Frank finally received his food and entered the mess tent, sitting down across from Derrick. “Hey, Derrick. How’s the dinner tonight?” he asked.
“Hey there, College Boy. Sure beats prison food.”
“Yeah, I imagine.”
“That’s right, you college boys don’t ever have to do time, huh?”
“I haven’t, anyway.” Frank sounded apologetic.
“Like I was sayin’ before, ya haven’t missed much.”
Frank noticed the cross around Derrick’s neck. “So you’re Christian, Derrick?”
“Yep, sure am.”
“Are lots of people on the reservation Christian?”
“Yeah, pretty many on mine, anyway. We have a church and I used to go pretty often, I guess. Priest is an Indian.”
“Really?”
“Hell, everyone on the Res is an Indian. You never see a white face anywhere.”
“Whoa, that’s something I’d like to see. At least I think so...”
“Come visit sometime.”
“Thanks. So, do any people follow the old religion?”
“Yeah, some of the older folks. Some young people do too though, a little bit. Like Fast Horse, he keeps a pipe.” Derrick acted as if the act of keeping a pipe spoke for itself.
“A pipe?”
“Yeah, it’s part of the old ways. They have a lot of power in ‘em. But I don’t play around with that stuff.”
“Why not?”
“Too much power in it. I’m afraid to. You can really mess up,” Derrick said matteroffactly.
Frank paused to mull over the last bit of information imparted. He was glad that old religion was still respected.
“Hey, Veggie, findin’ enough stuff to eat out here?” Derrick asked Paul without a trace of sarcasm.
“Don’t call me Veggie,” Paul huffed, his face directed at his plate.
“Didn’t call you anything. You’re a vegetarian, right?”
Paul didn’t answer.
“Well, you should be proud then. If it’s a part of you that you like, that you chose, then be proud of it.”
Frank looked at Paul, hoping that Derrick had gotten through to the young man. He witnessed a glimmer of understanding dart through Paul’s rising eyes. Paul didn’t shake his defensiveness, but he did become pensive. Frank marveled that one comment by Derrick had probably done Paul more good than could a lifetime of Alaska’s yelling.
“Well, I can’t eat much of this, too much flavor.” Derrick grinned. “Probably got the showers set up by now. See you guys later.” Derrick said.
“Yeah, see ya,” Frank said.
“See ya,” Paul said quietly.
Frank remained silent in Paul’s company, uninterested in conversing with the youth. He’d spoken to enough Pauls in his lifetime, he figured. He enjoyed thinking about how Paul didn’t feel a part of the crew, while he, after poking his head out of his shell earlier in the day, felt part of the human tapestry... finally.
Frank finished his dinner and eavesdropped on the neighboring conversation between the members of Squad Two and Alaska. With Alaska present, the discussion flowed from one acceptable topic to another: cars to hunting, and on to sports, illuminating the teller at each turn.
The conversation then headed in a new direction.
“Nice squad you got there, Alaska,” Jim commented.
Alaska was the only one in the group not laughing. For once, however, he didn’t look irritated or adopt an aggressive posture towards someone who contributed a comment with which he was ill at ease. “They’re not so bad,” he mumbled.
Roy spoke next, “Someone really ought to break in Alice, you know,” he said, staring soberly into space.
Alaska didn’t like to hear one of his squad being disrespected, but he was not willing to break with the men and oppose Roy.
“Id’ fuck her,” Jim said slyly and turned to Roy. “Wouldn’t you?”
Roy broke into a laugh and flashed a malignant smile. “’Course I’d fuck her.”
“She’s got a nice fuckin’ ass.” George threw his comment into the pot to mix with the rest, and nodded stoically.
“Fuck, you’d never know it with all those extra-large clothes she wears,” Jim said.
“I bet she bucks like a wild horse not yet broke,” young John said, looking around eagerly for approval. He received no laughs for his comment but nevertheless was pleased to be a part of the ritual.
“She is a feisty one,” Alaska added, before the table fell silent momentarily.
The men’s vision of Alice both sickened and saddened Frank. He tried to pity them, but found he couldn’t. He instead felt deeper, more destructive emotions creep into him and try to take hold.
“Chicks shouldn’t be out here anyway.”
“Why not?” Randy’s tone plainly showed his disagreement.
“It’s simple: they just aren’t tough enough. You can’t flip ‘em shit like one of us. They always want special treatment. And the work’s hard; women just aren’t cut out for it,” Jim explained.
Frank was aghast that an orchestrated loathing, first of Alice, and then of women in general, could fly so effortlessly from the mouths of these men. Now, with a theory at stake, he found words ready to come out of his mouth, words that had been germinating and were at last ready to sprout. His heart pounded in his ears, and his breath shortened, but nothing happened.
“I don’t know, she looked pretty strong out there,” Randy countered.
Frank was relieved that some of his obligation to speak was alleviated. He became unsure of his chances of getting his point across, and was more than happy to place his unspoken support in Randy’s corner. He somehow knew that the unwritten code of conduct these men followed made it necessary to use a different set of tactics in defending Alice than he had used in defending the environment.
“She’s just taking a job away from a man who could do it better,” Roy added.
Alaska took the opportunity to raise his stature a bit. “Yeah, they put me under a few women fire bosses up there in Alaska, and I gotta tell you that I don’t think they were cut out for it. There are just some things a woman can’t do as well as a man, and being a leader is one of them. They just don’t know how to take charge as well and kick a little ass when they have to.” Alaska sounded almost professorial.
Most of the men nodded in lackluster agreement.
“I know, I’ve seen it,” Alaska continued. “The thing is that most of ‘em are there ‘cause the Forest Service has this policy of theirs.”
Frank could hold back no longer. He quickly blurted out words as fast as they popped into his head: “But you gotta start somewhere.”
All the men quickly turned towards Frank. Most squinted their eyes, and looked, as if through rifle sights, at the solitary man.
Randy sensed that Frank was about to get blasted and threw out a comment, hoping douse the flames of discontent, “Hell, everyone does deserve a chance.” Randy stood up, hoping to bring an end to the conversation. “Well, you guys can sit here and bitch all you want, but I’m gonna go take that shower. And if a woman wants to join me there, she’s more than welcome.”
No shots were fired, and the men looked away from Frank at last.
Paul finished his dinner in silence. He, unlike Alice, was not accustomed to alienation. No one on the crew seemed exactly a type he considered agreeable enough to associate with comfortably, and for the first time in his life he was facing a lengthy period of loneliness. He wished his two friends had made it to the station in time, before Alaska had accosted him. He had his music, he reminded himself, but he knew that was going to get old soon. Something had to change for him if he was going to enjoy this experience.
After getting some cake and ice cream, Frank sat back down and began uncharacteristically devouring his pr
izes. Paul looked at Frank hopefully. He had overheard Frank say that he had attended the same university as he, and assumed there was some level on which they could share experiences and ideas. “Hey, Frank, where’re you studying, man?” he asked.
Frank was surprised to hear Paul address him, and was released from the control of his silent, smoldering disgust of Squad Two. Frank told him the name.
“That’s cool, man. I’m there too. We might know some of the same people.”
“Probably not... But maybe.” Frank figured he had seen some of these friends of Paul’s, and had maybe even spoken with a few of them. As he saw it, his school was filled with these kids: rich and cool enough to look poor and get away with it, and trendy enough to be into some cause; legitimizing a flaky, selfabsorbed, cliquish lifestyle by appearing to stand for something.
“So, isn’t that town the best?”
Frank hated listening to Paul’s affected speech. It was particularly unbearable because Paul had altered the way he ordinarily talked in an effort to impress Frank. Paul spoke as if he already knew with certainty what was cool and what wasn’t; and each wispy word was being carefully uttered to reflect favorably upon the imageconscious speaker. He was attempting to alert Frank of the fact that he was deserving of respect for what he was, which was the same as who he was as far as Frank could tell. “Yeah, I do like it,” Frank replied dully. “So, where did you live?” Frank asked, not listening for the answer.
“I lived out on The Farm.” Paul said, his eyebrows raised and eyelids at half-mast, waiting for a reaction.
Frank recoiled. Paul’s farm was well known to everyone in the community surrounding the university. Frank needed only to nod his head and proclaim “The Farm” to be a cool place and be instantly accepted by the pretentious youth. But he resisted. The idea of the place as a selfsufficient, organic farm had appealed to Frank when he first started college; some of his professors had even lived there. But then he learned that in practice, the farm had never lived up to its potential, and the prestige of the place was now solely the creation of those living and loitering there. A place to be seen, where people settled in the corners like collections of dust balls, employing Paul’s same brand of mellowspeak and accomplishing nothing.
“You lived on a farm?” Frank asked, with feigned ignorance. He suddenly wished others were there to see him at verbal play, he the cat and Paul the mouse. He thought about how a condescending tone would be easy for him to adopt. His businesslike approach could be enhanced to make Paul, in comparison, seem even less defined as a person than he already appeared. But he resisted the temptation. No one deserved to be looked down upon, he reminded himself; viewed critically, yes, but not looked down upon.
“Yeah, it’s different, though. Not like a real farm. Some of the coolest people you’ll ever meet hang out there. You never been there, huh?” Paul was puzzled. Frank seemed like someone who was close to being cool enough to have been invited there at least once.
“No.” Frank shook his head and added a puzzled look for effect. “Sounds kind of... bohemian.”
“Uh... yeah, I guess.”
“Well, I’ve got to go get cleaned up,” Frank said, as he rose from his chair. He wanted to depart before a perplexed Paul began to feel that he was too cool for him as well.
“Yeah, take it easy, man.”
“See ya.”
Paul, now alone, sat finishing his dinner in reflection. He didn’t understand why, but for some reason he felt that Frank didn’t like him. He felt hurt for a moment, but soon put the earphones back on his head and let the music guide him into another, more understandable, place.
Frank, walking back to the sleeping area, noted the continuing absence of rain. He then reflected on the fact that he had forged a spot for himself on the crew that day. He allowed himself to experience a feeling of belonging, a feeling he realized he had been seeking for as long as he could remember. Perhaps it was this quest that had driven him to become a member of a fire crew, to join and become a part of something bigger than himself. Speaking up and standing firm with his opinions had given him the necessary backing, he decided. What was usually wrong with him that he couldn’t speak up when he should? But still he was not satisfied with his new place. He desperately wanted to erase the feeling of powerlessness left in him by years of passivity.
Chapter 13
“Up, up College Boy! Let’s go, Squad Three!...”
Fast Horse continued making his morning rounds as Frank’s vision and mental faculties sputtered to a start. He discovered it was still dark, and that he was on the ground in the woods with a group of firefighters he barely knew, many of whom he felt a strong aversion towards. But it all made him happy in a way, as if the unfamiliar and unordinary added intrigue to the job.
He forced his body to rise and dressed quickly in the cold air. He then picked up his two water canteens, yet to be filled, and hid them under his arm, knowing he had already violated Fast Horse’s rule of getting everything ready the night before. He grabbed a book at the last minute and then stepped into line, which immediately began weaving forward. As he marched, he veered several feet out of line and quickly stashed his canteens in the bushes near the sinks, planning to retrieve them after eating.
As the rest of the camp came into view, Frank saw that it had doubled in size. More Type Two crews like theirs had arrived, judging by the large assortment of dissimilar buses in the parking lot. When the Willamette crew’s line joined the much longer breakfast line, Frank was glad he had brought a book to read, not minding if he was living up to his nickname.
“Hey Frank, what’cha readin’?” Frank heard from behind him. It was Alice, and he felt himself grow cold with nervousness, though less so than on previous occasions. He turned and showed her the cover.
“Never read it,” she said cheerfully.
“It’s a book about this crazy fisherman. There’s a woman in it that reminds me a little of you.”
“Oh, really?” Alice said, ready to enjoy a relaxed, mundane conversation. Alice went on to tell him about her experiences fishing for the wily steelhead in rivers not far from her home. Frank eagerly expressed his desire to learn to fish for these large, oceangoing trout, and Alice offered to teach him. Their conversation then flowed easily to other subjects pertaining to the fire and the camp. The morning meal was later eaten in near bliss, with the two sharing whatever came to mind, each sometimes forgetting what it was they had wanted to say next with so much traveling through their heads. It was as if they’d known each other a lot longer than two days, and had a lot to catch up on after a prolonged separation.
After eating, the crew seated itself on the bus and Fast Horse announced, “We’re gonna punch some line today.”
“Yesss!” said one crewmember.
“Fuck yeah!” yelled another.
Finally, they’d do something that they could look back on with pride! They’d have a visible record of their contribution to the suppression effort as they connected their line to lines made by other crews and dozers, helping to encircle and, with luck, contain part of the burgeoning conflagration.
Fast Horse performed a slower-than-usual version of tugging on imaginary reins before he seated himself and yelled, “Dominos, Christine!”
After driving uphill for over an hour, the bus pulled off the road where a green Forest Service truck was parked and waiting. The crew had arrived at the foot of a small valley, where smoke stuck in the air like bluish fog. With little wind, it seemed a safe place for crews to halt the fire’s advance.
After conferring with the man in the green pickup, Fast Horse bounced back onto the bus. “So, we’ve got a little review to do,” he said, as soon as all talking had stopped. “Remember: always keep an idea of where your safety zone is. If the wind picks up, anything could happen, so don’t be lazy. And if you don’t know where the safety zone is, just ask. Today the zones will pro
bably be the clearcut below our line and the road above it. We can make one somewhere in between if we need to. And we do have a stream there to keep in mind, but that’s not a real good safety zone -- too much stuff can fall on you.”
Fast Horse paused. “And keep your heads up. It’s steep here, and rocks could be a problem. Snags, of course, are always a problem. Don’t get all involved in what you’re doin’ and let yourself forget about what’s above, in front, beside, and behind you. I want you to be aware at all times; safety first. Also, when you’re building the line, watch your spacing, seven or eight feet apart from the guy in front of you. I don’t want to see any clusterfucks.”
Again, Fast Horse paused. Each order or reminder had been imbued with seriousness and importance; this was not a routine listing of safety messages such as they had received in guard school. To Fast Horse, these were the most important things that any firefighter could keep in their heads, and could mean the difference between success and failure, and occasionally between life and death.
“I wanna hear you communicating the whole time,” Fast Horse continued. “If people in front aren’t taking enough off the line, or are taking too much off, then tell ‘em. If we’re gettin’ spread out, then tell the people ahead of you to bump up. Always pass the word along. And also remember... stay clear of the sawyers at all times. Randy, I want two from your crew to handle the saws, and get their partners to swamp. New saws even!”
“All right!”
“Of course! I provide for you guys.” Fast Horse beamed, and then said to the entire crew, “And remember, drink...”
“...Lots of water,” a chorus of voices cried as the firefighters rose from their seats.
“And grab some fusees. If we have time, we’re gonna do some backburning.”
Once equipped with a Pulaski or a shovel, and three road flare-shaped fusees for backburning, each crewmember lined out in front of the bus. The two sawyers, Jim and George, and their two swampers, Roy and John, were first in the line of firefighters to follow Fast Horse, with Shroeder assuming the lead. Fast Horse took one long look at the map and returned it to Shroeder before yelling, “Dominos!”
When a Fire Burns Hot Page 17
