The Fire Station

I was sitting at my dinner table and suddenly the TV program was erupted in with an irritating noise. An announcment ran across the bottom of the TV screen, "There will be a fire meeting tonight, 7:30." I quickly finish my supper and head into town.

I turn my engine off and got out of my car. I walk up the cement ramp towards the door of the metal-sided fire station. The steel door is cold and I carefully enter the door lock's code and turn the reluctant knob. The room is dark and I blindly reach around the corner and hit the light switch. Instantly the buzzing light of fluorescent bulbs fills the room. My nostrils also fill but with the smell of machines. Slowly as I walk further into the station, I can feel the loose grit and sand underneath my feet.

Directly in front of me is an undersized crimson fire truck. It is a Dodge pickup truck, fitted with a boxy accessory tool bed. The hood is ironically raised, as if being repaired. How strange that an emergency vehicle appears broken down. On the end of the truck, a trailer is attached, which stows a six-wheeler. The truck and trailer, inconveniently, cuts access to the rest of the station. Along the wall, yellow firefighter uniforms hang beneath their wearer's name. An ash smell radiates from the fibers. There is a narrow passageway between the racks of protective clothing and the aft of the trailer. This serves as not only a hallway but also a fitting area. My uniform, technically called "bunker gear," is on the rack closest to the entrance door. Located at the entrance of the station, I manage only to be a burden to people entering, unlike the firefighters who have to dress in the tight passageway. Once through the small walkway between the trailer and wall, there are tw...

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...d the instructions on the pager. Am I forgetting something? I went into the other room reached around the corner and flipped the light switch. I grabbed a hand-held radio, got in the truck and started it up.

I wait anxiously for someone else to arrive. I pace and mull over the situation. Will anyone else show up? Will I have to go alone? Am I sure of where the fire is? After what seemed like hours of waiting, the man with the cowboy hat arrives. With great excitement, he hips and hollers as if he was going to fight Indians. I helped him get ready, grabbing a handheld radio for him. I hopped in the with him and we drove out of the barn. As the heavy truck proudly drove around the corner, I hit the switch for the siren. I then got on the radio, called dispatch, and told them " Crawford is in route." A voice replied saying, "10-4 Crawford, time is 13:22," squelch.