Volunteer Fire Fighters

What I remember most about my college experience at Franklin Pierce College is not the classes, friendships, professors, or graduation. It is the campus Volunteer Fire Fighters Club. What could possibly be the reason for this? I'm glad you asked. Two vivid memories stick out among the many.

When I was a sophomore I got screwed and was forced into the Freshman dorms. Not only are they co-ed, small (12' x 10' for 2 people), old, dirty, and dilapidated, but they also had the added bonus of housing the campus fire truck in the basement. At any given time of day or night, a fire truck engine could be heard roaring to life and a siren start to wail directly beneath the dorm. It was utterly deafening. The sound would reverberate though the hallways and creep into our tiny rooms and echo so loudly that we all but had to evacuate until the fire truck pulled out of the basement garage.

If it all possible, the fire truck was in even worse shape than the dormitory that housed it. Circa 1930—it had original parts. Boxy, clunky, and faded red, a replacement step ladder strapped to the top, old hoses, rusty brass and nickle handle bars for riding on the side, and gold lettering that used to read FIRE DEPARTMENT before mostly succumbing to old age—now all that remains is FIR MENT. I used to marvel at this antiquity when in the basement doing my laundry right next to this behemoth. Dodging its falling down parts and sharp bits sticking out—like some twisted coral reef. It even has a distinct smell. Something akin to mustard and diesel fuel. If there was ever a fire emergency you didn't even need the siren of the fire truck to announce its immenent arrival, you could simply smell the noxious exhaust fumes pouring out of its economy sized tailpipe or see the black cloud that followed it.

Franklin Pierce is a small school, housing roughly 1,500 students total. How could there possibly be enough fires to merit a Volunteer Fire Department on campus? Simple. Most of the fire emergencies were caused by the Fire Department.

The first time I had the pleasure of witnessing the utter ineptitude of the Fire Club, was in the dead of Winter in 2002. New Hampshire winters are brutal. One January morning as my roommate and I were sound asleep we were awakened by the building's fire alarm. At first we thought it was the fire truck's siren, but this shrill was coming from the hallway accompanied by flashing lights. In our pajamas we went out into the hallway to see all the groggy, confused Freshmen stumbling out of their rooms. Unsure if it was a prank, we lingered in the hallway in a daze until over a bull-horn we heard one of the student Fire Fighters yell THIS IS NOT A DRILL. EXIT THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. THERE IS A FIRE IN THE BASEMENT. REMAIN CALM.

We all quickly ran down the 4 flights of stairs and out into the courtyard a safe distance from the building. A dark Winter's night with only some dim street lights on, we could just make out thick, dark smoke pouring out of the basement windows from the laundry room.

Several more Fire Fighters arrived on the scene and were conferring on their next steps. RA's were taking roll call for their floors to make sure no students were missing. Everyone was starting to panic about all the stuff they had left in their dorm rooms to burn. I had nothing of value and I was freezing to the bone, so I started walking way from the courtyard and towards the next building, hoping to take warm solace in the lobby.

Halfway to the next building I looked back as I heard one of the firefighters start calling out orders to attach a hose to the fire hydrant in front of the dorm. Under the circumstances I was impressed with how quickly and calmly they were working. I could see a hose being set up and the loud clank of a wrench being used on a rusty hydrant. This is actually kinda cool. I thought. I've never seen a big fire being put out in person. I continued into the lobby of the neighboring building. Warmth flooded over me and I had a fantastic view of the unfolding scene. Off to the side, I could see the smokey building, the fire fighters directly infront of it finishing up the hose attachment, and the sea of Freshmen a safe 20 yards behind them watching intently.

The scene that unfolded will stay with me long into senility. A Fire Fighter holding the nozzle of the hose shouted OPEN IT UP and they let loose the hydrant valve. A tidal wave of unabated water flooded out of the open fire hydrant—directly into the crowd of shivering students. The blast was so strong that it knocked several unsuspecting kids right off their feet. Most were screaming and running away in their soaked pajamas, underwear, and slippers. No water was flowing out of the fire hose. I couldn't help laughing as I watched my building going up in smoke, a sea of half-naked students being sprayed with icy water, and a band of Fire Fighters now starting to argue over what to do next.

Eventually the actual city Fire Department was called in to rescue the scene. It was discovered that there was no fire at all. Somebody had left the old fire truck in the basement running all night and the fumes finally erupted out of a cracked window. The building had to be treated for carbon monoxide disposal and many of the students for hypothermia. It still brings a smile to my face thinking about it.

The other major fire emergency that comes to mind was in my junior year, while living in a much nicer building where all the apartments had 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and 2 bathrooms for 4 students. I lived with other gay boys and metrosexuals so our apartments was kept pretty clean. Across the hall however were some slovenly girls. Whenever their door was opened I could see the beer cans, ashtrays, and trash littering their living room floor as well as their mountain of dishes piled in the sink.

One day the smoke alarm in their kitchen started to go off. I went out into the hallway between our apartments and knocked on their door. A disheveled girl answered and apologized for the alarm—that there was no need to worry, she was just cooking something on the stove top and it was getting smokey. I said it was no problem at all and returned to my apartment.

A couple minutes later I returned and knocked on her door after the alarm was still sounding. She opened it to reveal a small fire erupting from a frying pan on the stove top.

"I don't know whats happening. I was just making stir fry and the pan's on fire!" She shouted over the alarm.

As if hearing her distress call, a volunteer Fire Fighter charged through the hallway looking for the source of the alarm which he had been notified of. He brushed past us into the kitchen, took one look at the situation and began immediate action. First he turned the gas stove top off. Then he removed the flaming, slowly-melting pan from the burner and put it into the sink area. The sink was so totally full of dishes that there was no room for it to actually fit under the faucet. Instead he reach around the dirty dish pile, turned the water on, and grabbed the extendable faucet hose intending to spray down the flames.

At this point I interjected with "I don't think you're supposed to use water on a grease fire!" But I don't think I was heard over the sounding alarm.

He sprayed the pan and the flames exploded upward to ignite the particle board cabinetry above the sink. Quickly it began spreading into a formiddable blaze.

"SHIT!" He screamed and ordered us to evacuate while he called for help on his walkie talkie.

The building was evacuated and we all watched from outside as the girls' apartment went up like tinder. I'm sure all of the booze lying around the kitchen and living room didn't help matters any. Again, the city Fire Department was called in to the rescue. Aside from a blackened kitchen and living room, the apartment was otherwise untouched and nobody was harmed.

The fire extinguisher located in their living room was also unharmed. Thank goodness.

Letter to Dole

Dear Dole,

I must say I am disappointed.

I used to feel nothing but confidence when eating your fruit products. Now, I am racked with doubt. My faith in you has been shaken to its apple core. What's happened to my adoration of you? Don't play dumb, you know what you did. No? Fine, let me explain.

The other morning, I was devouring one of your prepackaged fruit products for breakfast. I love fruit, and I loved Dole. Your products always tasted fresh and sweet—from your bananas down right down to your tiny, adorable cans of pineapple juice. I mean seriously, how cute are those things? Even without the vodka I put in mine, they taste pretty good. I like your bright packaging, your affordability, and even your logo—"Dole" spelled out with a sunburst coming out of the "o". Simple, cute, organic, and best of all—an American company. One of those precious few American companies I can feel good about buying products from. It's not that I feel American products are superior to imports—I simply like to support American businesses, workers, and prevent unnecessary wasted resources in shipping something that can be made locally.

While eating my Dole "Diced Apples in light syrup" I was reading the packaging. To my horror, I discovered the sad truth to your little fly-by-night operation. "APPLES FROM CHINA" caught my eye first. Then "Packed in Thailand." Followed by "Manufactured by Dole Packaged Foods, LLC. Westlake Village, CA."

Let me see if I understand you Dole—it takes 3 countries to produce diced apples in light syrup? Are Chinese apples somehow superior to those found all across America? Do the Thai people have an unrivaled knack for packing Chinese apples? And then what exactly happens in California if the apples have already been picked, packed, and shipped? What does "manufactured" mean? You pour some sugar water into the container and call it "light syrup" then ship it off to grocery stores? I could understand all this shipping rigamarole if we were talking about a tropical fruit not native to the U.S., but we're talking about apples. I live in Massachusetts—birthplace of Johnny Appleseed. He would roll in his grave if he knew you were importing foreign apples. That is, If he has a grave? He may have been cremated...or killed. How DID Johnny Appleseed die? Oh well, it doesn't matter, in any event I'm sure he'd be furious. Now where was I...? Oh, right, your faulty, underhanded business dealings.

I continued to read the product packaging and saw the green text box containing "For more than 100 years, Dole has been committed to our environment, our employees and the communities in which we operate. To learn how, please visit www.dole.com." And so I did.

Far from redeeming yourselves, you maddened me further. The first attempt to visit dole.com crashed my computer after trying to load your site's layers of php, javascript, actionscript, and who knows what else—perhaps a virus? Some spyware? The second time your website opened only to reveal a crazy-looking, irritating, talking woman holding a colander full of strawberries (no doubt  picked from Abu Dhabi, shipped from Turkey, manufactured in southern California, then shipped by airmail to northern California to your studio) and sipping on a strawberry smoothie (courtesy of Australia). I perused the entirety of your website. You certainly give yourselves a big pat on the back for how environmentally friendly and socially responsible you are. Page after page of praising your renewable farming practices, fair treatment of overseas employees, and giving back to your community. Which community are you giving back to exactly? The community that does the picking, the packing, the purchasing, the shipping, or the manufacturing?

Mayhaps you are the world's best company as your website claims—but you've made me a skeptic. How can I possibly eat the fruit of a company I can't trust? A bitter harvest indeed. There are other fish in sea, Dole. I'm sure Del Monte or Chiquita would be glad to have me. How do you like them apples?

Bad Michael

I spent most of my childhood naked.

Not for the typical reasons like those of other children who could just rip off their Sesame Street clothes and run around in the buff simply because they can get away with it—they are young and cute. I, however, was an unfortunate looking child. I was also mostly nude until the age of 4—far past the cute, naked cut-off. It didn't help that I was also awkward, painfully shy, a momma's boy, and was always sporting rainbow stickers, bracelets, and necklaces (my "pretties" I called them.)

My brother Brett, older than me by 2 years, was quite the opposite. Adorable kid, outgoing, confident, and with lots of friends. But, I guess he didn't have quite enough friends to suit him, so he invented one more—Bad Michael. Bad Michael started out fairly innocent. My parents would discover Brett alone in his room with a box of crayons dumped out onto the floor.

"Brett, pick up your mess and wash your hands for dinner," they'd say.

"But it's not my mess...it's Bad Michael's." And so it began.

This new development of my brother's was amusing and only mildly concerning at first. Lots of kids have imaginary friends—his just happened to be evil.

Well, the scapegoating of Bad Michael continued to grow, rather than dissipate as my parents had hoped. We had two geese in an enclosed pond in our backyard—Myra and Ira. I hated them. They scared me with their loud honking and they were very territorial of their little pen. Bad Michael caught wind of my fear and enjoyed locking me in their pen with them. Inside the house my parents couldn't hear my sobs of distress. Myra and Ira didn't like my intrusions and would chase me around the pond, honking at me and goosing my behind. To hurry things along, Bad Michael would have a handful of bread crumbs at the ready, to douse me with and work the geese up into a frenzy. They loved bread and if mauling a small child was the only way to get it—so be it. To further reward them for their attacks, Bad Michael would feed them some more bread by hand after they had sufficiently gored me.

Brett would lead me back inside the house to present to my parents, sniffling and sobbing. "The geese don't like Josh," Brett would say.

"What happened?! How did he get in?!" they'd demand.

"Bad Michael shut him in."

Now, I don't know what it was like to be a busy parent in the early 80's—whether imaginary friends were considered healthy or something to be stopped immediately, but my parents had already had enough nonsense and decided to tell it to my brother straight.

"Bad Michael isn't real," they said gently.

"He IS real! HE'S REAL!" Brett shouted, and proceeded to throw a tantrum the likes of which had never been seen in our house before.

My parents were taken aback. I was usually the cry-baby, not Brett. He hadn't cried much since he was an infant. It was too much to take and so they back-peddled.

"Well...maybe he is real...but maybe he could be Good Michael instead?" they encouraged.

With sobs fading, "I'll ask him about it."

Despite my brother's pleading with him, Bad Michael continued to be bad. Like Picasso's Blue Period, so began my Nude Period. Bad Michael developed a fondness for tearing my clothes off in the most public of places. As soon as my parents' backs were turned, my clothes came off. And as soon as my clothes came off, I'd go running off—primarily to get away from my psychotic brother. I was also a sucker for anything shiny—my brother merely had to point to something with sparkles and off I'd go in hot pursuit. My bare ass was seen running through malls, parking lots, grocery stores, restaurants, nursing homes, and down any given sidewalk of our small town. The locals began to know me as "the naked kid." My parents were, of course, horrified. At pretty much every family outing, an announcement would be heard over the store PA system or intercom, "Would the owner of a naked boy please come to customer service?" My brother would just topple over with laughter every time.

Some of the more embarrassing moments involved the police. On one of my Bad Michael-induced runs down our busy street, a squad car pulled over and apprehended me. Word had gotten around about "the naked kid" by then, and so they knew exactly where to deliver me. The sight of their 3-year old being delivered to their doorstep naked by the police was enough to make my parents snap. They doled out all sorts of punishments to my poor innocent brother as the unsuspecting emissary of Bad Michael. Spankings were administered, toys were taken away, the television was shut off, friends were exiled, and he was locked in his room for hours. I think this only had the adverse effect of giving him more time to plot with his new demonic playmate.

The first family road trip we had since Bad Michael's inception ended in tears all around. I don't even remember the destination, but I know it was supposed to be somewhere fun—like Story Land or Six Flags. This was long before the days of cell phones or GPS devices. We had a giant fold-out map of New England's major roads and that was it. Bless his heart, my father is a terrible driver. He doesn't pay attention to the road, signs, other cars, what lane he's in, or anything else besides NPR on the radio.

Of course halfway through our trip we were lost on the wrong highway and weren't even sure what state we were in. Suspecting something was amiss, my mother ordered my father to pull over so she could look at the map. As we were pulling over into the breakdown lane, Bad Michael snatched the road map from the backseat compartment and tossed it out the open window. Off it fluttered into a swamp. My parents charged out of the car after it, not realizing how wet and muddy the ground on the roadside was. Seizing his opportunity, Bad Michael undid my seatbelt, tore off my clothes, and shoved me outside onto the highway.

Down the highway I ran, not a care in the world. Shiny cars flew by me, swerving around me and honking like the geese I was so familiar with. I'm not sure what honking at a toddler is supposed to accomplish but it did at least alert my parents who turned around to see me jetting down I-95 with no clothes on. Abandoning their pursuit of the map, they chased me down the interstate, screaming and covered in mud. What onlookers of this family affair must have thought, I can't imagine. Probably, thank God that's not us. When we were safely back in the car and my parents caught their breath, the classic threat actually came to life—they did in fact turn the car around and drive home.

Therapy wasn't as mainstream in the mid 80s as it is today. I don't think it occurred to my parents to seek counseling for the Bad Michael dilemma. Time continued to pass and more stress was put on the family. Bad Michael began issuing demands.

"From now on, Bad Michael's not gonna eat anything unless its the right color," Brett declared one morning. "Today he wants everything green and says I can't eat stuff thats not the right color either."

"Fine," countered Mom, "Don't eat."

And he didn't. He didn't eat for three days until my parents caved in. We can't let him starve, and what's the harm in it really? We'll put food coloring in everything. 


So Bad Michael won again. The entire family had to suffer through red eggs, orange oatmeal, purple toast, yellow meatloaf, and pink potatoes. And, we had to wash it all down with blue milk. We went through food coloring like it was Easter year-round. We also went through babysitters at an unusually high rate. Kim, Stephanie, Mrs. Robins, Loise, and Andrea all lasted no longer than a few days each. Eventually our grandmother was the only one who would agree to watch us when my parents needed a break. Remarkably, Bad Michael never introduced himself to her. I think what finally made Bad Michael disappear was Santa Claus.

"You know Brett, Santa doesn't leave toys for bad boys and girls," Grandma would say from her rocking chair.

"I know Gramma, thats why I've been good this year," He'd say sweetly.

"But I hear you are friends with a bad boy—Bad Michael is it? Well I don't think Santa would be very happy to hear that, would you? I would stop playing with anyone who was naughty before I got a lump of coal in my stocking," she would whisper to him.

Bad Michael kept reappearing for the rest of the year, leading me into the woods naked and leaving me there to come home covered in bug bites and poison ivy, feeding nuts and bolts to the geese, riding his bike in the house, and only eating Dr. Seuss-like food.

On Christmas morning that year, when we ran out to the living room at 5:30 a.m. to check under the tree, Brett had nothing on his side, and my side was full of little trinkets and toys. He checked his stocking to find only a single lump of charcoal, where mine was filled with candy and scratch tickets—my favorite.

Bad Michael was gone before New Years. He vanished as quickly as he had appeared. My brother got his Christmas gifts after all, and we went back to our normal fighting—with no help from his imagination. I can't possibly tell you how good it felt to have Brett punch me in the face instead of Bad Michael. Everything was right with the world again.

To this day, Brett denies the existence of Bad Michael, but we know the truth. Of course, it's best not to press the subject too hard—you never know who is lurking behind those hazel eyes.