Broken Glass
Chapter 14 - The Uninterview

"Stanley, step into the office for a second."

Hank looked up from the tangle of hoses at the sound of his name. "Be right there, Cap," he called out.

"Now, Stanley."

"Right," Hank muttered, and dropped the hoses. He ignored the tittering coming from the other side of the engine, and went into the front office where Captain Whitmore stood with his back to the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Shut the door," Whitmore said. Hank reached back and shut the door softly, and tried to ignore the way the hair on the nape of his neck was suddenly standing on end. When the door clicked shut, Whitmore turned and smiled grimly. "So. How was your day off?"

"Uh... fine?" Now where in the hell could he be going with this?

Whitmore nodded and took a seat. "I heard you met up with some of the men at 51s." He looked Hank up and down. "Seems like you've been feeling pretty confident."

"Should I not be?" The question came flying out before Hank could censor himself, and he snapped his mouth shut, as if he could suck the words back into the vacuum left by his silence.

Whitmore shrugged. "I suppose you should. I've had three calls about you, this morning alone. That, and the calls I got last shift after you, um... cleaned them out, shall we say, plus the notice I got down the wire when I got in this morning, makes seven separate calls about you and Station 51."

Hank stared at Whitmore. He was too petrified to do anything else. He knew he shouldn't have been so bold after lunch. He should have just scooted out of there when they left for their call. There was no need to go leaving cocky notes on their board. Now the whole damn county knew his name!

"Did you hear me, Hank?"

"Uh, no. The blood is rushing in my ears."

Whitmore scowled deeply. "You gonna be able to drive like that?"

"Oh yeah, yeah! I'll be fine, I just should probably sit down before the tones sound."

Whitmore gave him a funny look. "Man, are you out to lunch, or what? And I don't know why you've been standing there looking at me like I'm gonna eat you or something - you can have a seat any time you'd like, Hank."

Out to lunch? Hank turned the phrase over in his mind, like it was a multifaceted jewel, all lights and colors and sharp edges. Out to lunch. He perched precariously on the edge of a desk and tried to will himself back to calmness. A run could come any time. He needed to be cool. Out to lunch.

"Better?"

"Yes, sir."

Whitmore rolled his eyes. "Quit calling me that. I said, Hank, that Rich Dolan is coming in at thirteen hundred hours. As long as we don't get a run before that, you should be good to go. If we do, well, they'll know all about it at FHQ."

Hank blinked for a long time. "Why in the world is Richard Dolan coming in, and why would I be good to go if he makes it in before we get a run? Am I no longer driving?"

Whitmore put his face in his hands, plopped down in the nearest swiveling chair, and sighed loudly. "Hank. Please. Do me favor."

"What's that?"

"Don't let South County burn to the ground with that pea brain of yours."

"Excuse me?"

Whitmore threw his hands in the air. "Okay, one more time!" He crabwalked his chair closer to Hank, so that he was practically between Hank's knees. "I got a call from Headquarters. They want you there by 14:30. You have an appointment with the Assistant Fire Chief, and the Battalion Chief for region 14. They already assigned you a replacement to come in an hour and a half before that, so you'll have time to get down there. Okay? You still with me?"

Hope began to billow up in Hank's chest. "They... they want to interview me for Station 51."

"Holy Hannah, he's still with me, there might be hope for us all yet," Whitmore said. "I want you to clear out for the day when your sub gets here, because chances are, he's going to complete the shift for you. You're cleared for full pay. Don't worry about switching hours, it's already been approved - hey, are you still-"

"Yes, yes, Channing, I'm listening," Hank said, growing more irritable by the second. "I'm hanging off your every word."

Captain Whitmore smirked again. "Yeah, you're gonna be okay, Hank."

Hank snorted. "Only if I get that promotion."

"Don't you like us anymore?"

"Sure, Cap. I just like them more."

"Ha ha. Finish playing with the hoses, Stanley. Then see to the rec room, since you're so fond of house work."

Hank wrinkled his nose, but he went on with his duties without complaint. A couple of linemen tried to find out what he'd done to earn a chewing out in the office, but one look from Hank, and everyone backed down and stayed far away.

It suited Hank just fine to have everyone thinking he was in hot water with Whitmore - at least that way he didn't have to worry about the other men prying into his personal business. As long as he was the pariah for the day, he didn't have to worry about letting slip his eight billion worries about his sudden interview.

It seemed so strange to Hank - he'd been called directly to schedule an interview for his current position. Why hadn't they called him at home? Or given him more than an hour's notice that he was being called to the floor? He had no time to prepare, no time to calm his jitters.

The buzzer sounded, indicating a visitor out front. Hank nearly jumped out of his skin, and half the company stared at him. He blushed and returned to tidying the day room, and pretended not to feel everyone's eyes on him.

A moment later, Whitmore came into the day room. "Stanley!" He made no effort to hide his laughter when Hank yelped and sent a stack of paper towels flying. "Dolan is here," Whitmore said, choking on his laughter.

"Well good for him! Now he gets to clean up this mess!"

Whitmore tried to put on a serious face. "Just a minute. I haven't dismissed you yet, Stanley."

Hank narrowed his eyes, crossed the room slowly, with measured steps, until he was toe to toe with Captain Whitmore. He drew himself up to his full height and narrowed his eyes at him. "The minute I see Dolan in his uniform, I'm gone for the day, no matter what the clock says, and no matter what you say."

Whitmore sighed. "Oh, pipe down. You're worse than any old woman. See," he said, and gestured towards the locker rooms. "Here comes - hey! I still haven't dismissed you!"

Hank nodded briskly at Dolan as they passed each other, and disappeared into the locker room before the Cap could finish whining. He grabbed his street clothes and made a move to fumble out of his uniform, but he paused. He was still technically on duty, and he was getting ready to meet potential new supervisors. He shoved his clothes into his dufflebag and turned his attention to the large mirror that lined the sides of the staggered lockers. He was presentable enough - nothing that he couldn't polish up when he got out of the car at FHQ. He swiped a sweat soaked hand through his unruly hair - he was overdue for a hair cut, and he knew it. Maybe he could find a barber - there might be time.

The klaxon sounded, a harsh noise in the echoing tile of the locker room, and Hank clapped his hands over his ears and turned to head towards the truck. He pulled up short as he saw Dolan jump into his seat and bring the big red fire engine to life. The other men scurried around to their respective posts, the bay doors opened, and Whitmore paused in his trot to the engine. He nodded once at Hank, and went on with his work.

Hank watched the three trucks lumber out of the service bay, and wondered if he was seeing the last of his company.

Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Henry.

Still, he felt a sudden closeness to the brush station. He began to peel out of his uniform, leaving pieces of his clothing behind in a long, blue trail, as he surveyed the structure all alone. Shoes, pants, socks, shirts - all went by the wayside, until he was alone by his bunk, the way God had made him.

The birds in the trees outside his window had built a nest, and in it, he could hear the high pitch squealing of baby birds, little naked mounds of flesh, squawking for a tidbit from a mama bird. He smiled at the sound, at the slight tremors that shook the nest, the only sight he had of the little ones.

Then he turned his back on the window, gathered up his discarded uniform, and took a cold, invigorating shower. He froze all the fears, the tremors, the doubts, and watched them slide down the drain. He was a fireman. He saved people from disasters that would make another man swoon and faint. He could handle a little interview.

Once he was certain he had control of his windmilling emotions, Hank returned to his locker and very carefully redressed in a fresh uniform. He brushed his still damp hair back away from his face. No need for a trim. No need to straighten up in the parking lot. He looked every bit the competent and progressive fireman. Satisfied, he gathered up his junk, went to his truck, and drove away.

Though he'd left a good thirty minutes before he'd expected Dolan to arrive, Hank didn't make it to Headquarters until a quarter to three, putting him almost fifteen minutes behind schedule. He jumped out of the car and ran to the front lobby, though he really didn't know if that was where he was supposed to be reporting. Problem solving, Henry, you're supposed to be a problem solver now. That's what captains do, they solve problems. He approached the only piece of furniture in the room, a huge desk that sat up on a platform, so that anyone seated there would be able to look the average fireman in the eye without moving a muscle. Behind it sat one lonely, shriveled up old man in a lineman's uniform. He was shuffling through a stack of papers, and looked for all the world like he'd rather be at home in bed for the rest of his days. Hank shrugged. "Uh, excuse me."

The old man looked up from his papers and eyed Hank suspiciously. "Help you?"

"I... yes. My name is Hank Stanley - uh, that is, Engineer Henry Stanley, I'm supposed to be interviewing today...?"

The old man didn't move. "Okay?"

Okay... "I... don't know where to go."

"Well who's interviewing you, Engineer?"

"Uh..."Fuck. "Um... the assistant fire chief... and... the... uh... battalion... for..."