Broken Glass
The sky was still purple and star speckled when Hank arrived at the fire station. It was ridiculously early, too early to walk inside, but he couldn't sleep another moment in that paper box of a motel room. The carousing and merrymaking that seemed to go on non stop had been perfectly tolerable on a Friday and Saturday night, but rather than turn in for a respectable Monday morning, the partiers seemed to crank their joy up by about a thousand, as if they were going to their slaughter come morning, instead of just to work. The sleep Hank did get was fitful, and filled with dreams of burning ball rooms and cars plowing full speed into crowded dance floors. The third time he was awakened by shrill screams and raucous laughter, he gave up and drove on over to 51s. He could sleep better curled up in the back of his truck, even with the damp marine layer that moved in from from the south facing beaches just a few miles away.
He dozed lightly, half afraid there'd be a call out and he'd have to face the music alone, half afraid that if he slept too deeply he'd sleep right through the morning tones, the change of guard, and his own damned roll call. But the night died away peacefully, and the morning tones blared loud and clear and obnoxious as ever. Hank popped up out of the truck bed, threw off the blanket he'd stolen from the hotel, grabbed his bag, and vaulted over the the side of the truck. Time to get to work.
The back bay door was rolled shut. No bueno. Hank walked back down the long, narrow driveway, searching for a side door that would offer him entry to the fire station. He found it almost all the way down to the front again, half buried in the bushes. He tested the door gingerly, and was surprised when it opened for him. He supposed he shouldn't have been since it was a fire station, and not a bank. They certainly hadn't locked up at the brush station. But there was next to nobody out there where he'd been stationed before. He expected a greater concern for security, to match the greater population in the general area.
He glanced at the street. There were no cars parked out front. There were no houses in the immediate area. The nearest fuel station was a block away, and angled to be convenient to the 405 freeway which ran practically through the station's backyard. The nearest diner was catacorner to the gas station, and, again, meant for the convenience of motorists traveling the 405. Everything else was industry - either for the refinery that seemed to stretch on to forever across the street, or some variety of machine shop for every product imaginable. 223rd Street was an urban desert-scape, but instead of low scrubby brush and fine silty sand, there were bits and bolts of metal and hard, bumpy asphalt. It was just as devoid of human life as the semi-paved road to 21's had been. There was no more reason for 51s to lock their doors than there had been for 21s.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen. Everything was neat as a pin. It seemed less inviting than it had when he'd visited just a few days ago. Why? Because now he was expected to be the big man in charge? He shook himself. It was too early in the morning for all this damned worrying.
He could hear water running faintly, and the rustle of people trooping towards the rec room. Panic seized him, but he schooled his face into calm, and reminded himself that he was a fireman - a fire officer - and he belonged here.
Well, a probationary fire officer, anyway.
A pair of young men stepped into the kitchen, yawning and tugging on suspenders that seemed to tangle in their sleep heavy arms. They got all the way to the stove before realizing they weren't alone. They stopped and stared at Hank. The taller of the two, an acne scarred young man with bright green eyes and stringy hair broke the silence. "Hello...?"
Hank smiled. "Good morning. Where's your captain?"
The second, a short, muscle bound black man with skin like honey and eyes like a tiger, smiled grimly. "Shower," he said. "He'll be with you in a while. Gotta finish the inspection and all that."
Hank's smile faltered. "Inspection?"
The two firemen looked at each other. "Yeah," the first one said. "He always inspects the vehicles before debriefing."
"It's what makes us the most efficient crew in the County," the second one said. He didn't sound particularly proud.
Hank raised an eyebrow. "Are you the most efficient crew?"
The first one shrugged. "Doubt it. We're probably the most harried crew."
"Cool it, the shower stopped."
The door swung open, and another fireman in turnout pants and a t-shirt burst in. "Where's the coffee? I don't want another - oh, hi. Who's this guy?"
The first two shrugged. "Don't know," Tiger Eyes said, "but he wants to know where Cap is."
The third man looked him up and down. "He's getting dressed and coming this way, and if there isn't coffee on soon, nobody is going to have a good day until A-shift arrives."
Hank smiled easily. "Well, A-shift has arrived. Where do you keep the grounds? I'll start the coffee."
At first, all three men looked confused, but then Scarface smiled widely. "Ohhhh, you must be the new Cap!" Then his smile dropped. "I'll make the coffee. You want to make our lives easier, go get dressed and cut him off at the pass. He gets weird about a change in the routine."
Hank swallowed. He'd hoped talking to the previous shift captain would give him a sense of calm, help him ease into place with an idea of what in the blue hell he was supposed to be doing. But instead, he was getting even more nervous - a fireman that's weird about changes in routine? What in the hell did that even mean? How did a fire station have a routine day? Their whole job involved dealing with things completely out of the ordinary!
He hefted his bag onto his shoulder, and left the rec room without another word, though. He was a good fireman, and a good leader, and he had the vote of several well respected fire officers that he was a good fit for the job. He could do this. Hank crossed the bay as quickly as he could, and ducked into the locker room.
He could hear the shower running again. Another man in slacks and undershirt stood over the row of sinks, and carefully lathered his chin. Hank looked at the slacks in surprise, and wondered why in the world he was changing into his day uniform when he was only going to be on duty for another couple of hours. He had to be part of the departing shift, because Hank didn't recognize him. Unless he was supposed to be another sub for DeSoto. Except, why wouldn't the man just have shaved and dressed at home? Bizarre.
The man must have felt Hank's curiosity, because they locked eyes in the mirror for a long moment. Then the man nodded a silent greeting, before returning his attention to his shaving kit.
Hank went on back to back row of lockers, where he could hide away from unfamiliar eyes. He peeled out of his threadbare jeans and sweatshirt, and sent up a silent prayer to the patron saint of pressed clothing before opening up his too-small duffel bag. His uniform had been carefully folded and rolled into a compact parcel before he'd stuffed it in the bag, in an attempt to minimize wrinkling and inappropriate crease lines, but it wasn't a fool proof way to pack. The shirt was alright, but the pants needed a little help. He tried to press out some of the more obvious wrinkles with his hand, but all he wound up doing was smearing a stripe of sweat down one pants leg. He shook out the offending leg with a sigh, as if that would some how magically dry up the slight dark patch and smooth out any wrinkles. It didn't. Well. Nothing for it but to move on, and to hope that his men would be too worried about making a good impression to notice his leg. He snatched up his bag and headed towards the sinks again.
When he got there,the shaving man was no longer alone. He'd been joined at the mirror by a smallish middle aged man who looked like he hadn't had a good, long dump since 1952. The constipated man had a paper towel tucked into his collar, and was clipping his bangs with tiny sharp shears, just like a good barber would. Hank watched with fascination that bordered on morbid as the man carefully gathered up the toweling full of pale trimmings, and eased them away from his uniform.
Then the constipated man noticed Hank's reflection. He looked pointedly at the reflection Hank's bag, still slung over his shoulder, before looking up at the reflection of Hank's face. "Who are you?"
Hank raised an eyebrow. "Hank Stanley."
The man frowned a little, before turning around to face him. "I see. I assume you're with the A-shift, then?"
Hank spotted the pins on the man's collar, and swallowed a dismayed groan. "You must be Captain Hookraider," he said with a smile he didn't feel at all.
Hookraider nodded, eyebrows raised. "Yes, yes I am, but that still doesn't tell me-"
"I haven't gotten my bugles yet," Hank said. "I need a locker, and I'd like to get settled, and find out if there's anything important I need to pass on to my shift."
Hookraider blinked. His mouth worked like a fish. He obviously wasn't used to being interrupted. "I... usually discuss that with the shift captain."
Hank couldn't help the sigh that escaped. He took his bag back to his truck - it'd be safe enough there. He was tempted to hide away in the truck with it, until shift change, but he knew he couldn't do that - not on his very first day. He kicked one of the tires and groaned. "I hate probation." The truck didn't answer. Hank rolled his eyes and returned to the rec room. Maybe a cup of coffee would cheer him up - or at least ward off the dark clouds rolling over his heart.
Four men sat around the kitchen table, holding mugs of coffee, and trying not to look obviously at the clock. The fifth arrived, likely fresh from the shower, and poured himself a cup, then sat down at the table with the other four, and proceeded to look worriedly at the clock. They looked like a bunch of nervous hens.
Suddenly, Hank was homesick for his old station. He missed Whitmore and the guys terribly - he'd thought himself the odd man out for so long, he thought he'd be thrilled to get a fresh start somewhere else. But instead, all he was really seeing was that his last captain - and quite a few before him, in fact - had been wonderful men to work under. There was no way in the world a whole crew of five firemen could all have the same nervous disposition, and still be certified firefighters.
"Good morning, men!"
The crew got to their feet in an instant. Hank turned around to see the small, constipated looking Hookraider looking pleased as punch at their ramrod straight posture. "You have your assignments, men. And if I don't see you before shift change, good day, and thank you for your service!" Then he turned a hawkish eye to Hank. "Come into the office," he said, and turned on his heel.
The old familiar worry tried to get a foothold - nothing like getting called into the captain's office first thing in the morning to really demoralize a man, after all. But he pushed the worry aside. The captain's office was now his office.
Unless, of course, he wasn't actually supposed to have reported to 51s this morning. Maybe he was supposed to go to HQ? On a scale of one to ten, how big a blunder would that be? Hank figured on about thirty-five, just to be on the safe side. But, no, he was being on the safe side - if he was supposed to be at some kind of class, the worst that would happen was he'd be a little late to the class. If he was supposed to be here, and hadn't shown up, the worst that would happen was there'd be a fire and the station would roll without its immediate coordinating officer. On the blunder scale of one to ten, that'd probably rate about a million.
"Shut the door," Hookraider said when they got in the tiny office. "Wait here." Hank kicked the door closed and watched as the captain settled into the far desk tucked into the corner, before he perched himself on the corner of the desk closest to the door. Hank was becoming restless and irritable - time was ticking away from them. They could have another run before the end of the shift, and this guy was wasting time fiddling with notebooks and making phone calls-
Hank heard his name, and leaned forward to listen more intently to Hookraider's end of the call. - Headquarters. Chief Connor. Confirming a new officer. Probation? - Hookraider grew quiet. He turned and looked at Hank with a respectful gaze. Whatever it was HQ was saying seemed to settle Hookraider down quite a bit. Finally, he hung up, and got to his feet. "Well, it seems you've been fast-tracked to the big time, Captain Stanley," Hookraider said. "You understand my confusion, of course. No identification."
Hank smiled thinly, but didn't get up from his seat. He could look the other man in the eye better that way. "I don't have my bugles yet."
Hookraider smiled. "You said that!" He pointed to the desk Hank was perched on. "This is your desk. All that means is this is the desk where you'll keep your particular pens, and where you'll probably keep your mug. You'll use everything in this office - it's a cramped space, so we all must use our resources to the utmost efficiency!"
Hank nearly crossed his eyes in the effort to not roll them to the back of his head, but he let Hookraider give him an overly detailed tour of the office before finally settling down to discuss the shift change. As it was, there wasn't much to discuss. Hookraider, after all, was a master of efficiency. He was so efficient, that he began to hand out advice on how to handle the crew once the day started, before Hank could even begin to ask him about it. "Keep them busy, and stay on top of regulation! Don't look at it as a lot of spit and polish - there's a reason the fire service is a paramilitary organization!"
"Okay," was all Hank said.
"Remember - keep your men in line! That's the key."
Hank thought of the stony faced men in the kitchen holding onto cooling cups of coffee, and wondered how efficient it was to make coffee that no one would drink. "Okay."
"And don't be tempted to get too chummy with the men - biggest rookie mistake, I see it all the time. I've done it myself, in the very beginning, before I realized how much damage it would cause. Don't do it."
Too late, Hank thought, as he remembered the sassy note he'd scrawled on the blackboard a few days ago. "Okay."
"And stop looking so dazed - remember, you're the leader! If you look like you don't know what you're doing, how can you expect the men to follow you into a fire?"
Hank couldn't help the response that burst from his lips. "Because we're trained firemen and they'd damn well better follow me into a fire if that's where I tell 'em to go?"
Hookraider stood there and blinked for a long minute, before finally dissolving into surprised laughter. "Oh, to be young again. Congratulations, Captain Stanley. Good luck with your first day. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a cup of coffee waiting for me in the rec room."
Hank breathed a sigh of relief as Hookraider left him alone in the office. His first change of shift meeting hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd hoped, but what did? He was no closer to his answer of how to approach the men, either, but he did know one thing - he knew there was no way in hell he was going to be a master of efficiency, not if it meant keeping his crew on pins and needles. There had to be another way to win their respect, and he was going to spend his first day figuring out how.
A slight rap at the door broke through Hank's hazy visions of uniformed children swinging from proverbial rafters. He looked up and saw one of the fellows from his shift leaning into the doorway, still in his street clothes. "Nervous?"
Hank started to answer no, wanting to seem stalwart and impervious to first day jitters, but he paused. Why begin a relationship with a lie? "I feel like I'm gonna pass out," he said, and smiled broadly. "And I've already forgotten your name."
"Stoker. Michael. Mike." Stoker Michael Mike smiled back. "How nervous were you when you made Engineer?"
Hank leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ink blotter on the desk. He was surprised by the question, surprised that it hadn't occurred to him to even think of that first day. "Pretty nervous. I was scared I was gonna jump the curb when I first pulled out of the station."
"Figured your captain wouldn't like it, huh?"
Hank chuckled. "I know he wouldn't."
"Well, you're the captain now. If you do something the chief wouldn't like, at least he's not riding shotgun next to you, right?"
Hank blinked and stared at Stoker. "You know what? I never thought of that!"
Stoker nodded. "Don't worry, I've been thinking about it all night. I've been driving the truck for this station ever since it opened, but today I've got the same jitters I had when I first got promoted. I keep thinking today's the day I'm gonna broadside a commuter bus, while all eyes are on the station."
"Don't say that! You'll jinx us!"
Stoker looked at Hank for a minute, and nodded. "I think we're all gonna get along just fine," he said, and headed towards the back to change.