The Bravest

II

"Hey Baler, you check those plugs yet?"

"Jesus, I checked the damn plugs already. I told you that."

Michael looked up, two men clambering around the pumper truck. One of the steel plates on the side of the pumper was rolled up, the tools inside exposed. One of the men, Baler, was pulling out pieces, cataloging them. The other, Scott, was pulling out a small hose from the side of the garage, getting ready to spray down the vehicle.

Scott laughed at Baler's sudden anger, held up his hands. "Sorry I asked, bro."

Baler shook his head. "Ain't your fault, man. I'm just tired. Always so damn tired."

Scott nodded. "Amen, dude."

Michael looked back down, a white rag in his hand, shining the ladder truck's insignia. The numbers and words were embroidered with gold, gleamed under the lights. The garage held two trucks, the pumper and ladder. They were the only men in there now, more men inside, most probably in the kitchen, cups of coffee, likely a box of Dunkin' Donuts, a guilty pleasure of the men. The garage doors were closed, successfully blotting out most of the noise of the busy city, some of the most blaring of horns still making their way in.

Michael blinked a few times, still trying to wipe away the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, the late night that had only ended a half dozen hours before. He had a small headache, a low throb that wasn't unbearable but a nuisance, one too many drinks. His eyes fell to his watch, only 8:30, thirty minutes into his shift, Doughtman letting him off at twelve if nothing significant came up. He was looking forward to that, a few hours alone to spend with his wife before Sammy came home from school. Maybe he'd take a nap. He was planning to take the family out to dinner, what would be a surprise to both his wife and son, Outback Steakhouse, a family favorite.
"Hey looey," one of the guys on the pumper said, Michael looking up again, another quick bout of blinks, a flare up of the headache.

"Yeah?" Michael responded, careful to keep the pain from his voice. He had been promoted to lieutenant nearly a year before, had been a firefighter for nearly a decade and a half, fourteen years as Doughtman had said, had never gone to college, going straight into the firefighting business instead.

"What about the Yankees and White Socks today? How much you think the Yanks will beat 'em?" Scott said, his head poking up from behind the pumper truck.

Michael shook his head, looked back down, continued to shine the ladder truck.

"I don't follow baseball much."

"Bullshit."

Michael looked back up, raised his eyebrows. Scott laughed.

"Fine," Michael conceded with a smile. "I bet the Yankees will have 'em begging by the fifth inning."

Scott shrugged. "Alright. I'll say the fourth."

Michael turned back to his work, shook his head. "You do that, Scott."

He heard Scott chuckling behind the truck.

Michael tried to go back to shining, his eyelids falling a bit, the tiredness not slacking any, a break necessary. He stepped back, looked over his shoulder towards Baler and Scott. Baler, a stain of sweat down the front of his t-shirt, looked up, his gaze looking with Michael's. Baler smiled. "Late night, Lieutenant?"

Michael smiled too, shook his head, a glance at the floor. "Too late. Should've just taken the whole day off. Ashley would've appreciated that more."

Baler laughed, shook his own head. "Damn, I can't even imagine Sue's face if I told her I had a day off. We've been so busy lately."

"Agreed. The city's always up to something."