I used to live adjacent to a fire house (specifically, Ladder 11/Engine 28). The proximity led to a fairly intimate knowledge of some aspects of the vocation of firefighting. I learned quickly that the circular saws, presumably used to gain entry and clear paths, need to be tested several times daily. It didn’t take long to deduce the logic of this: given their use, it’s the kind of equipment you want in top shape. More mundane things, such as the subtle and precise hierarchy involved in washing a fire truck, were also revealed. And, best of all, provided you didn’t lock your windows, retrieving keys left in the apartment didn’t cost you $50.
Mostly, though, you learn just how often they go on a run. Runs can be necessitated by a variety of events. Long ago, in another building, a burst steam valve filled my entire building hallway (four stories), and I was vaguely worried about the danger presented; I called the non-emergency number, and, on answering the phone, a voice demanded “Where is the fire”? I stammered a little and tried to qualify that there wasn’t any, or even, I thought, the possibility of one. But I gave my address, and about 240 seconds later there were three burly, fully geared-up firefighters staring laconically at me and the spurting radiator. But they had a wrench that shut it down, and they marched off.
Armed with this knowledge, and a promise from the current tenant that you “didn’t notice it after a while” I took the new apartment. And, after a few months, every visitor I had would ask me awkwardly and with a little trepidation once they had spent some time in the apartment, “Uh, it is always like this?” I would smile, ask “the fire trucks?” and they would nod, a little incredulously, when I said “I couldn’t really tell you; I don’t hear it.” And that’s the honest truth, even though, when they pulled out, it was like an ambulance driving through the living room. They were as respectful as one could be about the situation, waiting until the end of block to fire up the siren, but you also learn about how shitty and selfish New York drivers are, so there was plenty of blaring from the door out. But, my best guess is, between the two companies, they did six, eight calls an hour. Day in and out, night and day.
What I never saw, and I don’t think they did much either, was a real fire. This is statistically true and actually a big training concern: until 9/11 a larger percentage of firefighters never dealt with a live structure fire in their careers than ever before. Of course living next to the fire house doesn’t causally lead to seeing a fire.
So I was surprised yesterday, walking down Seventh Avenue, to see smoke billowing. Having called in a trashcan fire (which no one seemed to notice or care about) in that neighborhood before, I went the extra block to investigate and gawk. It was one of those ‘Access-a-Ride’ vans parked in front of the Bates Building spewing actual flame from the engine compartment. Amazingly, people were walking by it on the sidewalk. Police were starting to tighten up traffic, but in the absurd order of operations, the wailing sirens a block off stayed there, since no traffic was moving. And pedestrians continued to walk unfettered as the police were focused on trying to get the equipment in range. An amazing theater of danger and casual concern overlaid on the density of a New York lunch hour.
The end was professional and anticlimactic. Just as all the film debunking sites indicate, a flaming vehicle almost never explodes, and the flames were even tapering when the truck arrived. Two men, a chemical extinguisher, one hose, and long spear-like device to poke and pull at the fenders and hood and such. A big spray of the extinguisher, some water, a lot of white, dense smoke, and it was over. Over enough. A meeting to make, I walked off, marveling as much at the studied casualness of passersby (or astounding self-interest that obviated noticing) as the efficient professionalism of the Bravest.
Much later, watching Die Hardest after coming home from an evening in Brooklyn, I wondered idly about the odd premonitory tendencies of Bruce Willis films (that and The Siege, not the latter has come true in any meaningful way, but there are uncomfortable precursors). Of course that could be said for a number of films or other remnants of fictional culture. But in the midst of this, I smelt what, were I speaking to a friend who was here at the time, I would characterize as ‘WTC’. You remember: it was that sickly burning plastic smell that lingered for months and months. In the air from the still-burning remnants, in dust in the apartments, in our minds. My friend had to leave, and would ask periodically if or when it changed, or improved. I remember for some time thinking it would never go away. So I’m watching the scene in Die Hardest where business attire-clad actors stream from a fake Wall Street Station billowing smoke and the memory is so strong that I wonder if perhaps something is actually burning (and perhaps even don’t move out of denial that I don’t want to know, whatever it is). Finally, thinking it time for sleep, and with enough certainty that it isn’t sense memory, I go to window to discover a tidy fire consisting of about 15 recycling bags on the sidewalk burning briskly. A truck is traveling down an adjacent street, and the scene repeats itself. A hose, a careful assessment that would pass for laziness on the part of the person not watching closely, a burst of water, a poke with the spear. About 60 seconds start to finish, but with the somewhat alarming visual of flames a good six feet in the air (I realize after the fact that there were about 15 feet from my car) it seems to unfold more slowly.
I walk off to bed, before they even pack up, wondering who will clean the mess on the sidewalk, and it occurs to me this is the second fire I have seen this day, a full double the number witnessed in the rest of my life. The latter, at 4:15, and the random thoughts that accompanied it, do not strike me as an odd confluence (even after having seen satellite trucks lining West Street earlier in the evening) until I wake this morning. I don’t believe much in fate or other forms of cosmic alignment, but one not need to have reason to stop and offer a remembrance to their brothers and the families of my former neighbors at Engine 26: Captain Thomas Farino, Firefighter Dana Hannon and Firefighter Robert Spear Jr. And to the brothers and families of my former neighbors at Ladder 11: Lieutenant Michael Quilty, Firefighter Michael Cammarata, Firefighter Edward Day, Firefighter John Heffernan, Firefighter Richard Kelly Jr., and Firefighter Matthew Rogan.
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They were not my friends, but they were my neighbors.
I used to live adjacent to a fire house (specifically, Ladder 11/Engine 28). The proximity led to a fairly intimate knowledge of some aspects of the vocation of firefighting. I learned quickly that the circular saws, presumably used to gain entry and clear paths, need to be tested several times daily. It didn’t take long to deduce the logic of this: given their use, it’s the kind of equipment you want in top shape. More mundane things, such as the subtle and precise hierarchy involved in washing a fire truck, were also revealed. And, best of all, provided you didn’t lock your windows, retrieving keys left in the apartment didn’t cost you $50.
Mostly, though, you learn just how often they go on a run. Runs can be necessitated by a variety of events. Long ago, in another building, a burst steam valve filled my entire building hallway (four stories), and I was vaguely worried about the danger presented; I called the non-emergency number, and, on answering the phone, a voice demanded “Where is the fire”? I stammered a little and tried to qualify that there wasn’t any, or even, I thought, the possibility of one. But I gave my address, and about 240 seconds later there were three burly, fully geared-up firefighters staring laconically at me and the spurting radiator. But they had a wrench that shut it down, and they marched off. Armed with this knowledge, and a promise from the current tenant that you “didn’t notice it after a while” I took the new apartment. And, after a few months, every visitor I had would ask me awkwardly and with a little trepidation once they had spent some time in the apartment, “Uh, it is always like this?” I would smile, ask “the fire trucks?” and they would nod, a little incredulously, when I said “I couldn’t really tell you; I don’t hear it.” And that’s the honest truth, even though, when they pulled out, it was like an ambulance driving through the living room. They were as respectful as one could be about the situation, waiting until the end of block to fire up the siren, but you also learn about how shitty and selfish New York drivers are, so there was plenty of blaring from the door out. But, my best guess is, between the two companies, they did six, eight calls an hour. Day in and out, night and day. What I never saw, and I don’t think they did much either, was a real fire. This is statistically true and actually a big training concern: until 9/11 a larger percentage of firefighters never dealt with a live structure fire in their careers than ever before. Of course living next to the fire house doesn’t causally lead to seeing a fire. So I was surprised yesterday, walking down Seventh Avenue, to see smoke billowing. Having called in a trashcan fire (which no one seemed to notice or care about) in that neighborhood before, I went the extra block to investigate and gawk. It was one of those ‘Access-a-Ride’ vans parked in front of the Bates Building spewing actual flame from the engine compartment. Amazingly, people were walking by it on the sidewalk. Police were starting to tighten up traffic, but in the absurd order of operations, the wailing sirens a block off stayed there, since no traffic was moving. And pedestrians continued to walk unfettered as the police were focused on trying to get the equipment in range. An amazing theater of danger and casual concern overlaid on the density of a New York lunch hour. The end was professional and anticlimactic. Just as all the film debunking sites indicate, a flaming vehicle almost never explodes, and the flames were even tapering when the truck arrived. Two men, a chemical extinguisher, one hose, and long spear-like device to poke and pull at the fenders and hood and such. A big spray of the extinguisher, some water, a lot of white, dense smoke, and it was over. Over enough. A meeting to make, I walked off, marveling as much at the studied casualness of passersby (or astounding self-interest that obviated noticing) as the efficient professionalism of the Bravest. Much later, watching Die Hardest after coming home from an evening in Brooklyn, I wondered idly about the odd premonitory tendencies of Bruce Willis films (that and The Siege, not the latter has come true in any meaningful way, but there are uncomfortable precursors). Of course that could be said for a number of films or other remnants of fictional culture. But in the midst of this, I smelt what, were I speaking to a friend who was here at the time, I would characterize as ‘WTC’. You remember: it was that sickly burning plastic smell that lingered for months and months. In the air from the still-burning remnants, in dust in the apartments, in our minds. My friend had to leave, and would ask periodically if or when it changed, or improved. I remember for some time thinking it would never go away. So I’m watching the scene in Die Hardest where business attire-clad actors stream from a fake Wall Street Station billowing smoke and the memory is so strong that I wonder if perhaps something is actually burning (and perhaps even don’t move out of denial that I don’t want to know, whatever it is). Finally, thinking it time for sleep, and with enough certainty that it isn’t sense memory, I go to window to discover a tidy fire consisting of about 15 recycling bags on the sidewalk burning briskly. A truck is traveling down an adjacent street, and the scene repeats itself. A hose, a careful assessment that would pass for laziness on the part of the person not watching closely, a burst of water, a poke with the spear. About 60 seconds start to finish, but with the somewhat alarming visual of flames a good six feet in the air (I realize after the fact that there were about 15 feet from my car) it seems to unfold more slowly. I walk off to bed, before they even pack up, wondering who will clean the mess on the sidewalk, and it occurs to me this is the second fire I have seen this day, a full double the number witnessed in the rest of my life. The latter, at 4:15, and the random thoughts that accompanied it, do not strike me as an odd confluence (even after having seen satellite trucks lining West Street earlier in the evening) until I wake this morning. I don’t believe much in fate or other forms of cosmic alignment, but one not need to have reason to stop and offer a remembrance to their brothers and the families of my former neighbors at Engine 26: Captain Thomas Farino, Firefighter Dana Hannon and Firefighter Robert Spear Jr. And to the brothers and families of my former neighbors at Ladder 11: Lieutenant Michael Quilty, Firefighter Michael Cammarata, Firefighter Edward Day, Firefighter John Heffernan, Firefighter Richard Kelly Jr., and Firefighter Matthew Rogan.