Bombshell

C.E. Jones - Bombshell

I was rinsing out the last of Blonde Bombshell #27 when the pager went off for a down town fire, and – barefoot, with my toenails freshly painted - I still made it to the station before the chief. Not that it made any difference. I was jumping into my gear when he hit the door, and his scowl would have deflated me if I hadn’t been braced for it.
“Do something with that hair!”
Come on, who doesn’t love long, wet, messy curls? There is a skill involved in belittling underlings, and my beloved chief had it in spades. My fingers flew to fashion a loose topknot.
“Get all of it up.”
Could have been cute if he smiled. He didn’t smile.
Hard to believe, I had been a valued member of the city department, where, as a third generation firefighter, my last name had been synonymous with station 49. Here in Podunk, I was the new kid, and, far worse, the girl. In fact, the only female firefighter in the county, and, thus, a black eye to my newly adopted community. I had joined immediately upon my arrival in town, and in the six months hence had not broken through any barriers. The guys were taking their cue from the chief, and the chief didn’t like me.
No matter. Today we had a real fire. In a real building. Just like in the city.
A big crowd had gathered downtown in spite of the July heat, and the second floor of the tavern was billowing smoke through the windows. I was into an air pack before I even got out of the truck, and was hurrying to keep up with the others when the chief intercepted me.
“You!” He was actually yelling at me, stabbing me in the chest with an index finger. “Get out of that air pack! Do what I tell you, when I tell you, got it? I don’t remember telling you to get in an air pack.”
I was dumbstruck. Would have cried, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. I shrugged out of my pack, and laid it up against the truck.
I could feel the weight of a thousand eyes on me as I pretended interest in the pumper’s pressure gauges. My face was crimson and slick with sweat, but I was too proud to take off my gear and admit defeat. A chuckle erupted from somewhere nearby, but when I turned to find the jokester, I met with blank impassivity. Maybe a little curiosity. So this is how a city girl fights a fire?
I would not bite my nails. They had a perfect and lovely coat of Make Him Blush #72.
“Hey doll, come here!”
Doll? Doll! Incredible! The chief was beckoning, and I could feel a stir of interest in the rubberneckers as I hurried across the street to him.
“Listen,” he said when I stood before him, flushed and expectant. “My pick up is down by the post office. Run and get my other boots – my feet are killing me.”
I was being sent to fetch the chief his shoes! Arf, arf, good little doggy. How much could I endure? I couldn’t look at anybody - trotted, head down, to the post office. I was sure, now, that I could hear real laughter.
His boots were on the floor of the cab. On the seat was a bag of garden ripe tomatoes, left, no doubt, by an adoring female citizen. The bag might have tipped over when I reached for the boots. And a couple of tomatoes might have spilled out right into those boots. I didn’t check.
Fire is a hungry animal – doubles in size every minute – and it was roaring by the time I got back. I tried to reconcile myself to my petty duties and my even pettier revenge, and I actually had second thoughts; but the chief snatched the boots away from me before I could act on them.
He pulled the first boot on and was halfway into the second before he stopped and looked a question at me.
I made a poker face, and watched the fire.
Chief reached into the second boot and pulled out a tomato. Threw it aside, eloquent in his disgust, and glared at me.
I only watched from the corners of my eyes, but I saw him smile. Quick, and then tucked away.
“Get your air pack,” he said.