Kev picks them up.
I do not comment.
This restraint nearly kills me.
“So,” I say, reaching for my notebook. “Since you’re here and clearly not busy…”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”
“Interview.”
“It could have been a personal question about tea storage.”
“It was interview.”
“Just a gentle conversation.”
Kev drops a tea bag into a mug. “I’ve seen gentle conversations in newspapers.”
“I’m not here to make anyone look bad.”
“No. You already did that bit.”
There is no heat in his voice.
I almost wish there were.
I put the notebook down. “Yes. I did.”
Kev pauses.
Not long. Just enough to show he heard the difference.
I try again. “Can I ask one question?”
“One.”
“What do people get wrong about the job?”
He stops stirring.
For a second, I think he is going to brush me off. Then he leans back against the counter, mug in hand, and looks towards the garage rather than at me.
“They think it’s mostly fires.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the big one.”
I wait.
He sighs, as if I have tricked him into conversation by not speaking.
“It’s people,” he says. “Fires, crashes, floods, alarms, someone stuck somewhere stupid, someone scared, someone angry, someone having the worst day of their life. People think the job is running into flames. Sometimes it is. A lot of the time it’s figuring out what someone needs while everyone else is shouting.”
I write that down, slowly.
