“Hey, it wasn’t my fault!” That’s what I proclaimed that night at Station 2 and I’ve held onto that belief ever since. Here’s what happened:
It was a dark and scary night when Chief 2 left the building to do his nightly rounds on the east end and points beyond. Bob Cooper and his driver had been known to traverse the city’s both East and West sides just in case Chief 1 had missed something. Bob was like that; he accomplished stuff.
Looking for a quiet place in the station in order to read my book I found that the watch booth was empty and so took a seat and began my read. A couple of hours passed by without much interruption. The only person that visited me was Ron Trofin who asked me what the meaning of “being Trofed” meant. Other than that it was rather quiet unless you consider the fact that the only other disturbance occurred when Dave Stroud came in to reminisce about some repetitive stories that took place during the 1950’s that he remembered as though they actually happened yesterday.
When Chief 2 returned from his “cross country” ride it was quite dark inside as the apparatus lights had not been turned on and the apparatus door had been closed. Or so I thought at the time. Apparently I was mistaken. Being always diligent about helping out the Chief I promptly pushed the button on the console to open the apparatus door so the Chief could enter the building. Not aware that the door was still open it started to descend the same time Chief 2’s driver started to reverse the command car inside the apparatus floor. My timing was exquisite.
The apparatus door made contact with the command car’s light bar perfectly and if I remember correctly landed square on the hood of the car. I would be remiss to not mention that Chief 2 and his driver nearly suffered dual heart attacks at that moment. It would have been OK though as I had just recently been trained in CPR. As the Boy Scout motto declares; I was prepared.
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