It has been, all in all, a very good day, though it didn’t start like one. We rescued a kid who got stuck in a locked bathroom somewhere in Dizengoff street right after beginning our shift, and then spent the rest of the morning sitting in the station, doing nothing except arguing about the proper usage of axes in general and my own axe in particular, a subject upon which Avi and Yekutiel were rather too willing to dwell.
“Couldn’t you have at least tried to open the door in some conventional way before chopping it up like that?” Avi said.
“You almost hit that kid’s head with it, you crazy bastard,” Yekutiel said.
As letting anyone know that I don’t give a yesterday’s falafel about the life or death of children or anyone else is never a good idea, I didn’t bother to reply at all, just applied the old trick of lowering my head and staring at the floor.
“Oh, now you’ve insulted him, Kuti,” Avi said. “I mean, you’ve got to give it to him, he got the boy out of there in five seconds.”
Less than five seconds, thank you very much.
“He almost scalped the boy in five seconds,” Yekutiel said. “I’m telling you, this guy is dangerous. He has no feelings at all.”
I do have feelings. I remember how I felt when I saw the Twin Towers falling, on TV. Or rather, when I saw the firemen working there. I envied them. I wanted to be in their place, every day of my life. Because if there’s one feeling I cannot stand it’s boredom. I’m an all-action kind of guy. And all I got so far today was this silly kid and a wooden door. I have feelings — strong feelings, you idiot — they’re just not like yours.
“Well, just leave it,” Avi said. “Is it lunchtime yet?” But it wasn’t, and when it finally came it wasn’t we who were eating.
“Too early,” I said, and just as I was saying it I felt something, a momentary loss of balance, maybe a tremor. “Did you feel that?”
“Oh, so now you do feel something!” Kuti said.
“Enough, Kuti,” Avi said, and then there was another movement, a rumble, and all of us felt it.
“What the . . . ?” Kuti said.
“An earthquake!”
Israel isn’t very big on earthquakes. The minor ones that do occur here are rare enough to be mentioned in the papers. The last serious one happened in the early twentieth century. We’re not used to them. We never expect them.
“It can’t be an earthquake!” Kuti said, and then, well, it felt as if the whole building went up, then down, and then all the windows broke.
“Holy — !” Kuti said.
“I don’t believe . . .” Avi said.
There was a terrific noise outside, that of crashing metal and breaking concrete and the eruption of a water jet, which promptly became visible through our second floor window.
“Holy!” Kuti said.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Avi said, the most reasonable thing he’d said all day. We all ran to the firepole, which at that point was already leaning at a rather mischievous angle. Avi slid down first, and I followed immediately after. In the yard, our initial-response fire truck was belly dancing. The other, a Hawk fire truck, however, being heavier and steadier, was only gently moving on its wheels, as if contemplating its response to all this, its long ladder clanking loudly above the din. Pieces of wood and concrete were raining on us, as well as all sorts of equipment — hoses, gas masks, fireproof coats, axes, hammers, cutters and some light pornography. After a while, Kuti also fell down on us. He was never too good with the fire pole. Avi grabbed him and dragged him away. The air smelled funny. Everything looked funny. It was great. And I had just thought of something which could make it even better.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Avi said again.
“Wait!” I shouted. “I have a better idea!” And I ran towards the Hawk. Beside it, the smaller fire truck was all but hula-hooping.
“You’re crazy!” Avi shouted, but dragged Kuti towards me and the Hawk anyway.
“Get in!” I said, and opened the driver’s door and got inside. “We’ll get out of here — in style!”
Bless the makers of fire trucks, they never have ignition problems. Avi pushed Kuti into the passenger’s seat, and he himself climbed over to the rear standing position. And so, tires screaming, ladders clanking, we drove away from the station, which was, by now, seriously breaking apart — and from the smaller fire truck, which was overturned and blowing water and foam in all directions. The whole thing brought to my mind the history of the old Petach-Tikvah fire station, which burned down twice in less than ten years. What a pity that I wasn’t stationed there at the time. But more than anything I was thinking: it’s starting to look like a really good day!