“The Tower.”
In my department, the term refers to an object, place, and
experience.
As an object, it is a gray monolith, six stories of
anonymous cinder block and steel that hides a maze of stairwells, dead-end
hallways, and dark rooms. The concrete floors are pitted with deep spalls and
the rough walls blackened with thick carbon deposits, a testament to the
intense heat these rooms withstood in years past when the AQMD still allowed
the department to conduct live burns here. In fact, some guys still call it the
“burn tower.”
As a place, it stands in the middle of the department’s
eastside training center, one of three such drill grounds across this sprawling
county. And my fire station happens to be located at this same training center,
which also features a network of hydrants, roof props, classrooms, and a fleet
of aging “training rigs.”
During the day, the tower is the site of a
military-style recruit academy, with impatient captains barking terse orders at
hapless trainees, exhausted from endless evolutions of pulling heavy hose and
throwing wooden ladders, fully turned out in the punishing midsummer heat or frigid
February rains.
At night, these vast, empty grounds are silent as a
cemetery. Sometimes I’ll sit on a remote wooden bench, languidly puffing on a Dominican
cigar and listening for an unseen owl perched high atop the tower, its
plaintive call trailing off into the lonely night.
But for all firefighters, the term “The Tower” evokes the months-long
ordeal each of us had to survive before earning a badge and embarking upon the
rookie year of our new career. As such, this cold building and gritty asphalt lot are haunted by the memories of a million fleeting moments, an immutable
past filled with physical pain, humiliating mistakes, grim humor, determined
effort, and finally, a nascent pride. As an experience, “The Tower” is a common
bond shared alike between thirty-year firemen, ambitious young captains, and
old-school chiefs with graying brushy mustaches and tarnished brass bugles.
The stories are legion. No blog, book, or Hollywood movie
could begin to capture the smallest fraction of them. But every morning, I
smack a red switch on the wall of the station app floor, and the huge bay doors
clatter slowly upward, opening on another gray dawn view of the tower.
And I think back.
Across the grinder at the foot of the tower, I see my former
self standing stiffly at attention. A stern training captain paces between me
and another of my academy mates, having just pitted us against each other in a
push-up completion. After countless reps, my exhausted friend finally concedes;
he lays on the wet ground while I rise up unsteadily, the victor. Now as both
of us stand side by side, I steal a sideways glimpse to see my classmate, knees
locked, wavering and rocking slightly on his heels. And without warning, he falls
unconscious face first, striking the concrete with a sickening thud. (Later
that day, he returns from the local ER, missing two front teeth but doggedly determined
to continue on with the day’s training.)
I see myself pressed flat against the floor of a dark,
claustrophobic room, deep inside the tower. Thick fingers of orange flame roil
across the ceiling directly above us, the heat so intense that if I were to
raise my head just a few inches, my neck and ears would immediately sting with
second-degree burns. The only sound comes from the rhythmic in-drawing of face-piece
regulators, as my fellow recruits and I work to calm anxious breathing
patterns. We study the incipient fire development, our polycarbonate masks
reflecting the red glare overhead like midsummer fireworks, before I slowly crack open
the bale of the TFT nozzle and pencil down the fire, agitated smoke banking down black
walls and obscuring the memory.
I have crawled through this tower, rappelled off this tower,
gotten lost in this tower, hid in this tower. But it has remained a strangely singular
constant in my otherwise itinerant career as a fireman these past eighteen
years or so.
So the other morning, my buddy Norm, a fellow engineer turned
project manager here at the ever-expanding training center, smiled
mischievously, bursting to tell me a tale. He remembered, of course, that a
couple of years back when I was training a prospective tillerman to pilot the
back-end of our new fire truck, the boot over-steered around a turn, drove the
trailer up on the curb and demolished twenty feet or more of steel pipe rail, obliterating
the rear compartments, and causing tens of thousands of dollars in damage. Luckily,
the mishap took place on the quiet campus of a nearby state hospital and no one
was injured. But I was understandably stunned—and furious with the dimwitted
fireman.
Norm knew this infamous episode remained a sore point for me,
as the department inexplicably disciplined me for the accident and let the wayward
fireman skate. Now as we leaned up against a stairway at the base of the tower,
he gleefully directed my attention to his latest project: To improve safety, the stairway
railing needed to be raised and reinforced. While touring the adjacent hospital
grounds, he spied a pile of scrap metal piping and requisitioned it from the
facilities manager. He then welded that pipe on to the existing stair rail.
Now every morning when I open the apparatus bay doors, I can
look across the grinder and see the shiny silver weld points and gleaming new
sections of stair rail ascending that gray block building…
Steel pipe that only a couple years ago had wiped out the entire
side of my rig…
And know that my comic misfortune is forever enshrined
in the very Tower itself...
* * *
OK, that story was for Paige, who requested more fire stories. I guess I was pleasantly surprised to learn that someone still reads this blog...
4 comments:
Ha! Misfortune comes full circle, eh?
Our agency has our own tower - where we still conduct live burns. We also have an ARFF prop - which is righteous to watch when engulfed.
But my favorite? Was the old burn tower right outside the office of my very first job. Let's just say that new firemen can be trippingly friendly to teenaged accounting assistants :)
(Please tell me you appealed that dodo decision about the railing?)
Buahahaha!!! I shouldn't laugh at you but that's too funny. I'm glad you shared.
Where's the picture of the new railing?
Great post...the tower sounds cool. I had a friend who is a firefighter, I always enjoyed his stories.
Thanks "Anonymous"...A lot of history in that Tower :)
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