Soaring (Magdalene #2)(103)

“Not really. In a bigger city, a Bat Chief would command all the houses in that city.”

“Part-time?” I pushed and he gave me a squeeze.

“That would be a no.”

I did not like this. I didn’t like it because Mickey wanted this position and it seemed a lot more work, overseeing five fire departments in five cities across the entire county, rather than just Magdalene’s.

“Want a tour before dinner?” he asked, taking my mind off this.

A tour of a firehouse?

What girl would say no?

I focused on him. “Absolutely.”

That earned me another squeeze before he took my hand and guided me around.

They had a big red truck (obviously). On the lower level with the truck there was a bank of lockers down one side. They had a variety of equipment like axes, wound hoses and such mounted on the walls.

There were also pictures in cheap frames put up here and there. They depicted the crew either formally arranged for an official photo or with arms thrown around each other’s shoulders in a line. There were also candid shots of everything from someone grinning while washing the fire truck or someone wearing a tee shirt that had a big “MFD” on the front and jeans, swinging a bat during a softball game.

Close to the truck there was firefighter-actually-fighting-a-fire gear (which Mickey told me was called bunker gear) set out and ready for men to jump into boots, pants and grab jackets and helmets.

They even had a shiny brass fire pole.

Which meant they had an upstairs, and although there were equipment rooms and a small bathroom downstairs, upstairs there were full showers with more stalls (Mickey called out for an all clear before we peeked in) as well as a workout room that was small and held mostly weight equipment.

There was also a dark room that had bunk beds (four of them, lined head to foot against the walls) another room with a beat up couch and a couple of even more beat up recliners, all facing a massive, old console TV I knew for certain didn’t provide HD. That room also had mismatched end tables with ring stains in the top of the wood, these dotted around for easy reach.

And last, there was a kitchen that had once been new and state of the art.

In 1956.

Now it was dinged up and old.

And even though the entire house was spic-and-span (this, Mickey explained was because the new guys had to go through a period of serving the station, the men testing their mettle in a variety of ways, including the duties of keeping the entire house, rig, equipment and gear performance ready and exceptionally clean), at its age, it couldn’t be anything but dingy.

I couldn’t spend a lot of time upset at the fact that, although their rig and gear seemed to be in good shape, the rest of the space was an afterthought. That these men spent a lot of time there, did that without pay and did it with the possibility they’d be saving lives, property and putting their own lives on the line. And because of that, they deserved at least a nice flat screen with HD and a microwave that didn’t look like it was the prototype before the prototype before the prototype they actually produced the year microwaves were introduced to the masses.

I couldn’t spend this time because Mickey introduced me to the crew.

There was Jimbo, the driver, who I’d already met.

There was also Stan, a man I figured was around Mickey’s and my age (in the dearth of communication with Mickey the last two weeks, I had learned during our thirty minute phone call that he was forty-eight). But Stan was shorter and losing his hair. Then there was Mark, who I’d put in his thirties, who had a gleaming wedding band, a smile almost as easy as Mickey’s and really nice biceps.

And last, there was Freddy, who was young, maybe mid-twenties, but that was at a push. He had a shock of thick, dark, messy hair, a smile he knew was effective, veins that ran his forearms and biceps (Mickey had these too) and he was perhaps four inches taller than me and I was five three.

He was their recruit.

After I got my introductions and shook hands with everybody, I was offered a seat.

I noted that the contents of one of the three containers of brownies was decimated (and I bit my mother’s tongue not to remind them they shouldn’t spoil their dinner at the same time delighted they dug in so quickly).

I sat and saw that Freddy was making dinner with Jimbo and Stan busting his chops as he did it (Mark was more quiet and less of a ball-buster).

Freddy didn’t appear to care. Freddy appeared to care solely about flirting outrageously, if innocently, with me, something Mickey didn’t protest because, it seemed, it gave him fodder to join in busting Freddy’s chops.

It was teasing. It was lighthearted. It was funny. It was quite an experience to have the opportunity to sit with these men who spent a lot of time together, perhaps did some harrowing things trusting each other, and had an easy camaraderie.

The dinner was sloppy joes and baked frozen tater tots with brownies for dessert.

I ate it and almost the whole time I did it smiling.

Or laughing.

When everyone was done, we lounged while the guys started busting Freddy’s chops again as he did the cleanup.

Then Mickey tugged a tendril of my hair.

I turned my attention to him and he said quietly, “Time to get you on the road.”

I nodded and pushed away from the table without objection. They were hanging around waiting for a call that might not come, but if it did, they couldn’t have distractions.