Page 1 of Fire and Icing (The Firemen of Waterford TN #1)

Dustin

The smartest person can’t be the hero.

~ Chris Smitty

“Yes, Mom. I’ll text you as soon as my shift is over.” I stare out the windshield of my brand new pickup at the fire station.

The anodized aluminum letters over the two arched wooden bay doors in the brick building spell out WATERFORD FIRE STATION #1. Number one. We’re one of two stations in this town. And the other station, Station #2, is manned by part-timers and volunteers.

“Text me?” Mom says incredulously. “You’ll text me? After your first day on the job as an actual fireman?”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll call.”

“That’s more like it, Dustin. Don’t make me fly out there.”

“I most definitely won’t,” I say on a chuckle.

“Though, I will fly out there to visit. I’ve already bought my boots.”

“You don’t need boots to come to Tennessee, Mom. People wear regular shoes here.”

“I want you to count the number of flip-flops you see today and tell me if they wear regular shoes.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll have a few things ranking higher on my to-do list my first day as rookie. Besides, it’s not quite summer. I’m guessing flip-flops don’t come out in the rainy season.”

Mom tsks. She’s a Californian through and through. Anything east of the San Bernardino Mountains is uncharted territory.

“Well, go show them what you’re made of,” Mom says, her voice dripping with a sweet confidence I wish I could bottle up and chug right about now.

“I’ll do that,” I open the door to my truck and hop out. “I love you. Tell Mitzi, Stevens and Dad I send my love.”

“You can do that yourself on our group chat tonight.”

“You mean group text.”

We have a running family text thread that could be the stuff of a sitcom. The best part is Mom’s trendy teen catch phrases. She job shares at the local high school and insists on sounding like a page out of the Urban Dictionary, only she gets uses of the lingo out of context.

“Group call , Dustin. This time, we’re going to all be on a call. After all, you don’t start your career as a fireman every day.”

“Okay. Well, I’d better go.”

“Protect and serve, dear.”

“That’s the police.”

“Nonsense.”

“Right. Okay. Love you, Mom.”

I end the call and force my feet to walk toward the door to the left of the bays.

I’ve driven by here every day for the past four days since I flew into Nashville airport.

My plane landed in the dark of night, and my captain was waiting at the airport to meet me.

I was uncharacteristically quiet on the one-hour ride to his house, where I’m staying until I can find a place of my own.

All that travel left me acting like a puppy after a few hours at the dog park, deceptively tame and calm.

Captain will see my true nature now that I’m a little more rested. I’m still like a puppy, or at least that’s what my older brother, Stevens, says. Golden retriever through and through. My highest aim in life is making sure everyone gets along. I’m playful. Never met a stranger.

That’s at home, on Marbella Island, where I grew up.

We’ve had plenty of tourists come and go, but our community is essentially a small town.

Here, I’m the new kid in town, twenty-six going on twelve, if my age could be measured in the amount of nervous energy I’m experiencing.

I haven’t been this unsettled since I walked into junior high with the haircut Mom gave me the weekend before school started.

She meant well.

I looked like one of the Three Stooges, only with a mullet, and not in a let’s-bring-back-the-mullet kind of way.

I shake that image out of my head. I’m early for my first day, which should be a good thing.

With my hand on the knob of the station door, I take a deep breath. Box breathing is a technique we’re taught to employ if we need it to calm our nerves before going into a fire. It’s nearly impossible to be nervous while focusing on breathing. For an extra measure of protection, I start humming.

I’m doing this odd combination of humming and inhaling and holding my breath and exhaling when the door pops open and a tall, brown-haired man stares down at me.

“Rookie’s here!” he shouts over his shoulder.

I realize I’m still humming a moment too late. And then I let out a deep exhale. A weird noise comes out of my mouth and nose. One of the firefighter’s eyebrows cocks up high on his forehead. I hold his gaze. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Mom would say.

His eyebrow slowly lowers and he extends his hand to shake mine. “Come on in, Dustin. I’m Patrick.”

The sounds of boots clunking and chair legs scraping against the concrete floor in the room adjacent to this one tells me shift change is wrapping up.

In this front room, a desk sits off to the corner of the smallish space.

Our captain for this station, David, enters and takes a seat behind it in a worn, swiveling office chair.

A low file cabinet with a coffee maker on top of it sits against the wall next to him.

The main wall across from the desk boasts a map of Waterford.

Various regions are blocked off in different pastel colors.

Pins mark sites of previous major incidents, risk zones and significant water sources.

Men file into the room, greeting Patrick and eyeing me.

One of the older men walks past me toward the front door. “Best of luck, Rookie,” his voice is sincere and his smile is warm. But the wink he gives me sends chills down my spine.

I stand a little straighter while the other four men on his shift follow him out the door, each one clapping me on the back or saying something brief to welcome me.

Each of these men were the newbie at one time or another. They all lived to tell about it. So will I. I’ve been trained in the academy. I volunteered on fires in California. I know more than a lot of new guys on their first day.

My new crew stands around the office, which feels as if it’s shrinking by the second.

There’s a warmth among these men, a professionalism, but also the feeling of being around a band of brothers.

I’m like Tiny Tim, peering in the window at their camaraderie.

For now. I’ll earn my place at the table.

I’ve been working toward this for years.

David, our captain, gives me a small, nearly imperceptible grin.

I stayed at his home the past three nights, though I barely saw him over the weekend.

I was out at the additional required training I needed to be able to transfer from the academy in California to being a full-time employee in Tennessee.

David’s wife fixed me breakfast early this morning.

His daughter drew me a picture of a fire truck and what I assume is me standing next to it, and left it on my bed last night to wish me good luck on my first day.

David’s toddler, Benjamin, drooled on me while I held him so Lyndsay could cook us dinner Saturday night.

I’m not sure if anyone here knows that our captain and his wife are putting me up until I find an apartment.

Securing my own place to live just bumped up to item number one on my to-do list.

“Welcome to Station Number One,” David says, cordially.

“Thank you, Captain,” I answer him. “Uh, Chief. Erm … Captain.”

Snickers and light chuckles spread through the other three firefighters like a flame along a thread.

“Men, introduce yourselves to Dustin,” Captain David instructs the remaining crew of three men standing around me.

“I’m Chad,” says the light-brown haired man with skin that looks like he spends most of his time outdoors.

The other guys snicker.

The one who hasn’t introduced himself yet doesn’t smile, but he mutters, “Such a Chad.”

I get the feeling this guy is not named Chad, so I just stick out my hand and say, “Nice to meet you.”

I’m the youngest brother in my family. Looking around the room at the expressions on these guys’ faces, I’m certain of one thing: My new crew is about to have some fun at my expense.

I’ve prepared myself for this moment the best I could.

I’m a good sport. I can dish it out, and I can take it.

But this—this job—matters more than anything else up to this point in my life—anything but my music.

How I show up today will set the tone for the coming weeks, months, even years. A lot rides on my first impression.

“I’m Greyson,” the more serious sandy-brown haired firefighter says to me.

His hair is tousled, but that’s the only thing out of order about him. He’s got a stern jaw and broad forehead and he’s built like he could take me on and possibly win. I’ve always been referred to as bulky or built. This guy looks like he could bench most of the other guys in the station.

Greyson doesn’t smile. Instead, he studies me, blatantly sizing me up.

“I’ll show you to your locker,” Patrick says.

The guys disperse, each to whatever task they have to get done.

Before I started as a volunteer back in California, I imagined guys sitting around the station playing video games or watching movies, just waiting on a call.

I had no idea the list of tasks firefighters accomplish on the daily.

The academy opened my eyes to real life at a fire station.

It’s an odd combination of orderly and unpredictable.

No day is the same, but whenever possible, the routine is followed with military rigor.

I follow Patrick through the building out toward the bays.

A large truck and engine are parked side by side on the concrete floor.

Along one wall are lockers where each man keeps his turnout gear.

Next to the lockers, they’ve taped a piece of paper with the printed words: We fight fires, save kittens, and show rookies the ropes (and the mop).

I point to it and glance at Patrick.

“All true. Except the kittens. Most of them save themselves.”

His grin is wide.

I smile back at him. “Better get this over with.”