Chapter
Conversation over dinner was relatively bland and safe, and JFK made it through without embarrassing himself any further. Mostly he just stayed quiet. Once the program started, it was easier because everyone turned their focus to the podium. They showed a year-in-review video with short clips of firefighters talking about how heroic firefighters are, some video of training fires, and pictures of various crews on calls set to music.
The fire chief gave a rah-rah speech and then the awards started. Emily got the Medal of Action for showing up on a scene where a cyclist had gone through the windshield of a car. She had stabilized the scene and worked out an extrication plan before the first unit had even arrived, all while making sure the patient’s C-spine stayed inline to prevent further injury.
When she got back to the table, she pointed at JFK and said, “This one will be yours next year for your amazing Heimlich.”
JFK couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or not so he erred on the side of mockery. “Funny. You saved a guy from becoming a quadriplegic and ran a scene of like twenty firefighters. I protected a woman from ham.”
“I’m serious,” said Emily. “Your story got way more news coverage than mine did.”
“No,” said JFK, “I’m not the kind of guy who gets awards. Those are for the rest of you who look good with metal hanging on your uniform.”
“What’s that one for?” asked Mercy, pointing at the small red and white bar above his badge.
“My partner,” JFK sneered at Powers, “got himself trapped underneath a semi-truck and a ladder truck. So we all got awards.”
“You guys rescued him though?”
“Not really,” said JFK in all honesty. “The heavy rescue team did most of the work. This whole award ceremony is a lottery—the crew who happens to get the right call gets the award. The rest of us just come for beer and free food. I mean free food.”
Chief Thomkins, a battalion chief was at the podium, ready to present another award. It went to Engine 4, C Platoon for a fire they put out in a cabin.
As the engine crew walked back toward their table, which was right next to JFK’s crew’s table, Suarez, one of the Engine 4 C firefighters paused in front of JFK and held up his medal which matched JFK’s. “Out with the old, in with the new, sucker.”
JFK and Suarez had never really gotten along. “Oh, you did your job. Congratulations. You pulled a hose and sprayed water.”
“Like you guys did last year on the Powers call?” countered Suarez.
“Exactly. You did what any one of us would do in that situation.”
“What anyone would do a situation?” asked Suarez, his voice a little slurred. “Like pulling out a chair for your date?”
Oh great.
“Yeah, everyone in here saw that.”
“Shut up, Suarez. Mind your own business.” JFK turned back toward his table.
“Don’t cry about it, you big baby.”
That was too much. JFK shot out of his chair and came face to face with Suarez. Just like everyone had seen him leave Mercy hanging, half the room had seen Suarez try to establish dominance over JFK, and he couldn’t take that. He was mad enough to fight, and with so many people around it wouldn’t get far enough for anyone to get hurt too bad.
A hand wrapped around JFK’s and he looked down to see Mercy holding his hand and looking up at him. Had he done something else wrong? Shamed his date somehow simply by standing up for himself? She obviously didn’t want him to fight, but she didn’t give him any indication of what she did want him to do.
The entire evening had been a fail, ever since they left Mercy’s house.
JFK said quietly to her, “Is it alright if we leave?” A couple of awards still needed to be handed out, but JFK didn’t want to be there any longer.
“Sure,” said Mercy. She smiled at everyone around the table.
Dom started to stand but JFK didn’t want to be shown up any more so he awkwardly pulled Mercy’s chair out for her and somehow managed not to knock her over in the process. Instead of weaving through the tables, they went wide along the edges of the room and out into the reception lobby.
Walking out was bad enough, but walking out with a woman who was so far out of his league made it worse. Everyone in the room knew they were mismatched and he wouldn’t hear the end of it for years to come.
“Sorry about that,” said JFK slowing down so Mercy could catch up with him. He’d considered apologizing for everything specifically he’d done wrong all night, but he wasn’t even sure what that was. His first date with a super-attractive woman and he’d blown it in spectacular fashion.
Mercy just shrugged and they walked to the door in silence. He opened it and held it for her and she followed him out. At his truck this time he opened the door for her and she thanked him and climbed up. As he walked around to his side he realized he hadn’t helped her up or offered her a hand. Why did it have to be so complicated?
They started driving toward her place and she said, “Wasn’t Uncle Dom on a date with Emily when that bicyclist went through the window?”
“Yeah,” said JFK. “He probably should have gotten an award too, but we’re all about patting ourselves on the back. We’re the heroes. No one else.”
“Are you really going to get that award next year?”
“I don’t know. If I’m with the same crew, Quad C will probably nominate me, but if I have a different captain at the time, it can probably be kept quiet.”
She was watching him curiously and as streetlamps passed he caught glimpses of her and still couldn’t believe she’d gone out on an actual date with him. The fact that he’d messed everything up didn’t surprise him, but the fact that she was there with him at all was inconceivable. The woman of his dreams was sitting in his passenger seat, at least for the next five minutes or so.
“You really don’t care about that award do you? Or being on the news or any sort of recognition?”
JFK shrugged and tried to think of a reason why he would care. “What good is it?”
Mercy shrugged back at him. “Some people are motivated by that. Driven even.”
“Not me,” said JFK. “I don’t need a trophy room or a wall of plaques.” Any awards he got were lies anyway. JFK didn’t have any delusions of not being worthless. He hadn’t put the pin from the award last year on his uniform until Quad C had ordered him to.
Mercy asked, “So what does motivate you to be the hero and master chef that you are.”
“The chef part is easy,” he replied automatically, trying to keep the conversation from getting too serious. “I’m a fat kid, and I like to eat good food.” It was true that he did like to eat good food, but it wasn’t what drove him as a chef. He liked for other people to eat high quality food; it made them happy almost without fail.
“You’re pretty thoughtful over there,” said Mercy. “That’s not all of it, is it?”
JFK wasn’t going to open up and start telling her all of his cheesy feelings. He’d already looked like a big enough idiot in front of her.
But she was staring at him, and when he glanced over and caught a glimpse of her perfect face with that dark lipstick and the pointy little makeup on the edges of her eyes, and the tattoos that said she didn’t care what other people thought of her, he was powerless. He was a tape player and she’d just pushed Play.
“There’s a camaraderie around the fire station. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, or maybe you saw a little bit of it tonight. We put our lives in each other’s hands.” Where was he going with this? He should just shut up now. But his mouth opened and words just kept coming out. “That doesn’t happen naturally. It builds up through a thousand small experiences. I know they appreciate a quality meal that all six of us can gather around and spend family time together. On any given day, any one of us could phone-in dinner and throw a frozen lasagna in the oven, or dump a can of spaghetti sauce on top of overcooked noodles. I not only take the time, but I have the skill to give them a four-star experience even though we’re a bunch of dumb blue-collar guys. That means something.”
So much for not opening up. So much for trying to retain a shred of manliness. Sheesh.
“That’s not a lot different when it comes to sponsors in AA,” said Mercy. “Just because you exchange phone numbers doesn’t mean they can rely on you. It’s answering the daily phone call every single day. It’s remembering important sobriety benchmarks. It’s just listening and wishing you knew what to say. It’s praying for each them. All of that adds up. Throw some food in the mix and you augment the power of those thousand interactions.”
“It’s in our genes,” said JFK. “When I started culinary school we did a whole section on how food and providing food dates back to cavemen coming out of their caves.” That was really obvious and stupid. He was horrible at this deep conversation crap. And yet, his mouth just wouldn’t stop. “I just can’t bring myself to throw a can of chili in some generic mac and cheese and serve it to people I like. Not in the fire station. Not for the few surviving members of the Greatest Generation.”
He turned onto Mercy’s street. Her house would save him soon from the diarrhea of the mouth he was experiencing.
“What is it about that generation? You said something back in the kitchen about them.”
“Oh look, we’re here,” he said, putting his truck in park in her driveway.
Mercy ignored him and said, “I’ve always had a thing for World War II era movies, and costumes.” She lifted her arm and even in the dim light, he could see a classic Rosie the Riveter tattoo on the inside of her bicep. Her sleek, toned bicep. Again he was reminded of how incredibly hot she was, and he started sweating in his tight suit.
“That’s freaking cool,” he told her. “I have a B-52 right here.” He patted his right shoulder.
“Shut up, are you serious? Let me see it.”
He was not going to take off his shirt in front of her. “Some other time,” he said, considering turning it into another date, but for now he didn’t want to subject either of them to his ignoramus dating skills.
“Rosie is one of my faves,” said Mercy. “She was one of the first I ever got, and one I’ve never regretted.”
JFK wanted to ask if she’d had regrets about the other tattoos since she’d been in recovery or if they were part of her recovery, or if she’d ever thought about getting any of them removed. He wanted to talk about World War II and find out who her heroes were and what movies she liked from then. They were finally having a good time together and starting to connect.
It scared him. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m supposed to open your door, right?”
“Oh, okay, yeah.”
JFK climbed out and walked around to her side of the truck. As ridiculous as this silly custom seemed, it was satisfying to do it. Not unlike taking the time and effort to cook a good meal for someone. It was a little thing, but it was important. Hadn’t she said practically the exact same thing about manners? He was actually getting it. It wasn’t just a stupid waste of time and a patronizing system of complicated games between men and women. Man, he’d blown it with her tonight.
JFK paused with his hand on the door handle. He wanted to change and be different. Not for Mercy—he didn’t have a chance with her and didn’t think he ever had. It was because of her that he wanted to be a better person, to know how to treat a woman right, and it was because of her that he thought he might be able to actually pull it off. The thought of someone actually transforming their life and not just acting like they were going to change was so foreign to him. But she’d done it. He knew nothing about her dark past, but he knew that now she was someone he’d give anything to be around. Too bad he’d never have another chance with someone like Mercy. That would be enough to push him over the edge and make changes in his life for real.
He tried to open the door gently. He didn’t know if that was a thing or not, but it couldn’t hurt at this point. When it was all the way open, he held out a hand for her, but turned his head away to avoid seeing any parts of her amazing body she didn’t want him to see as she made her way out of the truck. Then he closed the door gently. Had he heard somewhere that that was a thing a gentleman was supposed to do, or was he just making it up?
“Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry things didn’t go better tonight.” There was a lot more that he was feeling about wanting to be better and wanting to change, but he kept it in. If it actually happened it would be for someone other than Mercy.
“I was enjoying our talk just now,” she said. “People aren’t always who they seem. You’d think I’d learn that by now.”
JFK put his hands in his pockets. There had been enough awkwardness for one night so he wasn’t about to walk her up to the door. Down to her door, actually.
“Yeah,” he said, unsure how respond or how to end the date.
“Yeah,” said Mercy, wrapping her bare arms around herself.
“Get inside before you freeze,” he told her. That was a gentleman thing to say, right? There was no reason for her to stand there and turn into a popsicle.
“You, uh, are supposed to walk me to the door.”
“Oh!” Dang it. Failed again. Just what he’d been trying to avoid. He started up the driveway and heard her coming up behind him. “Watch out, this spot right here looks a little slick.”
“Good thing I wore my boots with traction,” she answered.
A small porch light was on over her door and as Mercy came down the steps, JFK took the opportunity to admire the epic beauty who would—hopefully, possibly—inspire him to change his life.
“Let me, uh, open the door for you.” He reached for the handle and found it locked.
Mercy was holding up the keys.
“Am I supposed to unlock it for you, or do you got it?” Even though it made him look stupid, it was better to ask and offer right?
“I got it.” Mercy slid the key into the keyhole, and put some effort into it to get it to turn. Then she hit the latch and pushed the door open.
“Thanks, JFK,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said and hurried up the steps and back to his truck. As soon as he was out of eyesight he pulled off his uniform coat, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his shirt. It was about twenty degrees outside but he was burning up.
No matter what it took, he could never let himself fail that bad again. So it was either learn how to not be a social retard or give up on actually spending time with a real woman again.
Inside his truck, JFK pulled out his phone and texted Emily. He needed professional help. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Dom.