Finally On The Other Side Of The Fence.
Some call it an excuse, and I called it circumstance.
"Maybe after I'm a firefighter, I'll.."
"I can't do this now. When I'm paid at a fire station, I can.."
On the other side of the fence, life is the ultimate portrayal of idealization. Once the fence is hopped, if ever, we unknowingly come to terms with this less than-nirvana experience.
Although this may come across as an attempt to disparage my goal of being a firefighter, it is not. It is truth in a most unpolished form.
This reckoning happened upon me on a friday. I am in full gear along with six other new hirees. On an 85 degree day, in full fire gear, you can stand still and sweat. It will come gushing from every pore, with no panacea for the condition. We are running, in full gear, doing hose relays. Pulling up in the engine, running to extend the attack hose, running back to the truck, pumping water to the hoseline, donning our breathing equipment, and then taking off towards the nozzle of the charged hoseline. We are to do this in under two minutes. If we do not, Steven says, we will do it again.
After doing it over and over and not being able to shatter the two minute mark, we were lined up in front of Steven. He decided at this point it would be better to take the condescending route. He informed us of our inadequacies at hose relays, not giving regard to the fact that we are, in fact, new.
Steven is a firefighter of McDonough, and he has been so for two years. Hardly a veteran but not a rookie. He is well-educated in fire suppression and we (the rookies) all acknowledge this.
He is a renowned asshole of ill-repute at the station and we (the rookies) all acknowledge this.
Get on the ground, on hands and knees, he says.
Crawl to that shack following the 150 foot charged hoseline, he commands.
Under the blazing sun, in what could essentially be considered a steaming suit, we boil. We boil, and we crawl.
The scoundrel, he occupies his time by hovering above us, shouting at us.
It pleases him to hear himself speak. It pleases him to know he paid his dues and that he can exact his revenge tenfold. It pleases him.
Our knees are deteriorating and I create a mental anaesthesia to block out this pain. This is my mind's tool versus the sort of challenges my physical vehicle may come in contact with.
I wonder, as I follow the hoseline with my right hand, I wonder what others are doing to cope with this pain, this heat.
The pain and heat get worse. I'm not important, I say to myself. I'm not of worth and I'm not supposed to stand up for myself. This is me paying homage to the sacrifices of rookies long since passed, and some now veterans. This is me holding my lips tight.
The regulator wheezes as air rushes from my air cylinder, into my mask, with each gasping breath.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, that are HIV positive, and live alone and hopeless because their own familiy is ignorant and afraid to even touch them or breathe the air they breathe.
We reach the shack, our designated stopping point.
Is this enough, Steven? We are all thinking in unison.
No.
"WHERE ARE YOUR TOOLS?!", he inquires, forcefully.
Phillip Perry scowls, "YOU NEVER TOLD US TO GRAB TOOLS!"
Steven stands above Phillip, never bothering to squat to his level. "Don't act stupid. McDonough's standard protocol is to take a tool for forcible entry to a fire scene."
I note to myself that Steven never said this scenario was a fire scenario. He tells us to turn around and crawl all the way back to the engine on hands and knees, and I wonder how we're going to make it.
I feel my whole body quaking, halfway back to the engine. My knees feel battered into oblivion, and I wish I could be there, in oblivion.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, that go home after work every day and hold their head in their hands. People so weak and battered through the rigors of time that life is pointless. Yet they are strong enough to know not to end their own lives. These people are probably abused in a similar manner as we are, in the parking lot, only they are divorced. A one sided divorce and two alienated children who refuse to visit or call. And law still requires these people to send money in their kids' direction.
We reach the engine, and he tosses a tool to each of us, and he blacks out our masks so that on the trek back, we cannot see. We must follow the hoseline and drag our tool, and we must suffer.
I hear the tool slide in my direction. It sounds heavy, and it is. A ten foot iron pike pole. I turn around in synch with the rest of the new hirees, and we crawl back to the shack.
Lisa Parker, the only female hiree, crumbles in ruin, onto her side. Her respirations are desperate and frenetic and she refuses to go any further. Soon after her, Greg Moore collapses off to the wayside. We are now a search party of five. I am crawling just behind the lead man.
Behind me, I can hear Steven belittling the two. My body quakes.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, who have aged with the world, only the world left them behind. Senile and confused, they forget everyone and everyone they love and no one cares. They soak in rays of apathy because elderly people do not matter in the eyes of the young and productive. These elderly people, whose existance is taken for granted, they stop any random person and try to talk forever, to hold on to any thread of social interaction, any semblance of having a life. But it's an uphill battle.
These torturous and selfless thoughts consume me, and they carry me to our crawling destination.
"OKAY", the pig snorts, "DO A RIGHT-HANDED SEARCH PATTERN AND LOOK FOR ANY VICTIMS WHO MAY BE DOWN AND UNCONSCIOUS IN THIS SIMULATED FIRE."
Phillip keeps his right hand on the wall, sweeping up and down. I fan out, as does Anthony, as does Buddy, all attached to the pants leg of the person in front of us, and we sweep the room for downed victims.
I feel Phillip's pants leg slip from my grasp.
"SURPRISE", heaves the bastard, "YOUR LEAD MAN IS THE DOWNED VICTIM, FIND HIM."
And I hear a thud. They have tossed Phillip to the other side of the shack. We search, we endure. Three of us.
I feel something strike the back of my head, hard. Stunned, I growl. I hear a similar response from Buddy. They are kicking us. The "veterans" are kicking us, and throwing objects at us. Whatever they can get their scummy hands on, they hurl at us. I feel like the town drunk bound on a stage in the middle of a colonial village.
My clothes, my body, are completely soaked in sweat. I assume a right-handed search pattern against the wall since I am the new lead firefighter on the search squad.
"Hrrrf!", a garbled noise.
"Mmmf!", another imperceptible grunt. Anthony taps my shoulder. He has found the downed victim.
We struggle to find Phillip's harness straps to pull him with, because we are blinded. Eventually, we find the straps. Buddy, Anthony and I grab a fistful of strap and we tug Phillip out of the shack, still crawling.
"Okay!" Guess who. "Crawl back to the engine dragging your victim!"
Phillip, naked, would weigh 180 pounds. With fifty pounds of gear on, and drenched with sweat, it makes a considerable difference. We have our work cut out for us.
My body, physically, seemingly cannot continue, but I force it to.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, who aren't me. Yes, you heard me, everyone has it worse than me right now. I'm sitting pretty, life couldn't be better. My mind is numb.
This is a cake walk.
I will kiss Steven after we're done.
I use this fuel to carry me, and Phillip, to the engine. When we realize that the torture test is over, we all collapse and rip our masks off.
"You fail." This asshole, this ingrate. "Think you can do this better after we eat lunch? Because we're going to do this again. Eat a light lunch." This bitter, defeated man.
The new hirees are silent for the rest of the day. Our passion and desire are, in an ironic sense, extinguished.
When I arrive at work monday, we are greeted with more of the same torture, because C shift is awaiting us. The givers of torture, waiting for us. We take the punishment.
And I wonder what the other new hirees are thinking. And I wonder if all of this makes Steven sleep better at night.
And then I think of all the other people in the world who have it so much worse than I do.
"Maybe after I'm a firefighter, I'll.."
"I can't do this now. When I'm paid at a fire station, I can.."
On the other side of the fence, life is the ultimate portrayal of idealization. Once the fence is hopped, if ever, we unknowingly come to terms with this less than-nirvana experience.
Although this may come across as an attempt to disparage my goal of being a firefighter, it is not. It is truth in a most unpolished form.
This reckoning happened upon me on a friday. I am in full gear along with six other new hirees. On an 85 degree day, in full fire gear, you can stand still and sweat. It will come gushing from every pore, with no panacea for the condition. We are running, in full gear, doing hose relays. Pulling up in the engine, running to extend the attack hose, running back to the truck, pumping water to the hoseline, donning our breathing equipment, and then taking off towards the nozzle of the charged hoseline. We are to do this in under two minutes. If we do not, Steven says, we will do it again.
After doing it over and over and not being able to shatter the two minute mark, we were lined up in front of Steven. He decided at this point it would be better to take the condescending route. He informed us of our inadequacies at hose relays, not giving regard to the fact that we are, in fact, new.
Steven is a firefighter of McDonough, and he has been so for two years. Hardly a veteran but not a rookie. He is well-educated in fire suppression and we (the rookies) all acknowledge this.
He is a renowned asshole of ill-repute at the station and we (the rookies) all acknowledge this.
Get on the ground, on hands and knees, he says.
Crawl to that shack following the 150 foot charged hoseline, he commands.
Under the blazing sun, in what could essentially be considered a steaming suit, we boil. We boil, and we crawl.
The scoundrel, he occupies his time by hovering above us, shouting at us.
It pleases him to hear himself speak. It pleases him to know he paid his dues and that he can exact his revenge tenfold. It pleases him.
Our knees are deteriorating and I create a mental anaesthesia to block out this pain. This is my mind's tool versus the sort of challenges my physical vehicle may come in contact with.
I wonder, as I follow the hoseline with my right hand, I wonder what others are doing to cope with this pain, this heat.
The pain and heat get worse. I'm not important, I say to myself. I'm not of worth and I'm not supposed to stand up for myself. This is me paying homage to the sacrifices of rookies long since passed, and some now veterans. This is me holding my lips tight.
The regulator wheezes as air rushes from my air cylinder, into my mask, with each gasping breath.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, that are HIV positive, and live alone and hopeless because their own familiy is ignorant and afraid to even touch them or breathe the air they breathe.
We reach the shack, our designated stopping point.
Is this enough, Steven? We are all thinking in unison.
No.
"WHERE ARE YOUR TOOLS?!", he inquires, forcefully.
Phillip Perry scowls, "YOU NEVER TOLD US TO GRAB TOOLS!"
Steven stands above Phillip, never bothering to squat to his level. "Don't act stupid. McDonough's standard protocol is to take a tool for forcible entry to a fire scene."
I note to myself that Steven never said this scenario was a fire scenario. He tells us to turn around and crawl all the way back to the engine on hands and knees, and I wonder how we're going to make it.
I feel my whole body quaking, halfway back to the engine. My knees feel battered into oblivion, and I wish I could be there, in oblivion.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, that go home after work every day and hold their head in their hands. People so weak and battered through the rigors of time that life is pointless. Yet they are strong enough to know not to end their own lives. These people are probably abused in a similar manner as we are, in the parking lot, only they are divorced. A one sided divorce and two alienated children who refuse to visit or call. And law still requires these people to send money in their kids' direction.
We reach the engine, and he tosses a tool to each of us, and he blacks out our masks so that on the trek back, we cannot see. We must follow the hoseline and drag our tool, and we must suffer.
I hear the tool slide in my direction. It sounds heavy, and it is. A ten foot iron pike pole. I turn around in synch with the rest of the new hirees, and we crawl back to the shack.
Lisa Parker, the only female hiree, crumbles in ruin, onto her side. Her respirations are desperate and frenetic and she refuses to go any further. Soon after her, Greg Moore collapses off to the wayside. We are now a search party of five. I am crawling just behind the lead man.
Behind me, I can hear Steven belittling the two. My body quakes.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, who have aged with the world, only the world left them behind. Senile and confused, they forget everyone and everyone they love and no one cares. They soak in rays of apathy because elderly people do not matter in the eyes of the young and productive. These elderly people, whose existance is taken for granted, they stop any random person and try to talk forever, to hold on to any thread of social interaction, any semblance of having a life. But it's an uphill battle.
These torturous and selfless thoughts consume me, and they carry me to our crawling destination.
"OKAY", the pig snorts, "DO A RIGHT-HANDED SEARCH PATTERN AND LOOK FOR ANY VICTIMS WHO MAY BE DOWN AND UNCONSCIOUS IN THIS SIMULATED FIRE."
Phillip keeps his right hand on the wall, sweeping up and down. I fan out, as does Anthony, as does Buddy, all attached to the pants leg of the person in front of us, and we sweep the room for downed victims.
I feel Phillip's pants leg slip from my grasp.
"SURPRISE", heaves the bastard, "YOUR LEAD MAN IS THE DOWNED VICTIM, FIND HIM."
And I hear a thud. They have tossed Phillip to the other side of the shack. We search, we endure. Three of us.
I feel something strike the back of my head, hard. Stunned, I growl. I hear a similar response from Buddy. They are kicking us. The "veterans" are kicking us, and throwing objects at us. Whatever they can get their scummy hands on, they hurl at us. I feel like the town drunk bound on a stage in the middle of a colonial village.
My clothes, my body, are completely soaked in sweat. I assume a right-handed search pattern against the wall since I am the new lead firefighter on the search squad.
"Hrrrf!", a garbled noise.
"Mmmf!", another imperceptible grunt. Anthony taps my shoulder. He has found the downed victim.
We struggle to find Phillip's harness straps to pull him with, because we are blinded. Eventually, we find the straps. Buddy, Anthony and I grab a fistful of strap and we tug Phillip out of the shack, still crawling.
"Okay!" Guess who. "Crawl back to the engine dragging your victim!"
Phillip, naked, would weigh 180 pounds. With fifty pounds of gear on, and drenched with sweat, it makes a considerable difference. We have our work cut out for us.
My body, physically, seemingly cannot continue, but I force it to.
I think of how insignificant this hardship is, when there is someone, someones, out there, who aren't me. Yes, you heard me, everyone has it worse than me right now. I'm sitting pretty, life couldn't be better. My mind is numb.
This is a cake walk.
I will kiss Steven after we're done.
I use this fuel to carry me, and Phillip, to the engine. When we realize that the torture test is over, we all collapse and rip our masks off.
"You fail." This asshole, this ingrate. "Think you can do this better after we eat lunch? Because we're going to do this again. Eat a light lunch." This bitter, defeated man.
The new hirees are silent for the rest of the day. Our passion and desire are, in an ironic sense, extinguished.
When I arrive at work monday, we are greeted with more of the same torture, because C shift is awaiting us. The givers of torture, waiting for us. We take the punishment.
And I wonder what the other new hirees are thinking. And I wonder if all of this makes Steven sleep better at night.
And then I think of all the other people in the world who have it so much worse than I do.