When a Fire Burns Hot

by Corey Richard

“Yeah, course it’s too crowded,” Scott said without emotion. He wasn’t one to readily volunteer information.

  “That really sucks. Do they run out of meals these days?” Frank was excited to finally have a chance to voice his sympathy.

  Scott looked at him like he wanted to ask Frank what he meant by “these days,” but didn’t bother. He blinked at Frank’s sympathetic face momentarily and, after turning away, finally answered, “Yeah, lotsa folks go dumpster divin’.” Scott sighed. He didn’t notice Frank wince. “Then we get together an’ make up a batch of stuff we call hobo stew.”

  Frank’s expression soured, and he shook his head slowly.

  Scott’s head snapped sideways, and he looked Frank squarely in the eyes, his bloodshot eyes growing slightly bigger as he spoke. “Hobo stew is good,” he announced, making it clear to Frank that any expression of doubt would be met with hostility.

  “Uh, yeah... I just never tried it, shouldn’t have made any assumptions.” Frank was horrified to have offended.

  A conspicuous silence quickly enveloped the two men. To Frank, Scott suddenly seemed much more dignified than he had seemed before. More human. Frank checked a welling of sympathy for the man before it overwhelmed him. He looked back at Scott apologetically, only to be startled by the strange expression on his partner’s face. Scott’s glazed eyes were directed into the distance, and as Frank watched, Scott’s eyelids begin to twitch spastically. He looked away, feeling embarrassed that his partner was having some sort of fit.

  But it wasn’t a fit Scott was having. Deep inside, memories long kept at bay were beginning to trickle through narrow openings no longer guarded by their sentry, alcohol. Out here he was naked and vulnerable as he faced the ghosts of his past -- ghosts he had tried to chase away his entire life.

  A glass shattered, and its shards slid across the flowered linoleum floor. Jagged pieces came to rest at the feet of the crouching boy in the corner. He stopped rolling his toy fire engine back and forth, and inspected the sparkling jagged beauty of the closest pieces. He wanted to touch them, but was afraid.

  “I fuckhin’ tol’ you!... Ain’ nuhthin’ I can do. What I can do’s drink this ‘ere bottle dry... I ghot a right to do that, aihn’ I? Still mah house, aihn’ it?

  The crouching boy’s mother was accustomed to these tirades from her husband. She tried to comfort her man by brushing her hand over his knee with nervous hesitation. “You tried the shipyard, baby?”

  The boy looked up in sudden terror, having noted his father’s failure to respond verbally. He knew an act of violence might soon take place. His small voice quivered as he grabbed a piece of broken glass and held it tight, saying, “She, she didn’t do nothin’, Daddy.”

  The man looked down at the boy with hostile amusement and found his way to his feet. He staggered towards the crouching figure with the little clenched fists. He swayed slightly and braced himself against the wall, hoping a sudden feeling of vertigo would pass. It did not. “Couplah cowards... nagghin’ wife... an’ here I gohts Scott turnin’ intah a fuhckin’ mahma’s boy.” The drunk father then turned, stumbled into the living room, and clicked on the television before flopping into his chair. The familiar hollow roar of a sports crowd filled the room and signaled an end to the danger. The boy unclenched his bleeding hand, noticing the blood in the center of his palm. The master of the house was soon asleep.

  “Don’ worry about me,” went the familiar phrase from the young man whose face showed the eager beginnings of manhood. His head was forced high and was filled with the unfocused dreams of youth. Determination took over where guidance left off. A big part of him was resolved to put the past as far behind as possible. “When I get a phone I’ll give you the number,” he said.

  The mother lovingly brushed his hair with her hand, as mothers everywhere do. But she had already resigned herself to the fact that her boy was leaving, just as she had resigned herself to so much else.

  The young man’s early attempts at lasting employment were unsuccessful. One of his first jobs was to assist the customers of a shoestore. He had been kind and helpful, and people had almost always left satisfied with their treatment and purchase. He couldn’t understand it when the owner called him into the back room to have a “talk”.

  “Scott, you know I like you, son.” A hand rested uneasily on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m just not sure we’re the best place for you. Guess this job takes a kind of a hustler. Some’re cut out for it, an’ some ain’t,” the boss said, with a grin as an accompaniment.

  When out of work and unfocused, the youth became easily depressed. He wanted to be something his father could never be: important. But he lacked confidence, and few stopped to take a look at the potential or good nature in either the boy or the man. What went neglected soon lay fallow. He eventually used the one skill his father taught him, and reached for a bottle to chase away the pain.

  In later years, mornings often found Scott lying on the concrete slab with twisted rebar poking out of its ends, down by the bend in the river where the water sat motionless and stagnant. Below him, wily carp swirled around submerged shopping carts, occasionally caught by kids and sold to Chinese restaurants. On the bridge above, cars roared in either direction, and the skyscrapers hovered, as if suspended in the dirty air. He would often wake and curse the world upon finding that his pants were again wet with urine.

  Chapter 2

  “Okay ... Lunch!” Alaska yelled to the five people in his squad.

  The members of Squad Three gathered at a place chosen by Alaska, which was as shady a spot as he could find in the desolate landscape. This marked the first occasion the six had gathered together without the presence of the other two squads.

  “All right, kids. We’re gonna do this ‘first day of school’ thing and introduce ourselves,” Alaska said, as if tired of the game already, and pointed to Frank. “We’ll start with you there.”

  “I’m Frank.”

  “Okay, Frank, and how many seasons do you have?”

  “Two.”

  Alaska’s finger next pointed at Scott. “And you.”

  “I’m Scott and the same’s true for me.”

  Finding nothing there to pursue, Alaska moved on to a young man wearing a mask of artificial serenity. “How ‘bout you, man?” Alaska prodded, as a smirk readied itself on his face.

  “I’m Paul, and no... I haven’t fought any fires before,” the youth replied softly, the pitch of his voice rising at the end of his sentence. “But I’m ready to do whatever I’m supposed to do out here. I think it’s really cool that we all get a chance to save the forests and all.”

  “You ain’t a fire bug, are ya? You know, someone who starts fires for fun, like them Indians?” When Alaska looked at Paul, it was obvious from the bemused look on his face that he hadn’t seen too many people like him before.

  “No...”

  “Okay, cool.” Alaska smiled thinly, and looked at the rest of the group for signs that Paul amused them as well. Frank resisted the temptation to get on Alaska’s good side by returning his look.

  Only one person showed signs of amusement, heavily laced with disgust. Alaska turned to the skinny black man who had inaudibly displayed the desired reaction. “And you?” Alaska asked.

  The man continued to eye Paul for effect before turning to Alaska. “Yeah, I’m Todd,” he announced. That was all that needed to be said as far as Todd was concerned; actions would soon speak for themselves. He didn’t want to say more.

  “Well, Todd, do you have any firefighting experience?” Alaska asked, his voice again wrapped in condescension.

  Todd was accustomed to being sized up at a first meeting, and he took Alaska’s question as a challenge. “Man, I fought just about every way there is ta fight. Been fired on, and I’m still here.” Todd’s top lip curled upwards, and he brushed his hands over his chest with exaggerated pride, emphasiz
ing that he was still whole. “The reason why is, I fire back.” He then cast a look of stern ruthlessness around the group that was soundly convincing to all but Alaska, who was too consumed with preparing a lecture to consider much else.

  Todd continued, “I can handle just about every fuckin’ thing that ol’ motherfuckin’ nature ‘cides to throw ma way... Tell ya that right now.”

  “Listen, buddy.” Alaska’s jaw tightened with irritation, his entire body tense, disgust glowing fiercely in his squinting eyes. He too had some things he wanted to set in stone, before there were any doubts. “Nobody out here can think they’re tougher than a fire. The second you feel you’re safe, Todd, you get killed by a falling tree, or lose track of a fire and get your butt burnt -- and mine, too! Fire will humble your ass, and you’d better learn that shit quick!” Alaska’s unsteady finger remained pointed at Todd while he searched for something more to add to his lecture, something from the years of lectures his own supervisors had given him.

  The moment Todd had noted Alaska’s unexpectedly hostile tone, he had readied his own display of hostility. He wasn’t about to let white-bread Alaska get his chance to continue the degrading lecture, especially not in front of the rest of the crew. His eyes widened before he whipped his words at his antagonist of the moment. “No, YOU listen, motherfucker! Ain’t nobody gone point a finger at me ‘less they ready to lose that finger an’ a whole lot more ‘long with it! You understand me, buddy?”

  Alaska lurched to his feet, not entirely realizing that his body language signaled a challenge that, for Todd, could only be met with physical violence. Alaska, however, was on the verge of unleashing his fury on his new foe, of this there was no doubt. Todd launched his body into a standing position, seeming as much machine as human.

  Most of the rest of the squad sat stunned, as if lightning had just struck amongst them. It had, in a way. Scott alone wasn’t shocked at what was taking place, and he merely raised his eyebrows and looked on in anticipation.

  “Standin’ up on me, motherfucker?” Todd snarled. Every muscle in his body had readied with purpose in an instant. His eyes darted around in search of weapons that he could use or that might be used against him. His face showed the blankness of insanity, while his eyes had the sharpness of those of an eagle about to dive at its prey.

  Alaska stood motionless, facing his approaching adversary. His face was a deep crimson. It looked like his entire head was a blood vessel ready to burst.

  Todd looked over Alaska’s shoulder at something in the distance, and halted abruptly. Alaska turned to see what it was that had caught Todd’s attention. Todd considered how stupid Alaska was to have just lowered his defenses, but it wasn’t a bluff; having stood up, the men were now in the crew boss’s field of vision.

  Alaska turned back to Todd. “Let’s just cool out a bit here,” he said, carefully enunciating each word. “This isn’t going to do you any good. You can’t scare me. All you can do is get sent home.” Alaska didn’t sound entirely convinced of what he was saying.

  Alaska’s words had no effect. Todd leaned toward a sweating Alaska and hissed into his face: “As long as you got what I tol’ you, we ain’t got no fuckin’ problem in the world. But that crew boss saved your ass jus’ now. ‘Member that.” Todd then laughed as he casually stepped away from the confrontation. “Fucker wants to ‘cool out,’ where the hell he from, anyway,” he scoffed.

  Outwardly, Todd appeared composed as he picked up his backpack and stepped over to a tree, trying not to show he was conscious that the squad’s eyes were still directed at him. He sat down, leaned back against the tree’s trunk, and opened his lunch bag, appearing critical as he examined the contents before pulling out a soft white sandwich. He took an aggressive, oversized bite and draped his arm over his raised knee.

  Feeling foolish standing up alone, Alaska finally decided to sit down.

  Frank watched the rivulets of perspiration stream down his boss’s face. Every muscle in Alaska’s body still seemed taut as Alaska sat down. Frank pitied him for a moment, but this feeling was soon accompanied by one of disgust for both him and Todd. They had both so easily given in to the basest of tendencies. They had been ready to use violence without even taking a moment to reconsider their decision. Each had wanted to physically punish the other for his words. It should be considered unconscionable.

  Alaska would have to watch himself around Todd if he had any sense, Frank thought to himself. He had seen young men like Todd in the cities and in his own high school, and he knew that it was wise to stay clear of these types, who were raised on a diet of violence and bravado. Inwardly, however, he realized, with slight alarm, that he thrilled at the prospect of further confrontations between the men.

  “You two boys done butting horns?” a woman asked, deftly breaking the silence.

  Alaska turned towards the voice. Ordinarily, he would have snapped at the woman in an attempt to set her straight as to how she should address her boss, but he was too preoccupied to be annoyed. His face remained blank.

  “I’m Alice. I’ve never fought fires or people before. So I just wanna say that it’s great to be working with you all...”

  Todd grunted and stretched out under the tree, pretending to ignore her. Frank, in contrast, smiled at Alice encouragingly as she started a conversation with him and Scott about being called to duty the day before.

  Alaska, meanwhile, erected imaginary walls around himself and sank into a more secure world. He leaned back against a fallen log, trying to feel comfortable. He tried to eat, but tossed his food aside in disgust. How did he get stuck with such an asshole? Why did things so often go wrong with the people he dealt with? It was those who tried to remain uncontrollable that were always the biggest problems. Why did people have to be that way? How could he possibly lead them if they wouldn’t just let him lead? He was their leader, and they sure as hell better get that straight soon.

  Todd finished his sandwich, and started in on a candy bar. The confrontation with Alaska had bothered him only momentarily. He had expected he would have to fight his way into a spot on the crew. It had been that way all his life. But he still felt out of place, he realized, almost like he’d felt in his high school classes. It was like the rules had changed, making the game totally incomprehensible to him. If only things were the same everywhere. He missed being a part of something powerful, something that said who you were and gave you the strength to back it up. Those in his world could all say they were somebody. Everyone on the outside lived in a huge, cold place full of chumps just like the ones now sitting around him. And here he was: outside, a fucking immigrant like those vatos from the East Side. He’d have to take charge of the unfamiliar and make this place his own as soon as possible.

  He thought back to his boys, and admitted to himself that he missed hanging out with them. He knew that someday soon he would go back, but for now he would keep hiding out. But he wasn’t a coward; he was a survivor. There hadn’t been any other way. They had forced him to stand alone when he needed to be backed up the most. He’d had to defend his cousin who, after all, had been young and stupid, just as they had all been at that age. He hoped his Benz was okay.

  Todd looked at the squad of firefighters around him. They appeared meek and soft to his hard eyes. If these fuckers only knew who they were dealing with, they’d give up some respect before it’s too late, he said to himself, almost aloud. He laid down and gazed up at the grayblue sky, letting his mind wander back to the streets from which he had come.

  “Fuckin’ killed him, what was I spos’da do, let ‘im walk ‘round thinkin’ he was su’um after that? Real blood between us, man, real blood! Fuck, he was after me anyway. I wasn’t gonna wait for no bullet. Wass better, be the hunter... or be the one gettin’ ‘is ass hunted?” Todd was nearly shouting at his friend, who was seated behind the steering wheel of a bright red BMW. Todd, wearing a tense, questioning look, finally turned to exami
ne his friend’s face. A drop of sweat slid smoothly down one of the boy’s cheeks.

  “Ain’ our war, man,” the driver said flatly, though he knew these words carried the weight of a judge’s sentence.

  Todd jolted out of his slouched position. “I fuckin’ saved all your asses many a fuckin’ time!... Fuck you! Fuck alla you!” His fist smashed into the windshield, cracks in the glass radiating neatly outwards from the point of impact. As soon as the car came to a stop Todd opened the door and leapt out.

  “Jus’ lay low for a while!” The driver’s voice commanded unemotionally.

  Todd heard his so-called friend’s words echo through the alley. He didn’t turn around. His world had crumbled. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Move away and get a job? Did they think he’d work at some fucking shoestore or something, sticking shoes on nasty feet for min’mum wage? Maybe working his way up to the big position of nastyfootsmellin’ shoestore manager? And he sure as hell wasn’t gone work at some fast food place; he’d rather be dead. Fuck ‘em! He had to have somethin’ to be proud about.

  He felt the adrenaline pump through him, preparing him for the next fight. Fuck, he could take them all on if he had to! What did it matter? He would be a legend, dead or alive, like in the movies.

  As he left the alley and entered a main street, he calmed slightly and thought back on his cousin. He shoulda protected him, but that had never been his way. He didn’t take on liabilities, that was his rule. Still, he was going to miss that kid who had looked up to him. The stupid little fool, it was all his fault. Maybe the odds were stacked too high against him this time, he considered. He playfully pictured a duck on a lake, vulnerable to the hunters crouching along the surrounding shore. He then put two strands of bullets on the duck’s chest and guns in its feathery hands. “Fly fuckin’ south,” he muttered to himself in thinly-humored disgust. He didn’t want to die full of holes; he’d seen that. Nobody looked tough dead.