Chapter 4

Chet: The Joke's on Me

Every guy graduating from the fire academy knew to expect some trickery during their probie year. A lot of us had relatives in the fire service, so we'd heard about the hazing we had coming to us. We all knew that it was just part of joining the brotherhood, and most of the time, it was all in good fun. I'd heard from one guy in my recruit class that he'd really been getting it bad, to the point that some of the pranks were dangerous, but luckily, everything the guys at my station pulled seemed to be pretty tame.

My cousin Jimmy had warned me about all the classics—like "get the left handed screwdriver," or "bring me the hose stretcher," and that sort of nonsense. My bunk had been the target of a whole slew of pranks. It had been short sheeted, floured, and remade with the box spring on top of the mattress. My car keys had been frozen overnight into a block of ice.

I'd fallen neatly for a request for the "ID10-T" form, which I searched for in the office, to no avail, until Captain Pelletier finally asked me what I was looking for. Cap chuckled quietly, but not unkindly, and then patiently helped me to work it out by making me write down the name of the form I'd been asked to find.

I grew up around engines of all sorts, so I hadn't fallen for being asked to find new spark plugs for the diesel engine. And when they asked me to order a non-existent part for a gas-powered generator, I knew I was being pranked, and got them right back by making a fake phone call and then telling guys the part would be in on Tuesday.

I'd been the victim of so many different kinds of water bombs that they hardly even registered any more. Well, except for the time they dumped a trash can full of ice water over the top of the shower stall as soon as I shut the water off. That got my attention.

I had to admit that sewing all my pants pockets shut was one that I hadn't heard of. Someone must've come in pretty early to pull that one off.

But the best one, by far, happened on the next-to-last shift as a probie. I knew something was coming, since it'd been a couple shifts since the last prank. But I'd foolishly been expecting it to happen on the very last shift where I'd be wearing the orange helmet. Part of me was hoping they'd just run out of ideas, or had gotten bored with the whole thing. But that part of me got a good talking-to from the rational side of my brain.

We had one guy in our station who would sometimes sleep through the tones, so I knew it was possible. I just didn't think it would ever happen to me. So when it did, and I was awoken by Bill Edwards, already in his bunker pants and boots, shaking me wildly by my shoulder, I was horrified.

"C'mon, Probie! You slept through the tones!"

"Huh?"

I sat up, and I could hear the diesel engine chugging away in the bay. Man, Cap would be pissed if I held them up. I shoved my feet into my boots—but it didn't work. I got my foot halfway down into the boot when I realized I must've set everything down backwards by the side of my bunk, because I was trying to cram my toes into the heels of my boots.

Edwards stood by the door of the dorms, waving frantically. "Hurry the fuck up, you moron! Everyone's waiting!"

I quickly turned the whole bundle around, and was able to easily slip my feet into the boots this time. Whew.

I pulled the pants up, but something was wrong again—I couldn't get hold of the fastener at the front of the pants for some reason.

Because I had them on backwards.

My sleep-fogged mind decided I must've somehow gotten my boots tucked backwards into my pants. It couldn't be a prank; everyone knew better than to do something that would potentially affect our speed to a fire call.

Edwards was shouting at me now. "Jesus Christ! Just pull the suspenders up, and get moving!"

I did as he said—I could just get the pants up, but there was no way I was ever going to be able to fasten them. Oh well—the suspenders would take care of that. It wouldn't be comfortable, or pretty, but I'd survive.

I dashed out into the bay, where everyone was else had already taken their seats in the cab.

Cap was twisted around in his seat to see what the hell had taken me so long. "Kelly! You're backwards!" he shouted. "Never mind—just get the rest of your gear on. It's only a dumpster. Probably will have burned itself out by the time we get there, if we ever do at this rate."

Munson, the engineer, turned around to look, and guffawed at the sight of me dressed up backwards. The other guys were practically on the floor of the cab. I just ignored them and threw my coat on.

I got my right arm through the sleeve, and sat down in my seat while I got my left arm into the sleeve. I couldn't get my hand through the sleeve—it was twisted, or … shit. It was sewn shut. That was really pushing it, I thought. We had a call to go to, and this was holding us all up.

"Very funny, guys, but we're kind of in a hurry here." Snorts of laughter emerged from all around me as I punched my arm through the flimsy stitching, as the engine started rolling out of the bay. I grabbed my bright orange helmet from its place on the floor of the cab, and jammed it down onto my head, sure there would be something in it. I sighed in relief as it settled onto my head, and nothing dripped down my face.

The engine rolled down the street, and lurched uncharacteristically as Munson took the corner a little hard. I realized then that my helmet strap was loose, so I gave it a tug to tighten it up a bit.

That was when the chocolate syrup poured down my face.

The three other guys in the back of the cab were howling with laughter. Edwards was literally on the floor, clutching his midsection as he laughed hysterically.

The engine took another quick right, and there we were, at our destination—the back parking lot of our station. Where our dumpster had a fake paper-and-paint fire taped to its open lid.

A fake call. I realized, finally, that I hadn't in fact slept through the tones. And that I hadn't somehow managed to tuck my boots into my bunker pants backwards—someone had managed that for me.

I took off my sticky helmet, and saw the plastic bag tucked above the webbing that's the only part of the helmet that actually sits on your head. I could see the string that went from the strap to a piece of tape that had once sealed the bag.

"C'mon, Probie—let's get you the hell out of my fire engine before you get it all sticky," Captain Pelletier said, wiping the tears of laughter away from his eyes.

"Nice job, guys. You really got me good," I said. There was really nothing else to be said—it was a fabulous prank, and they caught me every step of the way.

"Go on, get in the shower," Cap said, as we pulled through the bay.

As I showered, I wondered what they had up their collective sleeves for my last shift as a probie. Time would tell—and not all that much time, either, since we only had one day off. Whatever it was, it would have to be pretty good to top this one. Which was definitely going straight into the notebook of tricks I was keeping, just in case I ever had occasion to use them on someone deserving. A probie of my own, maybe, in a few years, or just some guy who really gave good reactions. Those were the best, I imagined—the guys who were just a teensy bit high strung, but wouldn't totally fall to pieces if they got pranked.

I made the shower as quick as possible, to try to avoid any mishaps. They'd done the ice water trick already, as well as the bag of flour tossed in while I was still soaking wet. I didn't see any shadowy figures through the frosted door of the shower stall, so I thought I might just be safe.

I got dressed quickly, and was a bit worried by how quiet the station seemed. They surely had something else planned—because quiet was just wrong at a firehouse, except in the dead of night. I thought for a moment I could hear something like a hairdryer, but it wasn't coming from the locker room, and nobody else had been in the shower, anyhow, so I was at a loss.

I could smell some kind of solvent as I came out of the locker room—paint? They wouldn't use something that nasty on me. Maybe Munson was touching up a ding or something. I headed into the day room, and stopped short when I got to the open door.

My turnout coat, cleaned of all traces of chocolate syrup, was hanging neatly over the chair at the head of the table. My name, stenciled on the back of the coat, had been touched up neatly, with fresh black paint. And on the table, in front of the chair, was a brand new black helmet.

I didn't want to get any closer—I still had another shift to go as a probie, so this had to be part of another trick.

"No tricks, Kelly." I jumped at Captain Pelletier's voice.

I turned around, and all the guys were standing behind me in the bay, smiling at me, like they meant it.

"But—" I said, almost not wanting to finish my sentence. "But I still have one more shift to go."

"No, you don't," said Cap. "We captains get a little leeway for these things. I signed you off at the end of your last shift. Your official paperwork is sitting on my desk, right now, waiting for you to sign it. And as for your first assignment—you're staying right here. Everyone requested it. And the tricks are over."

"At least for a little while," Edwards added.

"I said," Cap repeated firmly, "the tricks are over. Got it? I need a break, all right?"

"Aw, I was just kidding, Cap," said Edwards. "Go on, Kelly—put your gear on your rack. I swear—we didn't do anything to it. We even dried the paint, so it won't smudge or anything."

I quietly picked up my coat, and my new black helmet. As I placed everything on my gear rack, the bay filled with applause. Each guy shook my hand—no buzzers or anything, even. Edwards slapped me on the back so hard I nearly fell down, and Munson, the one guy who was as short as I was, grabbed me in a bear hug.

"Welcome home, Firefighter Kelly," said Captain Pelletier. "We're proud to have you as our brother."

A/N: I can't take credit for inventing any of these pranks. They're all oldies but goodies, including the fake call.