Memorable Fires, Cuban Sandwiches and Poetry

Dear Michael,

Arson fires are a way of life for the crew of ladder 24. You had to be very careful when you went into a suspicious fire to make sure the arsonist has not booby-trapped the entrance. Fortunately for us the persons who set out to burn this building never got that chance.

Our ladder truck responds to what is being labeled as an explosion by dispatch. The address given is at the northern limits of our territory and it will be some minutes before we arrive on scene. The hour is early morning and I settle back in my tillerman’s seat for a long ride. When we arrive on scene it takes a few minutes for us to figure out what had happened. The front of the building is lying across the street from the rest of the building. Arsonists have gone into what once was a bakery with their gasoline cans and pour this deadly liquid onto the floor.

Someone forgot to tell them that this bakery uses gas ovens. Gas ovens contain tiny little flames called pilot lights that continue burning away after the ovens are shut down for the evening. I do not remember the exact speed that flame travels when it meets up with gasoline vapors, but I will say this. There is not a person alive able to run this fast. These unlucky criminals proved to be no exception to this rule. There is little fire left, it simply blew itself out and only the coroner is hard at work removing the burnt corpses of these unlucky criminals.

I got to ride around on this big long red shiny truck that seldom failed to turn heads when cruising by. Only the most jaded person could fail to make note of our presence as we would cruise the avenues and when there was a fire ladder 24 roaring by with siren howling and beacon lights flashing was a sight to behold. As I recall the following events happened on our watch.

Our ladder truck responds to a call to the downtown area on a third alarm to a four story commercial building. When we arrive at the scene of the fire our crew is ordered to begin an interior attack. This effort made to minimize the damage already occurring is lead by our assistant chief. We go in with 2 &1/2 inch hose lines using fog nozzles. The attempt made to reach the seat of the fire from the lobby almost succeeds, but we are forced to retreat because the heat of the fire that is raging in the false ceiling above. The radio suddenly crackles with the news that the fire has broken through the false ceiling into the floor above. The order to clear out of the building sounds and aerial ladder operations commence. Powerful streams of water shatter 2nd floor windows and find their mark. Reports about this chief, his ways and his personal life make for much firehouse gossip, but the man is there, putting his life on the line. I will listen to no more gossip about this man.

There is nothing worse than being the first company in on a huge fire. You feel so helpless as the world around you explodes in an unmatched fury.

That explosion happens to us one sunny Sunday afternoon. We just finished the clean up from the noon meal and are preparing to spend a lazy summer afternoon when the call bell sounds. Being dispatched to the nearby business district there is no need for an address as we can see smoke and flames leaping from the nearby buildings. Our engine company is out at a smaller fire, so our ladder company is the first to respond. By the time we arrive on scene the fire begins to leap across the narrow street to the buildings there. This is the moment that you begin to think this fire is way beyond your control and there is absolutely nothing that you will ever do to stop the burning. For that singular moment time freezes as you watch your world being consumed by this monster fire.

As quickly as that moment comes it passes and you begin to rely on your training and your instincts. Our ladder company quickly begins to set up while distant sirens signal that our crew is not alone in our time of need. Our engine company is soon on the scene and lays hose to our already extended ladder. Soon water is streaming out onto the fire. Other engine companies arrive and begin pumping to other ladder companies dispatched to help us. Our assistant chief arrives and takes command of the fire. The initial set up is very good so there is little for him to do except to encourage us and bum cigarettes from the smokers.

Ahh, yes, the classic is the Cuban sandwich. Only if it has the proper ingredients can it be called a Cuban sandwich

There is a column in the newspaper about the lack of knowledge around our city on how to prepare a real Cuban sandwich. It seems as if the reporter ordered a Cuban sandwich and it had lettuce and tomato on it when arrived at his table. Invitations to lunch at our fire station get you a true Cuban sandwich. No imitations allowed. Baked ham, marinated pork and Genoa salami from the Italian meat market, dill pickle and Swiss cheese encased by real Cuban bread. Mayonnaise and mustard applied in liberal quantities round out this gastronomical treat. May God have mercy on the cook if he even brings lettuce and tomatoes into the station this day. I am sorry, if you live north of my city there is a good possibility you cannot get a true Cuban sandwich. All you can do is salivate or drive down here to get one.

We will have Cuban sandwiches fixed for you upon your homecoming.
Love, Dad

P.S. Do you remember this “poem” that you dashed off one day while I was lunching on a Cuban sandwich and trying to find the right words to a story I was writing.

That’s poetry
Cuban sandwiches and firefighters.

-Take a bite-

“Help me,” my Dad says
trying to write this poem.
See now I’ve got this story
trying to turn it into a poem.

-Take a bite-
( I mean a really big bite. And get all that extra ham hanging off the edges. That’s it. Now wash it down with a really tall glass of ice tea—a sprinkle of lemon on the side.)

See listen to this
as the flames leap higher and grow.
No forget about that
don’t worry about it for right now.

-Take a bite-

Now look at this
I’ve really been working on this.

Cuban sandwiches and firefighter
And my dad a firefighter-poet.

Yeah, that’s poetry.