My father hopped out of the rig, disregarding whatever I had to do and approached the two story white framed building with a pike pole. He’s an old timer now and shouldn’t be responsible of holding the water line. I don’t blame whoever was in charge of him. A fire scene isn’t like a movie. There is no loud music or crazy stunts. It’s a rather quiet sound with the sound of crackling wood and some water blasts hitting the walls. Every so often there will be a loud bang from somebody pulling a piece of ceiling down but for the most part, it’s a bunch of guys standing around a house looking up at it. The heat from the fire alone was warming my face like a blow drier even though I was sitting in the street, not to mention it ninety something degrees outside. I was sweating in my oversized turnout gear like a linebacker on the Atlanta Falcons and I wasn’t even doing anything. I was standing by the truck like a good little boy and I couldn’t wait to one day be doing the same thing as the rest of them.
No comments:
Post a Comment