on the gym floor. The kids would be here soon and we needed to be ready. Too much downtime and the little boogers would get bored and restless and rowdy. Heck, I’d been the same way at that age, my attention span as short as the horrible haircuts my mother gave me at home with my dad’s clippers. My early school photographs were nothing short of embarrassing. Still, I had fond memories of elementary school. Especially my kindergarten teacher. She’d been exceptionally patient with “Meatball,” the chubby, clumsy, easily distracted boy I’d been back then. She was sweet, too. Back then I thought her sweetness was why she smelled like birthday cake. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that it had probably been some type of vanilla-scented lotion. What a hopeless crush I’d had on her. Looked like history was repeating itself now.
I smiled to myself and set out a door chock.