On Assignment: Fucking With Fire

So I'm standing in a fire department at a local metropolitan airport. There is an overflowing ashtray on the counter in front of me, which also contains a can of glass cleaner, several dry-erase markers, some rolls of tape, and a pair of safety goggles.

My assignment? Document a training session with several local firefighters. Just another instance of me hanging around real men, the whole time realizing what a sack of shit I am.

You ever seen that Seinfeld where Jerry and George talk about how they aren't men? That's what I'm feeling right now as I talk with these men who work 56 hour weeks, sometimes 36 hour shifts.

Anyways, back to where I am.

The whiteboard above the counter is the only thing on the wall I'm standing near, and it has been marked and erased repeatedly by the aforementioned markers, to the extent that the shadows of a million briefings remain on the board.

The bay I'm in is about 500 feet long, and there are five bright yellow foam fire trucks, each of which resemble a 50-foot long Armored Personnel Carriers. These things are intense, with multiple water turrets in the front.

A few minutes before, several firefighters demonstrated how these things work, and they freaked me the fuck out. They look like something developed by SkyNet, as these remote control turrets can be moved around to attack a fire from the best angle.

I'm standing with four other firefighters, and within five minutes I know who's mom has been banged my multiple firefighters (the guys on my left), whose girlfriends are sleeping with black men right now (the guys on my right), and which guy has a two-inch dick (all four of them).

Feeling much better about my five inches, I try and laugh along at the right spots, generally keeping my mouth shut. I'm just the homo with the camera, the douchebag who can write, these are the badasses putting out fires and strangling puppies, or other manly things.

As the talk gets rauchier, I get more comfortable and start adding ackowledements to the end of stories, things like, "Oh, yeah!" and "I heard that." And yes, I'm trying my best to ignore the increasingly dirty looks I'm getting.

Finally, it's time to head out to the pit. The pit is a circle of about an 80 foot diameter, with a shell of a DC-9 in the middle. There are 70-something liquid propane nozzles buried in the gravel around the plane, and the firefighters must approach the custom-made fires with their badass vehicles and put them out.

It's about 8 p.m., pitch black, and 40 degrees. There is a strong wind blowing, which carries the sound of gunshots from the local firing range over to our location. I am officially in badass central.

The only light comes from two streetlamp-style lights right about 100 feet from the pit. The lights are 50 feet apart, and each has a fire hydrant in the circle of yellowish light. This is where the fire trucks will get refilled.

Before we get started, the safety officer gathers all of us around for a safety briefing. He tells the firefighters how the propane works, and how the sensors will read the spray from their hoses, leading to a few scattered chuckles.

My hour or so of forced interaction with these people (as well as the few nips of bourbon I've taken from my pocket flask to take the chill off) have made me very comfortable. It is this sour-mash lubrication that nearly leads to disaster for your hero (which is me by the way).

The safety officer tells them it's important not to cross their water streams, because it will take away the effectiveness of both.

Wanting to beat everyone else to the Ghostbuster's reference, I quickly shout out, "Don't cross the streams, that would be very very bad," followed by obnoxious laughter, mostly coming from myself.

Refusing to believe that no one got the reference, I repeat it several times, before jabbing my elbow into the firefighter next to me, trying to cajole him into getting my joke.

I woke up about 25 minutes later, sprawled on a metal picnic table, with a splitting headache, and feeling like I was literally in Hell. Due to the cold, I had a winter jacket on, and I was sweating, as flashes of orange flames filled my unfocused vision.

The fire was going crazy about 100 feet from me, and a massive fire truck was spraying water from its turrets, as it moved around the fire, getting the best position.

One of the firefighters was standing next to me.

"Sorry about that, but you really shouldn't have kept elbowing Mikey over there. He's got a temper anyways, and he's been working for twenty hours straight."

I quickly mumbled something about it being my fault, and then just waited for this godforsaken night to end.

Before long, the big fire truck lumbered over to us, and another of the fire fighters got out. He waved over to me, seemingly indicated that I was to get in the cab.

I hesitated at first, since you know, I had just gotten knocked the fuck out by one of the guys in that truck, but they insisted.

So I grabbed my camera, and saddled up. Lucky for me, I got some images, which you are looking upon now.

We're deep in the soup now.


"Yeah, get that fire! He tried to kill my father!"

Yeah, shit was crazy.

Well, that about wraps up my trip to fire department training. I had some fun, got a little drunk, and got the shit knocked out of me. Pretty standard Tuesday night actually.