Harvard.That was my nickname around the fire station. In the beginning, it irritated the hell out of me. But the more I let the guys know it bothered me, the more they used it. Finally, I let it drop, and now, seven years in, I accepted it.
“If you say so. What’re you drinking? Coffee’s on me this morning.”
“Just a regular brew. You know I don’t like all that fancy shit. The only reason I’m here is ’cause Rookie Two’s making the coffee this morning, and I swear if I have to drink his slop again, I might light him on fire myself,” Don grunted.
“Easy, Don. It’s your job to investigate fires, not set ’em.” I ordered our Venti-sized cups of regular coffee.
“Would you like those iced?” the barista asked.
“No thanks.” I could just imagine the type of ragging Don and I would get walking into the firehouse with iced coffee. No thank you.
After a few minutes of Don and I talking about sports, our drinks were ready. We each grabbed them and headed out the door to start our day. Once we got to the parking lot, we stopped.
He clapped me on the back. “It never gets old, does it?”
“Not for a second.”
We stood for another heartbeat, and then Don followed me to the door into our fire station, more like our second home.
“Harvard!” one of the younger guys called. “We thought you forgot about us,” he teased.
Looking up at the clock on the wall, I noted it was five after nine. Even if is was five minutes early, I was considered late. I overslept this morning thanks to a late night with a female companion, causing me to run behind my usual eight forty-five arrival.
“Harvard here was making googly eyes at a pretty little thing inStarbucks,” Don interjected, tousling my hair.
“Fuck you, Don.” I smacked his hand away. “If it weren't for your iced coffee, I would’ve been on time,” I teased right back. That started a round of laughter from the four or five guys who stood around.
“Donnie drinks iced coffee now? Do you need us to put the toilet seat down so you can sit while you piss, too?” Corey yelled out, setting off another round of belly laughs.
“Corey, the next time you call me Donnie, you’re gonna be walking away with a black eye,” Don threatened. He hated the name Donnie, and everyone knew it. Unlike me, though, he never got used to it and threatened anyone who dared call him that. The younger guys wouldn’t dare, but Corey, Don, and I came up together. All three of us went through training at the fire academy together. I joined Rescue Four right out of the academy. Don was assigned to another firehouse and joined Rescue Four five years ago, while Corey came a year after that.
“Pssh, imagine that!” Corey returned, sounding unfazed.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” I began, grabbing the clipboard to make sure everyone who was leaving was signed out, while Don, Corey, and I signed in for our shifts. Ordinarily, this was supposed to be the job of the lieutenant, but Rescue Four had only one lieutenant for close to two years now, and he wasn’t on this shift. We didn’t even have a captain. That left me the unofficial lieutenant due to my seniority.
Once the overnight shift left, Don, Corey, myself, and a few other men filed into the kitchen.
“Ack! This taste like something my dog threw up!” Tommie’s face was twisted up in disgust as he poured the contents of the coffee pot down the sink drain.
Don looked at me. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, holding up the Starbucks cup.
“Somebody needs to teach that fucking rookie how to make a damn pot of coffee.”
“Who wants grub?” Corey called out.
An array of “me’s” and “fuck yes’s” echoed around the room. Corey began pulling out packages of eggs, bacon, and bread out of the fridge. For the morning shift, we kept a well-stocked fridge. One of our traditions was cooking breakfast at the station, if time permitted, of course.
Within thirty minutes, we were all sitting around the table, full plates in front of us. One of the rookies talked about hearing about a firefighter being injured the other night in a fire. Don looked at me. I gave him a nod and he slapped the rookie upside the back of his head.
“What the fuck?” the rookie yelled.
“Wenevertalk about an injured firefighter around the table,” Corey commented, not even lifting his gaze from his plate.
“It’s bad luck,” I finished, shoveling another forkful of food into my mouth. Firefighters, much like baseball players, were a superstitious lot. You can talk about a lot of shit at this kitchen table?such as rescues and sexual exploits, or some of the guys talked about their kids and wives?but there were two things we never discussed: the death of a fellow firefighter and the injury of one. Not at the table.
I glanced up from the table at the rookie who was now rubbing the back of his head, miffed.He’ll learn.We all did.
“You know Carter’s supposed to come back soon?” I paused, peering at Don, whose voice had taken on a serious tone. He was staring directly at me.
