than a broke-dick dog, because she closed the distance between us and kissed me on each cheek, my forehead, and the tip of my nose. “Don’t take everything so seriously. You really need to lighten up, sweetie. Anybody ever tell you that? Look, I’m in between phones now and we’ve got workmen in the house all day, so you don’t want to show up there. You really don’t.”
“Okay.”
“You
do
want to see me again?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I watched her drive away in a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser that cost easily twice what my car had.
After that we saw each other several times a week, and each time she left me feeling physically trashed and mentally bewildered. She quickly became verbally abusive, which I ascribed to her personality, assuming she was like that with all men. Perhaps because of the age difference, I tolerated it. As the number of our meetings increased, the manner of our first sexual encounter in the basement of Station 29 receded further from my thoughts and more into the forefront of hers. She never tired of talking about it, using the story almost as an aphrodisiac at each of our liaisons. It seemed to be the high point of her autumn, that evening in the station.
We fell into a disturbing pattern.
She showed up unannounced, parked out of sight around the corner on the potholed side street, blew in as if I were expecting her, and within minutes swept me into the bedroom, where we tore each other’s clothes off and went at it. After a while we started having sex on the sofa, on the floor, in the shower, or parked in her Land Cruiser in various locations around West Seattle. She was as randy as I was. She’d show up at lunchtime, or midafternoon. Only once did she arrive after supper.
When I suggested we take in a movie or go out to eat, she invariably declined. What she wanted was sex, pure and simple, and she made no bones about it. She called me her
boy toy,
her
little fireman,
and
the nonstop sex machine.
I didn’t much care for the way our relationship was evolving, but her visits were spaced far enough apart that any notions I had about talking her into a real date dissolved by the time she showed up: DSB. Tronstad called it the perfect setup, sex with no entanglements. “Unload your nut sack without having to take her out in public.” Aside from him and Johnson, I told no one.
We never discussed the fire or the deaths, and I hardly thought it possible she didn’t know about them, yet she didn’t seem to.
A week after Arch Place, the battalion held a post-fire review, where talk circulated among the troops that I deserved an award for dragging the two civilians out. Chief Abbott dismissed the idea out of hand, creating general outrage, but I told everyone I didn’t want an award. What I wanted was to replay that night and get it right. Probably because it was heartfelt, the sentiment endeared me to all who heard it.
7. CADAVER IN THE CAT HOUSE
CHARLES SCOTT GHANET was one of our regular customers, a man every firefighter in the station knew by name. In fact, at 29’s we didn’t even call him
Ghanet
but referred to him less than affectionately as Charles Scott.
Typically he called 911 somewhere between two and five A.M .
Our crew believed his complaints were mostly fictitious, that he called because he was a hypochondriac and because he was lonely. Viewed in one light, he was sadder than a lost orphan in a bus station. On the other hand, getting up at three in the morning because some clown needed a warm body to talk to got old fast.
Ghanet, who was sixty-eight but looked younger, routinely complained of stomach ailments, headaches, and pains in his joints and had several times hinted that he might commit suicide, a theme he abandoned after he was told the SPD automatically responded to suicide threats.
Despite our mixed feelings—and the fact that his house reeked of cats—we tried to treat Ghanet with the same courtesy and
“Okay.”
“You
do
want to see me again?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I watched her drive away in a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser that cost easily twice what my car had.
After that we saw each other several times a week, and each time she left me feeling physically trashed and mentally bewildered. She quickly became verbally abusive, which I ascribed to her personality, assuming she was like that with all men. Perhaps because of the age difference, I tolerated it. As the number of our meetings increased, the manner of our first sexual encounter in the basement of Station 29 receded further from my thoughts and more into the forefront of hers. She never tired of talking about it, using the story almost as an aphrodisiac at each of our liaisons. It seemed to be the high point of her autumn, that evening in the station.
We fell into a disturbing pattern.
She showed up unannounced, parked out of sight around the corner on the potholed side street, blew in as if I were expecting her, and within minutes swept me into the bedroom, where we tore each other’s clothes off and went at it. After a while we started having sex on the sofa, on the floor, in the shower, or parked in her Land Cruiser in various locations around West Seattle. She was as randy as I was. She’d show up at lunchtime, or midafternoon. Only once did she arrive after supper.
When I suggested we take in a movie or go out to eat, she invariably declined. What she wanted was sex, pure and simple, and she made no bones about it. She called me her
boy toy,
her
little fireman,
and
the nonstop sex machine.
I didn’t much care for the way our relationship was evolving, but her visits were spaced far enough apart that any notions I had about talking her into a real date dissolved by the time she showed up: DSB. Tronstad called it the perfect setup, sex with no entanglements. “Unload your nut sack without having to take her out in public.” Aside from him and Johnson, I told no one.
We never discussed the fire or the deaths, and I hardly thought it possible she didn’t know about them, yet she didn’t seem to.
A week after Arch Place, the battalion held a post-fire review, where talk circulated among the troops that I deserved an award for dragging the two civilians out. Chief Abbott dismissed the idea out of hand, creating general outrage, but I told everyone I didn’t want an award. What I wanted was to replay that night and get it right. Probably because it was heartfelt, the sentiment endeared me to all who heard it.
7. CADAVER IN THE CAT HOUSE
CHARLES SCOTT GHANET was one of our regular customers, a man every firefighter in the station knew by name. In fact, at 29’s we didn’t even call him
Ghanet
but referred to him less than affectionately as Charles Scott.
Typically he called 911 somewhere between two and five A.M .
Our crew believed his complaints were mostly fictitious, that he called because he was a hypochondriac and because he was lonely. Viewed in one light, he was sadder than a lost orphan in a bus station. On the other hand, getting up at three in the morning because some clown needed a warm body to talk to got old fast.
Ghanet, who was sixty-eight but looked younger, routinely complained of stomach ailments, headaches, and pains in his joints and had several times hinted that he might commit suicide, a theme he abandoned after he was told the SPD automatically responded to suicide threats.
Despite our mixed feelings—and the fact that his house reeked of cats—we tried to treat Ghanet with the same courtesy and
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