Broken Glass
Hank had two goals when he rolled out of bed Thursday morning: figure out where the hell Station 51 was, and actually make it to the place in one piece. Though he'd racked up the miles driving an engine for one of the most remote firehouses in the county, Hank had never driven so far in a single day, and certainly never so far south. The closest he'd ever gotten to the South Bay was HQ, in East L.A., and that had to be a good 20 miles from the beach. But Hank was a good engineer, which meant he was a great navigator, a great planner, and a great driver. He made his way to the city of Carson without too much fuss, and coasted off the freeway towards his landmark, the large conglomerate of refineries to the south.
He drove slowly, much to the irritation of everyone else on the road, looking for the firehouse. The area was very industrial, and every damned building had a flagpole out front with the Stars and Stripes wafting proudly in the soft ocean breeze. Still, he needn't have worried about finding the place - a familiar honk sounded, and a huge red engine lumbered out of a small A-line structure just a couple hundred more feet in front of him. He stopped and watched it wheel out into traffic and take off down the road ahead of him - east bound, towards even more industry. He glanced to his left at the open garage, and saw a rescue squad still sitting there, but there was no more movement from the service bay.
Someone laid on the horn behind him, and he glanced up in the rear view mirror. There were a few cars sitting in the lane behind him, while to his right traffic picked up speed. Hank cringed and put on his blinker, and eased up a little towards the narrower driveway to one side of the firehouse. The cars behind him eventually swerved around him, and all the drivers shouted obscenities at his window and vied for open road ahead. Already, Hank wondered if maybe there hadn't been something to Capitan Whitmore's nasty digs at humanity.
He turned into the long and narrow driveway, past the station, to the open yard in back. There were plenty of cars parked against the brick wall that separated the property from the unclaimed lot just under the freeway overpass, but Hank found himself a place to park, and settled in. He flexed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, and tried talking himself into getting out of his pickup. He was nervous, jumpy even. He should have called ahead - it hadn't even once occurred to him that he might want to call 51s himself to let them know he was coming. Still, he had the right. It was a county building, after all, and the public could come in and tour any time they wanted - why couldn't a bona fide county fireman come and do the same?
A bold tap at his window scared Hank out of his whirlwind of worry, and he flailed and knocked the truck back into neutral. The vehicle bounced and slid back and forth with the force of his own jumping, so he had to jam on the brake to stop it. Embarrassed, he set the parking brake properly and shut the whole engine down before rolling down his window to greet the tight faced young man. The window was barely cracked before some guy - a kid in a fireman's uniform, really - started barking at him. "This isn't public parking, man! This is for fire personnel, you gotta back it up!"
What a great start - he was getting yelled at by a kid who looked like he couldn't control a garden hose, much less a fire hose. He was an engineer looking to make captain who didn't know how to park a truck. He was in a crowded city full of dirty air and nasty drivers. And he was almost a three hour drive from his apartment when he should have been at his own station, taking care of business as usual up there. Angry irritation began to outweigh sheepish embarrassment, and he glared at the youth shouting into his window. He opened his door and stepped out, and drew himself up to his full height. It wasn't a trick Hank was particularly fond of using - he preferred gentler discussion to chest thumping king of the pack displays - but there were times when it came in handy. The kid was tall himself, to be sure, but he still had to look up at Hank's glowering face. The kid didn't back down, but he kept quiet and waited for Hank to say his piece. "Good morning," was all Hank said.
The kid frowned slightly, but he relaxed slightly. "Morning."
"I didn't see any street parking out front."
The kid looked slightly sheepish then. "No, there isn't anything really that convenient. I mean, you could park a couple doors down, closer to Wilmington, but-"
"I'm with Station 21. Can I get a pass on the parking spot?"
The kid blinked and looked quickly at Hank's truck, before looking back at him. "You are?"
"I am."
The kid looked at the truck again. "Gee... you're a long way from home..."
"Yes I am."
The kid nodded. Then he looked at Hank, perplexed. "What are you doing here?"
All Hank's bravado withered away. "Um... I'd heard there might be an opening."
The kid bristled. "Not yet. The doctor's haven't made any definitive claims either way."
Hank's eyebrows went up. "He's still in the hospital?”
“Still?” the kid hollered. “Whadda ya mean still? He’s gonna be there for weeks!”
Hank cringed. “I hadn't heard any details, only that-"
"Then what are you circling around here like a vulture for?! Besides, what kind of paramedic are you, you don't have-"
"Wait, what?" Hank shook his head. "Paramedic? That's who's leaving?"
The kid's face turned bright red, and he made as if to start bellowing, but then he paused. "Wait. What position are you talking about?"
"The captain... I thought..." Good lord, if this was an elaborate prank, Hank was going drive right up to Whitmore's front door and ram the guy's face into a radiator.
The young man looked thoroughly confused. "The Cap's leaving?"
"I don't know, you tell me, it's your station!"
The young man scratched his head and wandered back towards the firehouse, like he'd forgotten all about Hank.
Hank followed the young man inside, intending to ask for that tour of the station, but he paused in the service bay when he saw the rescue squad. It certainly wasn't the first time Hank had ever seen one of course, but it was the first time he'd been so close to an available squad since the Wedsworth-Townsend Act passed. Most of his runs tended to be in unpopulated areas, and as such rarely called for such rescue - and anytime they did, Hank was almost always tied to his engine, manning the fuel pumps and ensuring his team carried out their particular orders whenever their captain was out of reach. He'd had no time to concern himself with this new breed of fireman, but if he was going to try to take over a station that housed a paramedic team, he knew he'd better get familiar with them and their equipment, and fast.
Hank went to the squad and peered inside. It didn't look too different from the squad he'd driven years ago when he'd first entered the fire service. It was a little newer, had a few more knobs on the dash, but for the most part it was just like those old fire and rescue squads. The differences had to be in the bays, then. He slid around to one side of the truck and tentatively tugged on a handle. It opened right away, and revealed the first aid kits and hoses that also had been the standard all those years ago. Surprised, he shut the door. Maybe the whole difference was in the training the men received?
"Uh, hi?"
Hank yanked his hand away from the squad like it was searing hot, and looked up at the unfamiliar voice. Another tall, lanky man with bushy blond hair and a bushy dishwater blond pornstache to match was watching him with a bemused little smile. Hank wiped his hands down on his slacks and stepped away from the squad. "I... uh."
The first guy stomped out of a doorway next to the blond, and wrinkled his nose. "Hey, come on now, don't go scrambling up the squad..." he started to chide, but then he seemed to think better of it, and offered his hand to Hank. "I'm John Gage. This here is my... partner, Charlie Daniels."
"Temporary partner," Charlie Daniels said with a wave. "His partner's laid up down at Rampart. He'll be okay, though."
John Gage's face twitched a little, like he wanted to whirl around and give his temporary partner what for, but he kept his eyes on Hank and waited for the hand shake.
Hank wiped his hands down his slacks once more, to try to get the sweat off his palms, and then took John Gage's hand in his. "Hank Stanley. Nice to meet you John Gage." He was surprised by the warm, dry grip, and gave his arm one forceful pump before withdrawing hastily. He didn't want to sweat all over the guy's hand. He waved at the blond in the back. "Charlie Daniels."
"Chuck's fine," the blond said, and went back through the door that John Gage had come from.
Hank nodded and looked at John Gage, who was still eyeing him warily. Finally, he sighed and began to open up the squad's compartment doors. "Folks call me Johnny."
Hank squirmed. "My name is actually Henry..."
Johnny chuckled a little and pulled out what looked like a fishing tackle box. "Don't worry, I'll never tell. Besides, if you get lucky, I'll be calling you Cap, right?"
"Sure," Hank said, though he wasn't too sure if that was supposed to be a good thing or not.
"Right. So. How about a little tour of Station 51's pride and joy?"
Hank snorted. "The engine just left."
Johnny looked at the open bay door, as if he expected to see the engine idling in the middle of the road. Then he looked at Hank. "You a lineman?"
"Engineer."
Johnny nodded knowingly. "You're biased. I'm gonna unbias you."
Hank laughed. "Since you're here with the squad, I'm gonna assume you're a... paramedic." The word felt foreign on Hank's tongue. He hoped he hadn't butchered it.
"You assume correctly - though you could just read my nameplate for that, you know." Johnny twisted and puffed his chest out, so Hank could see the white badge pinned to his breast.
Hank nodded appreciatively. "Yeah, well, I don't see how you plan on unbiasing someone when you're pretty biased yourself, pal."
"Simple. You don't need to be sold on the importance of the fire department. But every fireman needs to be sold on the importance of the paramedic program."
Hank shook his head. "Not this one. I don't know what all this stuff is you have here, and this squad is exactly as ugly as they always were-" and Hank laughed at the look of horrified offense on Johnny's face, "-but I already know how important the program is, and how much its proven its worth in the past few months of its existence."
"Oh." Johnny looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then he glanced down at the equipment he'd pulled out of the squad. "Uh... here, lets start with the drug box."
Hank lost track of time as they went through first the squad, then the building itself, and finally, took a look at the last few logged runs in the office. The logs back at 21 were full of brushfires, trash fires and the occasional car fire. Hank could probably count on his hands the number of fires that involved other human lives, or that took place somewhere other than at the edge of the scrubby forests that dotted the area.
51's logs, on the other hand, read like an action packed pulp novel. There were drownings and car wrecks and people getting stuck on the sides of high-rises and atop ferris wheels and under collapsed houses. There were boat wrecks and plane wrecks and train wrecks, and there was even an embarrassing fire engine wreck (36 and 127 got their routes a little crossed on the way to a situation that should have been handled by 51 anyway). Hank might have half-entertained the thought that they were just making stuff up to put in the logs, except he knew perfectly well there were call logs at FHQ - and often times, similar reports from law-enforcement. Still, the variety of callouts was staggering.
"Hey, you okay?" Johnny Gage was looking at Hank like there was a fish growing out of his left ear. "Say man, you look like you're about to pass out."
"I do?"
"Yeah, you're a little pale there, here take a seat and try to relax, maybe put your head between your knees, yeah like that, and just try to hi cap."
Hank had just started to lean forward when Johnny's instructions stopped making sense. He sat half forward, staring uncomfortably at Johnny's belt buckle, and tried to figure out just exactly what high capping was, and how does one-
"I assume, Gage, you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this?"
Oh. Hank looked up at Johnny, and saw him trying to paint an innocent smile on his face. "Oh, well, sure! Uh..." Johnny met Hank’s eyes and gave him a little helpless shrug.
Hank twisted around in his seat, still leaned forward on his elbows, and prepared to face what sounded like a hardnosed captain.
But instead of an angry carbon copy of Whitmore (or a snitty xerox copy of that jackass McConike), stood an old friend. "Hank?" A wide grin spread over the captain's face, and he thrust out a thick hand to shake. "What are you doing all the way down here? Last I heard you were still stuck in the Antelope Valley!"
Hank sagged with relief and got to his feet. "Bob, you never cease to amaze me! I thought you were in the San Gabriel Valley!"
"I am, but this group of ragtags needed a relief, and, well, I like money." Bob laughed deeply, and his teeth seemed to sparkle in the mid morning light that floated in through the office window. Hank laughed too, loud and long, like he hadn't in a long, long time. His time on the fireline with Bob VanOrden had been one long bellylaugh, and Hank had missed his good humor desperately. They'd had a bad habit in the old days of keeping everyone else in the firehouse up all damn night, caught in an endless loop of their own amusement. Hank tried to get a hold of his merriment, but the knowing look in Captain VanOrden's eye just made Hank snort and sporfle with glee.
"Uh..." Johnny was still standing there, looking more and more perplexed as the laughing fit went on, until he finally squeezed out of the tiny office, grumbling about inapropriate mirth.
Their laughter died almost instantly. Bob looked back at Hank apologetically. "I'm sorry, I don't really know what came over me... I guess it's just the tension from the rest of the men. They're usually such a good natured bunch, but with a man down..."
Hank nodded. "He told me his partner was laid up. I didn't ask for details."
Bob plopped down in a seat and flipped to next blank page in the log. "I guess you were looking at the log to get a feel for the place, huh?" Bob started to fill in the basic bits of the run, but he paused when it came time to run down the full report. "A little birdy told me there might be an opening here."
Disappointment began to bloom in Hank's chest. If Bob wanted it, there was no point in looking any further - Captain VanOrden already had both feet in the door, and all he'd have to do was request a transfer. Hank wasn't in the mood to go skipping across the county looking for the bouncing captaincy. "Yeah, well, I'm on the list."
"You're not next."
Hank bristled at Bob's remark. "Well, no, but I think I've got a shot."
Bob grinned. "Sure you do. You're on the list, then you've got a shot."
Hank squirmed. "Are people jumping on the vacancy?"
Bob shook his head. "Nah. Too close to the refineries. I think a lot of guys would rather take their chances with the brush detail." Bob looked around as if anyone could possibly be eavesdropping on their conversation, and leaned forward. "Between you and me, though? This is a much better deal than out there in the boonies where we cut our teeth. There's safety protocols at the refineries, you know? I mean, yeah, if they go, we're all fucked, but you only die once. Half of L.A. burns to the ground every year, and every year the news pretends to be so surprised when there's yet another brushfire. I'd rather take my chances on a certain death that almost certainly isn't gonna come, to an uncertain disability discharge that always starts threatening the fire department every damn summer." Bob leaned back in his seat, cocked his head, and grinned. The light caught the highlights in his sandy hair and made him look like a grinning angel - or a beautiful devil, more likely. "That's of course, assuming I had to make a choice like yours. See, where I'm stationed, it's alllll stove fires and idiots stuck on roofs. I like coming down here to the beach because the weather is nice, but it's a tougher job when the tones sound. But it's not all sitting around playing solitaire until the sun starts burning the Los Angeles Forest, either."
Hope threatened to rise, but Hank squashed it with the force of a mack truck flying off a freeway overpass. He wouldn't let himself even think of pursuing the job if he thought he'd have to compete with half the county. "So do you know anyone else who is interested?"
Bob's devilish grin faded, and he looked out of the window. "Not for sure - the position hasn't been posted yet.”
“It hasn’t?” Hank asked in surprise. “But my captain...” He trailed off, trying to figure out Whitmore’s angle.
Bob just shook his head. “It will be, though. I'm pretty tight with Dick Hammer, and he's definitely going to take a desk job."
"Tight like we were?"
Bob closed his eyes, and seemed to breath in the fairy dust that hung in the air where the sunbeams lit them all aglow. "Tight as we were maybe. Not like we were."
Hank scowled. "There’s a difference?"
Bob smiled again. "Of course there is, Henry. He's like... a brother to me."
Hank was surprised by how hurt he was to hear that. "I see."
But Bob shook his head. "No you don't. Ex-wives do not become sisters to their ex-husbands. They're always wives."
Hank looked back at the open office door, and wondered what would happen if any of the men out there overheard Bob's indelicate metaphor. "So I'm your ex-wife now?"
"Don't be sore, Hank. We drifted apart."
"We seemed to fall into yesterday's habits pretty okay," Hank said. He was being snippy, and he knew it, and he knew he should stop, but he didn't want to.
Bob looked a little sad. "Hank. You're too sensitive."
"See, there's another oldie but goodie-"
"Dick Hammer told me he was leaving to give me first dibs."
Hank grit his teeth. "I figured as much when you said so."
"He's recommended me."
Hank felt the color drain from his face. He'd have popped out of his seat and run to his truck, but there didn't seem to be any blood left in his legs either - or all the blood had replaced all his nerves and he was left with two long bloody balloons attached to the end of his churning belly. Whatever the case, he simply sat in the chair across from Bob, and waited for the killing blow.
"He trusts my judgment, and I have an excellent performance rating, Hank. It's actually better than his."
Hank half wondered what would happen if he just forgot to keep breathing. Would Bob even notice?
"So if I pass that dib along to you, he'll go with it. He knows I wouldn't make a recommendation that couldn't be trusted, because he knows how much it would discredit me and a lot of people around me if I did."
Words formed in Hank's mouth without any thought or effort on his part. It was almost as if he was floating somewhere in the back of himself, watching a stranger take over. "So what are you saying, Bobby?"
Bob's brilliant smile returned, warm and shining and full of laughter and youth. "I'm saying if you want the job, I'll put in a recommendation, Hank. You should've been promoted years ago. I'll admit it, I wanted this position. I like the weather. A lot." He ran a hand through his hair. "Makes me blond again. But that's a silly reason to make a lateral move, especially since I've got some of the greatest guys in the county on my shift, and one of the greatest men I've ever known would be taking a step up if I stayed out of the way."
Hank smiled uncertainly. "You mean me?"
"No, President Nixon. Yes you!" Bob laughed heartily. "Good grief, you're worse than you were when we first met! I don't understand how you even made it into the fire academy, much less all the way to engineer with all the worrying you do!"
Hank shrugged. "I'm good at my job," he said simply.
"Yes, Hank. Yes you are. So quit worrying." Bob got to his feet. "Come on. Meet the men. You might as well get a feel for each other."
Hank scrambled out of his chair and followed the captain out of the office, back to the rec room, where the scent of fresh coffee filled the air. Everyone was there, reading bits of newspaper, half watching television, or tidying up the breakfast dishes. Bob didn't have to say anything to get their attention. He just stood in the open space and waited quietly as one by one, each man stopped what he was doing and turned to give him their undivided attention. The Chuck fellow was the only one who didn't naturally pause and look up, but that didn't surprise Hank. If he was hanging around the station with Johnny, then the guy was probably just another loaner, and not part of the team.
"Men," VanOrden said (and Hank noted the difference, that this was no longer his buddy Bob, but very definitely Captain VanOrden speaking). "This is Hank Stanley from Station 21. As you know, Captain Hammer is out indefinitely due to injuries sustained in last shift's run. What you haven't been told is - and this is still unofficial at this point, but certainly true - is that he is planning on moving on from field work." He held a hand up as four men began to protest this news, and they immediately quieted down. "Gentlemen, Engineer Stanley is one of the top finishers on the Captain's list, and he's looking to make a big change, from a wide brush station east of Castaic to this very busy station in the city. He's young, bright and capable." Bob grinned and looked pointedly at John Gage. "And he has a sense of humor that's much better than mine."
The whole room erupted in laughter, and quick and informal introductions were had, along with an offer of lunch. Hank started to decline, but the stale doughnut and day old coffee he'd picked up at a gas station on his way out of town were long gone, and his belly announced its pleasure to stay for real food to the whole damn room.
The men were fairly chatty, and seemed to warm to Hank quickly. Johnny still seemed a bit cool, but Hank chalked that up to worry over his partner. Halfway through lunch, the tones sounded, and John and his temporary partner had to abandon their half finished plates.
Hank looked at their plates with pity - the lunch was simple but delicious, and Hank would have been hard pressed not to take a handful along with him. He'd already cleaned his plate (twice, to the delight of the cook), and was working on fixing one last plate for the road when the tones sounded again. The men groaned and whined, having thought they'd been spared the callout, but they dutifully left the rec room and hauled out of the station in less than a minute, leaving Hank alone in a sea of dishes.
"What a mess," he said quietly, looking at the vast array of food and the mess to be cleared away. Without thinking about it, he gathered the plates, put the food away, washed everything up and left the dishes on the counter to air dry. Satisfied that he'd paid well enough for his lunch, Hank crossed the room to the blackboard, and left a huge note for the guys - Thanks for lunch, fellas. Can't wait to start ordering you around. He hesitated and started to erase his flippant message, but he paused, hand in mid air, unwilling to slink meekly out of the station like a scullery maid who'd spent too long in the masters quarters. He set the eraser firmly down and looked at the rec room, not as a guest, not as a hopeful opportunist, but as a man charged with its care. He looked at it, and he liked what he saw - a lot. A fire was brewing deep inside Hank, the kind of fire you don't put out. He didn't care what anyone at Headquarters had to say about the matter. As far as Hank was concerned, he'd found his new home.