Friday, November 19:
Station 127
Johnny had a long talk with himself on the way to 127s. It was not a particularly pleasant conversation. The rain was pouring down in sheets by the time he pulled into the parking lot. He grabbed his paper sack, ducked out of the car and sprinted into the station.
Captain Walker, a trim man in his late 40's with a proud, military demeanor, was there to greet him. He had the opportunity to substitute for Captain Stanley a couple of summers ago and remembered being impressed with all the men. "Glad to have you here today, Gage." Captain Walker shook Johnny's hand firmly. He believed that a man's handshake revealed a lot about the person. He was aware of the events that led to Johnny's being temporarily assigned to 127's. Satisfied by the strength in Johnny's grip, he said, "We can always use a seasoned firefighter. Especially in bad weather like this." A gust of wind and rain bore witness to Captain Walker's words. "Do you know Mark Smith?" he asked, as a tall firefighter with closely cropped blond hair approached.
Johnny shook his head no. "Mark Smith, John Gage. John Gage, Mark Smith. Smith is one of the engineers." Captain Walker introduced the two men. "Smith, take Gage to the locker room and get him settled. Oh, and Gage?" Captain Walker turned back to Johnny. "As the last man in today, we've saved the honor of latrine duty for you." Captain Walker flashed a smile and chuckled as he turned to go to his office. He believed that latrine duty was also a good test of a man's mettle.
"Thanks, Cap." Johnny returned a weak smile before following Mark to the locker room.
"So, you usually work at 51's?" Mark fished for information about the new arrival.
"Uh, yeah." Johnny changed the subject. "How long have you been here?"
"About two months. Toby Barnes and I came from Idaho together." As they had arrived at the locker room, Mark indicated which one Johnny could use. "Come down the hall to the kitchen when you're done, and I'll show you around."
Johnny stowed his gear and started to change into his uniform. He began to button his shirt and then thought better of it. He took it back off and gazed at the paramedic insignia on the arm. 'I don't have any right to wear this.' He fished in the locker for his bandage scissors. Working carefully so as not to damage either the patch or the shirt, he clipped the threads and pulled the insignia free. A circle of blue just a shade darker than the rest of the shirt bore mute testimony to the ghost of Johnny's paramedic career. 'Won't be needing these scissors any more either.' He held the scissors in his hands for a moment. They felt so right. 'Should I throw them in the trash?' He wasn't ready to let go just yet. Johnny sighed and shoved both the insignia and the scissors into his locker, hurriedly finished dressing and then went in search of Mark in the kitchen.
Station 127 housed two engines and was staffed by a crew of eight, including the captain. Mark gave Johnny a quick tour of the station and then introduced him to rest of the crew.
Ioane Atuaia was a big man with broad shoulders. He was of Samoan-Chinese descent and had a ready smile and the open, friendly attitude common to many Polynesians. "Pleased to meet you, braddah. We have the same name. My name, Ioane, means 'John' in Samoan," he introduced himself with a grin.
Keith Roberts, an African American man whose hobby was bodybuilding, had worked with Johnny before. He was a serious, private man of few words, but he and Johnny had immediately hit it off nonetheless. He shook hands with Johnny. "Glad to see you again."
Steve Johnson, the other engineer, was a dark-haired, mustachioed man. Mark warned Johnny that Steve was the main practical joker of the station. Johnny would be riding on the engine with these first three men.
Toby Barnes, a big-boned, redheaded man with a florid complexion, wore his hair cropped short like a marine. He nodded curtly at Johnny, arms crossed against his chest. Hostility glittered in his eyes.
Manuel Esteves, a Mexican American man of medium build, reminded Johnny of Marco, sans mustache. His eyes bespoke a lively sense of humor. He welcomed Johnny with a warm handshake and a smile.
Mark was the engineer for the second rig; Captain Walker was the fourth man aboard her.
Tour and introductions complete, Mark led the way to the cleaning supply closet. Johnny gathered the brushes, rags, buckets and assorted cleansers needed for the task.
He tackled the chore energetically, glad to have something mindless and physical to occupy his time. "Damned cleanser," he muttered as his eyes began to water from the fumes. 'Chet would love this.' Johnny scrubbed vigorously at the tiles, determined to make this the cleanest latrine in L.A.
It was the lunch hour by the time he finished. True to the unwritten cosmic joke of the universe, as soon as the men sat down to eat they were toned out. "Battalion 10; Station 127. Assist with mudslide at Blackwater Canyon Road, nearest cross-street, Williamsburg. Time out 12:05."