By Brandon Lingle
“Old lady’s dead in the tub. Always find ’em in the tub,” mumbled chief as I shuffled into the half-burnt single-story. Debris crunched under my turnout boots, and I focused on the blue beyond the beams. Steam bled from blackened two-by-fours, and water drops pattered my coat. The smell of bar-b-que and garbage rode the air. I was a volunteer. This was my first fire, and I was on mop-up—the heroes already departed. I felt strong and awkward with the gear, and wondered if the smoke and sirens would ever feel routine. With a slow motion swing, I knocked a glowing ember from a door frame with the drop-forged alloy Halligan—a combo pry bar, claw, adze, club, and pick—the tangible result of the training mantra “Never go without a tool.”
An old-timer at the Texas A&M Fire School—just miles from George Bush’s library and the deadly bonfire collapse—said “Never know when you’ll need to get your ass in or out!” At thirty inches and twelve pounds, the Halligan felt balanced, hefty, and useful, but somehow inadequate. Invented in the ’40s by New York fire chief, Irishman Hugh Halligan, firefighters use the tool to punch locks, pry doors, pull walls, pound beams, lift furniture, snap chains, bust windows, shut off gas, and provide footholds, to name a few. Halligan showed it to the fire commissioner who said “you can do anything with this tool,” and every truck in New York still carries one.
A few months before, I visited the local volunteer fire house with my oldest boy’s Scout pack, and realized the potential for a part-time escape from the office doldrums. My daytime desk job made me miserable, but I couldn’t quit since I had a pregnant wife and three kids to support. I applied with the suburban San Antonio department, and told them I’d wanted to be a firefighter since I was five. The crew vouched me in, and trained me to be a member of a station that didn’t even cover my neighborhood. My wife asked me why, and I didn’t have an answer. I spoke of civic duty, but a rush of lights, hoses, and hydraulics roiled inside.
A singe ran down my spine when the chief mentioned the body. In the cubicle, I never had to deal with the dead. Half of me wanted escape, but the other half yearned to look. “You should see your face,” he said. “I’m screwing with you. Everyone got out.” I felt my shoulders relax, smiled, and my knuckles whitened on the Halligan.
“Started here. Oxygen machine,” he said pointing to a bulbous heap of plastic near a skeletal nightstand. “Granny was smoking Kools on her O’s.” A humid breeze snuck in a broken window. Melted glass hung limp across the window frame in icicle strands. “Grandkids were Xboxing when they smelled smoke. Grandma ran out—arms burned.” Cylindrical candle glasses—fogged and free from their images of Christ and the Virgin Mary—lay scattered about a torched dresser.
“Where’s mom and dad?” I asked.
“That’s the kicker,” chief said. “It’s their honeymoon.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Honeymooning on Lake Travis,” he said. “This is his house, and those are his kids. Grandma is his bride’s mom, and she moved in a couple days ago. I told him his kids were safe at his ex’s, his new mother-in-law stable at Baptist, and half his house burned down.”
“How’d he take it?”
“How do you think?” he replied. “You keep an eye on things, and take off in an hour or so.”
With that the chief moseyed out and across the crab-grassed yard to his SUV. He tossed his helmet onto the passenger seat, pawed a snuffed stogie from a shirt pocket, re-lit it with a Zippo, and drove off.
Inside the gutted ’60s track home I heard the drone of cicadas and I-25 traffic in the mosquito air. The house’s unburned half bore the opposite of flood damage—a soot-colored tinge from ceiling to waist.
In the backyard, a keg floated in a garbage can, and plastic chairs littered the lawn. While exploring the dim kitchen a diesel F-250 rumbled into the cul-de-sac—maroon, white stripes, camper shell, winch, and Tracker bass boat. The rig pulled up the drive. I hadn’t expected this, figured they’d hit the hospital before diving into the wreckage. I stood by the house’s darkened front door as the 250’s door flung open.
“That fucking bitch,” shouted the driver, a 200-pounder sporting cargo shorts, Oakley’s, and an Astros cap.
“Fuck that fucking bitch. God damn it!”
He pummeled the truck’s hood with a fist, and stormed toward me as if I was invisible. He open-palmed the brick façade, and stomped around the remains.
The sun-burnt bride sat in the truck, head in hands. Straight blonde hair hid her face. Her neon green tank top only amplified the burn. I slinked over to Engine 3—the brush truck, a Ford pickup with Darley 250 gallon per minute pump—and reeled the trash line. I wanted to speak to the bride, reassure her that her mom should be okay. Instead I double-checked pump controls, and fiddled with the radio handset. Shouts and dull thuds leaked from the house. Eventually, the groom emerged… his white Bass Pro Shops tee stained as if he wrestled a 40-pound bag of Kingsford. He was pacing his front yard when I approached unsure of what to say.
“Sorry about your place… I’m heading out. Need anything?” I asked.
“No.”
“There may be hot spots. Call if anything flares up,” I said surprised that I didn’t trip on the words.
As I unlatched the compartment above the driver’s-side rear wheel, I watched the man crumple on the curb. He rifled his pockets to pull a pack of Camels and a matchbook. He packed the smokes, pulled one, cupped his hands, and lit. He spit, flung the match to the gutter, took a long drag, and followed the thin smoke rise with his eyes. He cradled his callused hands, right over left. I tapped the Halligan against the curb, wiped the pick on my pants, and snapped the instrument into its custom spot—nestled among a TNT tool, two-foot Pike pole, Pulaski, flat-headed axe, and flashlight. Metal clips grasped the Halligan just tight enough for both security and convenience.