that one down. And trust me, sweetie, that’s who you’ve got for a lieutenant—the Antichrist. You get in trouble, call me. Us girls have to back each other up.”
“Thanks, Katie.”
Despite what Fryer told me, everybody on C-shift treated me well all day, including Lieutenant Wollf. Then again, they treated me well up at Thirteen’s and that didn’t stop them from writing a nasty report on me.
Lieutenant Wollf has a direct quality, a way of staring at you with those blue eyes that’s almost like a movie star. I mean, he’s that self-assured. He’s not a pretty boy, but with that curly black hair and those eyes, he has some charm in spite of never showing his emotions. He’s six-four or -five and has a large, open face. You can tell exactly what he looked like as a little boy.
The lieutenant on the engine, Slaughter, has twenty-five years in the department, has been to all the big fires, and says things like, “He doesn’t show up in a few minutes, I’m going to my locker and get a can of whup-ass.”
Station 6 is a small cream-colored firehouse built around a double apparatus bay. On one side of the apparatus bay you have the watch office and the kitchen, which in the Seattle Fire Department they always call the beanery. There’s a chrome island with a gas range. Two refrigerators. A TV mounted on the wall.
Crammed into the apparatus bay behind the engine there’s a workbench area, the officers’ rest room, a storage room for our bunking boots, the two officers’ rooms, the hose tower, and a small inspection room with a computer, a printer, and file cabinets.
On the south side of the app bay is a long, narrow bunk room split up into little cubicles without doors. The bunks are separated by tall lockers. My bunk is directly across from the women’s head at the front of the station. Bill Gliniewicz is in the corner bunk next to the door to the apparatus bay. On the other side of me is Zeke Boles. He’s a whole chapter.
Downstairs is, believe it or not, a handball court. There’s a study room with a second computer, a laundry room, and a carpeted weight room with weight benches, dumbbells, exercise bikes, a StairMaster, you name it. I went down there this afternoon and found Lieutenant Wollf working out. The amount of weight he was bench-pressing was obscene.
We only had two alarms today: a water job this morning, where we used the water vacs to suck dry the carpets in an apartment house after a pipe broke, and an aid call this afternoon. Meanwhile, despite being out of service for a couple of hours this morning over the Zeke fiasco, the engine went out nine times, every one either an aid or a medic run. Gliniewicz tells me that’s a typical day around here.
Jeff Dolan and Mike Pickett like to say they’re saving the truck for the important stuff.
4. TIPS ON APPROPRIATE CONDUCT AFTER YOU GET CAUGHT MASTURBATING IN TIMES SQUARE
According to Earl Ward
You want to be famous, it’s simple, all you need is a book of matches and the willingness to spend the rest of your life in prison. Period.
I tell you this, but it’s not the way I landed in the Powder River Correctional Facility and then later at the Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem.
I
will
tell you this: If I never spend another second in the august state of Oregon, it will be too soon.
Fire is what I know and fire is what I love, but fire is not why I spent the majority of my sorry life being Nelson’s bitch; I almost wish it had been. On the other hand, had I gone into the joint as a firefly, they might have treated me worse.
What I got now, if you stop and think this through clearly, is my mother’s 1976 Dodge Dart when she’s not at work or out playing bingo or driving her idiot friends to doctors’ appointments, a criminal record that keeps employers at bay, and a girlfriend named Jaclyn.
In some ways losing the right to vote is the worst. I think the Republicans are having a hard time, and every vote
“Thanks, Katie.”
Despite what Fryer told me, everybody on C-shift treated me well all day, including Lieutenant Wollf. Then again, they treated me well up at Thirteen’s and that didn’t stop them from writing a nasty report on me.
Lieutenant Wollf has a direct quality, a way of staring at you with those blue eyes that’s almost like a movie star. I mean, he’s that self-assured. He’s not a pretty boy, but with that curly black hair and those eyes, he has some charm in spite of never showing his emotions. He’s six-four or -five and has a large, open face. You can tell exactly what he looked like as a little boy.
The lieutenant on the engine, Slaughter, has twenty-five years in the department, has been to all the big fires, and says things like, “He doesn’t show up in a few minutes, I’m going to my locker and get a can of whup-ass.”
Station 6 is a small cream-colored firehouse built around a double apparatus bay. On one side of the apparatus bay you have the watch office and the kitchen, which in the Seattle Fire Department they always call the beanery. There’s a chrome island with a gas range. Two refrigerators. A TV mounted on the wall.
Crammed into the apparatus bay behind the engine there’s a workbench area, the officers’ rest room, a storage room for our bunking boots, the two officers’ rooms, the hose tower, and a small inspection room with a computer, a printer, and file cabinets.
On the south side of the app bay is a long, narrow bunk room split up into little cubicles without doors. The bunks are separated by tall lockers. My bunk is directly across from the women’s head at the front of the station. Bill Gliniewicz is in the corner bunk next to the door to the apparatus bay. On the other side of me is Zeke Boles. He’s a whole chapter.
Downstairs is, believe it or not, a handball court. There’s a study room with a second computer, a laundry room, and a carpeted weight room with weight benches, dumbbells, exercise bikes, a StairMaster, you name it. I went down there this afternoon and found Lieutenant Wollf working out. The amount of weight he was bench-pressing was obscene.
We only had two alarms today: a water job this morning, where we used the water vacs to suck dry the carpets in an apartment house after a pipe broke, and an aid call this afternoon. Meanwhile, despite being out of service for a couple of hours this morning over the Zeke fiasco, the engine went out nine times, every one either an aid or a medic run. Gliniewicz tells me that’s a typical day around here.
Jeff Dolan and Mike Pickett like to say they’re saving the truck for the important stuff.
4. TIPS ON APPROPRIATE CONDUCT AFTER YOU GET CAUGHT MASTURBATING IN TIMES SQUARE
According to Earl Ward
You want to be famous, it’s simple, all you need is a book of matches and the willingness to spend the rest of your life in prison. Period.
I tell you this, but it’s not the way I landed in the Powder River Correctional Facility and then later at the Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem.
I
will
tell you this: If I never spend another second in the august state of Oregon, it will be too soon.
Fire is what I know and fire is what I love, but fire is not why I spent the majority of my sorry life being Nelson’s bitch; I almost wish it had been. On the other hand, had I gone into the joint as a firefly, they might have treated me worse.
What I got now, if you stop and think this through clearly, is my mother’s 1976 Dodge Dart when she’s not at work or out playing bingo or driving her idiot friends to doctors’ appointments, a criminal record that keeps employers at bay, and a girlfriend named Jaclyn.
In some ways losing the right to vote is the worst. I think the Republicans are having a hard time, and every vote