five miles each day. He’s also an excellent folk guitarist. Like Royce, he doesn’t say much, but he is quick to laugh
at the jokes that fly so often through the firehouse air.
As we roll up Intervale Avenue, I see Benny Carroll riding on the side step of the pumper. Along with Carmine and me, this
is his second night of duty. He looks a little tired—like he didn’t get any rest today. He is studying hard for the coming
lieutenant’s test, maybe four or five hours a day. Hundreds of facts about building laws, chemical formulas, personnel management,
fire intensity, and department regulations were floating through his head as I slept calmly on my mother’s couch. He is a
handsome guy with perfect white teeth, and when he smiles I always think of a toothpaste commercial.
We are now going up Wilkens Avenue. I remember going up this street one night recently. I was riding on the side step where
Benny is now. A kid threw a rock, and everything turned black. I was hit in the middle of the eye, and my knees buckled. My
grip on the handrail tightened, as it tightens now. Some little kid who was never taught any better threw a rock, and I remember
now how lucky I was to have had a grip on the handrail.
The pumper turns up 170th Street. Ladder 31 is right behind us, and the sirens and air horns are wailing. Few people even
tum to watch us go by. Screaming fire engines and police cars are part of life in the South Bronx, just sounds to which people
have adjusted.
There are three men sitting on milk boxes near the alarm box drinking from cans of beer wrapped in small brown paper bags.
Jim Stack and I walk up either side of Charlotte Street looking for smoke or waving people. We have done this a thousand other
times, and it seems now to be a dumb ritual.
The three men are disinterested, and talk among themselves. Captain Albergray looks around and goes to rewind the alarm box.
I walk over and ask the men if they saw anyone pull the box. One man, without looking at me, said, “Yeah, a kid. He went up
the street.”
“I guess you didn’t think of grabbing him,” I said.
“That’s not my job, man,” he said.
I would like to tell this guy about Mike Carr, and about the letter the President sent to his widow. But I know that he doesn’t
care. He doesn’t want to hear it.
Bill Valenzio yells from the driver’s seat of the pumper, “Hey, we got another run.”
The siren and air hom begin to wail again as the pumper turns down 170th Street. I can see the radio at Captain Al-bergray’s
ear. We don’t know where we are going, but we know that a box has been pulled somewhere.
The pumper turns up Freeman Street and we can see a lot of smoke on Stebbins Avenue. It is an abandoned Pontiac convertible,
about a year old. The flames are shooting ten feet above the car. We don’t have to hook up to a water hydrant because the
pumper has a 275-gallon water tank for small fires like this. I pull off the small, one-inch booster hose that is already
connected to the tank. The water spurts and I direct the stream behind the rear wheel. The gas tank must be cooled off to
keep it from blowing. I’ve only seen one gas tank blow since I have been a fireman, and that one sent a guy to the hospital.
As I extinguish the rest of the fire, the men of Ladder 31 open the doors, the hood, and the trunk. The trunk is empty. The
block and the radiator are all that is left under the hood. The car is sitting on wooden crates, the tires and rims gone.
There are no license plates. The guy who owned it will never find out what happened to it. It must have given someone a few
hours of joy riding, and whoever got the tires must be twenty dollars richer. We extinguish four or five of these fires every
day.
It is 6:30 P.M. as the pumper backs into quarters. As I walk to the kitchen to attempt another cup of coffee, Bill Valenzio pulls a hose
to refill the booster tank. It means a lot of extra work
at the jokes that fly so often through the firehouse air.
As we roll up Intervale Avenue, I see Benny Carroll riding on the side step of the pumper. Along with Carmine and me, this
is his second night of duty. He looks a little tired—like he didn’t get any rest today. He is studying hard for the coming
lieutenant’s test, maybe four or five hours a day. Hundreds of facts about building laws, chemical formulas, personnel management,
fire intensity, and department regulations were floating through his head as I slept calmly on my mother’s couch. He is a
handsome guy with perfect white teeth, and when he smiles I always think of a toothpaste commercial.
We are now going up Wilkens Avenue. I remember going up this street one night recently. I was riding on the side step where
Benny is now. A kid threw a rock, and everything turned black. I was hit in the middle of the eye, and my knees buckled. My
grip on the handrail tightened, as it tightens now. Some little kid who was never taught any better threw a rock, and I remember
now how lucky I was to have had a grip on the handrail.
The pumper turns up 170th Street. Ladder 31 is right behind us, and the sirens and air horns are wailing. Few people even
tum to watch us go by. Screaming fire engines and police cars are part of life in the South Bronx, just sounds to which people
have adjusted.
There are three men sitting on milk boxes near the alarm box drinking from cans of beer wrapped in small brown paper bags.
Jim Stack and I walk up either side of Charlotte Street looking for smoke or waving people. We have done this a thousand other
times, and it seems now to be a dumb ritual.
The three men are disinterested, and talk among themselves. Captain Albergray looks around and goes to rewind the alarm box.
I walk over and ask the men if they saw anyone pull the box. One man, without looking at me, said, “Yeah, a kid. He went up
the street.”
“I guess you didn’t think of grabbing him,” I said.
“That’s not my job, man,” he said.
I would like to tell this guy about Mike Carr, and about the letter the President sent to his widow. But I know that he doesn’t
care. He doesn’t want to hear it.
Bill Valenzio yells from the driver’s seat of the pumper, “Hey, we got another run.”
The siren and air hom begin to wail again as the pumper turns down 170th Street. I can see the radio at Captain Al-bergray’s
ear. We don’t know where we are going, but we know that a box has been pulled somewhere.
The pumper turns up Freeman Street and we can see a lot of smoke on Stebbins Avenue. It is an abandoned Pontiac convertible,
about a year old. The flames are shooting ten feet above the car. We don’t have to hook up to a water hydrant because the
pumper has a 275-gallon water tank for small fires like this. I pull off the small, one-inch booster hose that is already
connected to the tank. The water spurts and I direct the stream behind the rear wheel. The gas tank must be cooled off to
keep it from blowing. I’ve only seen one gas tank blow since I have been a fireman, and that one sent a guy to the hospital.
As I extinguish the rest of the fire, the men of Ladder 31 open the doors, the hood, and the trunk. The trunk is empty. The
block and the radiator are all that is left under the hood. The car is sitting on wooden crates, the tires and rims gone.
There are no license plates. The guy who owned it will never find out what happened to it. It must have given someone a few
hours of joy riding, and whoever got the tires must be twenty dollars richer. We extinguish four or five of these fires every
day.
It is 6:30 P.M. as the pumper backs into quarters. As I walk to the kitchen to attempt another cup of coffee, Bill Valenzio pulls a hose
to refill the booster tank. It means a lot of extra work
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