The Man in the Yellow Hat (Part 2)

The evening started with the monthy membership meeting for the entire company. This was my first, due to the fact that fire school ran on the same night as meetings, so it was interesting to see the turnout. I guess roughly two/thirds of the station was there, many of whom I've never laid eyes on.

The company meeting was fairly uneventful. There was a brief debate over the responsibility of the officers getting their probies through their probationary periods in expedient order. I suspect this should have served as foreshadowing for me, but I focused more on the various participants of the debate, and some of their rather overt yet inept partisan antics.

I had heard a rumor earlier that we would be getting our new turnout gear after the meeting, so my focus at that point was figuring out how to subtly ask for all my new shit without sounding like the poser that I am. The rumor was true, and a brand new set of Globe pants and coat awaited me - name emblazoned on the back. It fit well, the name was spelled right, and my little world was once again balanced on it's axis of hope, love, and swag.

Since this particular night was also duty crew for me, I just laid out my new gear, turned in my old, and started bantering with all my friends coming out of the meeting. Shortly thereafter, Drillzilla told me to start cleaning the bathrooms. That was cool, but odd. For all of his storied rage and oppressive tactics, Drillzilla never once singled me out for any unsavory task. This probably should have been another clue.

Once I was finished with the bathrooms, my captain told me to stay put in the lobby, and more importantly, stay out of the bay. At that point I knew something was up. There would never be a call to separate somebody from the crew, especially when there was work to be done. That fact was underscored when Homeschool was instructed to stay there with me, presumably for companionship. Two Redhats, given direct orders to do nothing? Yeah, something was amiss.

At that point the Chief came up and asked me what I was doing.

Me - "I was told to stand here and wait."

His face instantly registered awareness: "Okay, generally I would stick around out of morbid curiousity, but I don't feel like filling out injury forms tonight, so in the interest of plausible deniability, I'll be bidding you adieu."

Yep. I was fucked.

The Captain, or Drillzilla - I forget which - came and grabbed both Homeschool and I and told us to get our asses into the bay. Once there, he gave me brief and incomplete instructions as to what was going to happen. I caught a glimpse of the Quint and the Tower, both aerials raised and kissing at the top, but other than that, I didn't see much when I heard...

"GO!!!"

Of course, new gear is about as pliable as virgin cardboard, so my on-the-truck two-minute drill was not particularly speedy. I made it out in fairly decent order though, all chipper and ready for what lay ahead.

First up? 200-lb dummy pull through a series of cones. Not horribly hard - the dummy had webbing attached to it's shoulders and was pretty draggable. The cones, however, were set up in a way that made navigation painful. After about 50 feet - 100 including the turns - I was at the base of the Quint.

The Quint is a gender-confused apparatus - half truck, half engine. It has a 75 foot aerial ladder, and carries several cross-lays and 500 gallons of water. Most crews don't like it because it's slow, and like many multi-tools, doesn't perform any one task particularly well. This night, however, it performed it's only function - fucking with a redhat - just fine.

On the first step of the not-quite-vertical quint ladder I knew I was going to be hurting. My legs were burning from the dummy drag, and my right knee was smarting from some ground-pounding action it got during paintball a few days prior. I managed to make okay time going up the aerial, but I certainly wasn't going to get my name on a plaque.

About halfway through my ascent, I heard a gurgling noise. The quint has a pipe going up the aerial that can attach to a hose at the top. The nozzle that day, however, was directly under me - halfway up the aerial. I braced myself, and about a second later had a deluge of cold-ass hydrant water giving me some chin-music. Thankfully, the nozzle was set on a fog pattern - had it been on straight stream I would have probably been blown right off the ladder. I also suspect they had it at fairly low pressure - nobody wanted to see me die - but it seemed like a lot of damn water at the time.

I got to the top of the aerial, where I was told to clip in by [Spunky], the driver of my engine crew. Spunky is Cheeky's best friend, and they are pretty much the same person. Cheeky is a bit prettier, Spunky would be the tough one. Spunky is the more tolerable of the two by a large margin, but they've both got a rampant case of the Look-At-Me's.

I then transitioned to the Tower ladder, where I climbed down, after unclipping my belt from Spunky. The trip down the Tower was, what turned out to be, my only break. I probably could have performed the descent a bit faster, but I was enjoying the view, and the rest, because once on the ground, more ladder work was in store for me...

The 28-foot truss beam ladder is one of the workhorses on the Tower. It's strong, heavy, it can go to a third story window, and it can be carried by one person; sort of. Not too many folk sign up for the singlehanded 28er throw, but it can be done, and it is certainly drill-worthy.

I pulled the 28 from the Tower, walked it 50 or 60 feet to a nearby building, and raised it. I extended the fly, rolled it, and tied the halyard. Once at the top of the ladder, I was told there were three victims, and that I'd best get to steppin'.

My search and rescue technique was pretty sloppy - I never got down on all fours, I had no light, and I had no tool. I basically walked through a dark room and kicked at stuff until I found some plastic bags. When Drillzilla emitted a falsetto scream upon my kicking one of these bags, I knew it to be my victim. I kicked around to locate the other two bags and headed back down the ladder.

Once I had alighted on terra firma once again, I was told to open up my 'victims'. Inside the first plastic bag was my yellow hat.

The best part was the mini-celebration afterwards. Drillzilla poured a bucket of ice water on me, and my crew, plus another 4 or 5 guys from other crews hung around to congratulate me. It was awesome, and I was overjoyed. My entire crew, plus a handful of others, had spent a good deal of time affixing hoses, ladders, dummies, victims, and aerials for the sole purpose of running me through the gauntlet. It wasn't just that I was welcomed to the group, it was that they trusted me not to fuck up.

Going through this drill, and getting my yellow-hat at the end was the ultimate manifestation of the compliment-sans-words in the fire-service: "We're not going to tell you you did a good job, we're just going to allow you to do other shit. Be happy, this isn't bestowed on just anyone."

Shitchyeah.

The Man in the Yellow Hat (Part 1)

Last Monday was busy.

But, before I get to that I would like to briefly review the steps I've taken over the past 10 months or so. The steps which - at their conclusion - were executed in order for me to accomplish the goal of becoming a firefighter...

1.) All the preparatory shit. Background check (paperwork shoutout to the man), two hour physical (invasive), county orientation (boring), and station orientation (two times, two stations - one by the Gaynadian, one by Robin).

2.) Preliminary classes. The 22 hour class (entree into the world of fire), CPR (sucked), Blood Borne Pathogens (nurse-voice, twice). Emergency vehicle operations (obstacle course for fire trucks).

3.) The actual fire school classes. Hazmat (Chubby Triumvirate - excruciating pain), First Responder (chick palpation), Fire school (hours of drudgery interupted by brief moments of destructive joy), and Mayday (life-affirming, God-affirming, manhood attesting).

4.) Testing. Hazmat, First Reponder, CPR, EVOC, Fire 1, and Fire 2 all had physical and written finals. All of these were conducted by county officials, state officials, or both. All required a person to know both the material, and the actions required to meet a certain objective. These objectives ranged from having a ladder rendered right-side up, to having a person discontinue choking.

5.) The Probie Pack. Never before mentioned, the Probie Pack was a series of worksheets detailing all that was to be accomplished prior to being accredited at Shangri La. There were roughly 30 pages filled with tasks ranging from learning the tools on the truck to reciting the protocols of the bunk room. A probie could have Firefighter certs from every state in the union, but until the Probie pack was signed - their helmet remained red. I clung to this book with my life, it's laws and lessons were immutable, it was the very embodiment of the soul of the station. It was also in the crosshairs of several yellow and black hatted firefighters who found joy in stealing the probie packs and rendering them confetti.

I write this list not as an attempt to itemize the chores that stand in the way of certification, but rather as a high-level sketch of the events that led up to Monday's final test. Because Monday - my friends - I earned my yellow hat...

Graduation - Part 3

The role of the historian, in this case a self-appointed one, is to objectively and accurately record the events that he is observing. Under no circumstances should those events be influenced, modified, or otherwise impacted by the historian himself. Yet, I did just that...

When, the entire class had received their diplomas, our lead instructor informed the audience that there would be not one, but two Top Students. Interesting, but not unheard of. The EMT-B class that went directly before us had two, and the fire school prior to ours had two as well. Typically only one was chosen, but electing two wasn't entirely unprecedented.

With all of us baking under the stage lights, the first name was called out:

"Nickleback"

... in response to this, the entire class - and most of the audience - emitted a collective sigh of 'duh'.

The second Top Student award, however, came as a bit of a surprise: it went to me.

The instructors didn't actually justify their decisions, but in my case, I'm 90% certain it was because I am the best hugger.

Now, there were no speeches, just a brief handshake, and a quick wink from the lead instructor, who had a shit-eating grin on his face. I was expecting him to say "Just fuckin' with ya, the actual top-student is Guido." But he didn't. The award was actually mine.

Had I been expected to give a speech, it would have gone something like this...

"Hello, My name is []. I fucking rule. Have a great night, soft drinks and appetizers are available in the cafeteria."

Of course, I had to remain humble, in spite of my inside voice trying to claw it's way through my thorax, and forcing me to suppress my glee. I respectfully acknowledged people's congratulations, and I was appropriately reserved when shaking the hands of the dozen or so officers from Shangri-la that came over to congratulate us. But I doubt my put-upon neutral face was convincing anyone.

At one point, when walking with Nickleback to get our picture taken together, I just had to give him a shove. He laughed innocently. He thought it was a sign of endearment, one that tacitly indicated that our bond as brothers was truer now, more pure. In actuality, it was merely a way for me to ascertain precisely how strong he was, because clearly, I now have to kill him.

I mean, if I'm going to affect the history I'm purportedly keeping, and violate the laws of the journalist-historian, I'm not gonna do it as co-anything.

It's a shame really - I liked Nickleback.