Carole Buck - Three-Alarm Love

“Keezia?”

“You okay?”

“Hey, maybe she needs to sit down ”

“Geez, Keez. You’re damned near white.”

Keezia got herself under control, steadying her breathing and stilling her trembling hands by sheer force of will. She turned to confront a quartet of her fellow firefighters. Two were African-American like herself. One of them was tall, lean and totally bald; the other was short and squat, with biceps the size of baked hams. The third man had buzz-cut blond hair, blue eyes and the beginnings of a tan. The fourth was a wiry redhead whose faintly glassy gaze suggested he was a couple of beers over his limit. All four were staring at her with a combination of uncertainty and concern.

“Sorry,” she said, manufacturing a smile. It must have looked less fake than it felt because there was a perceptible easing in her colleagues’ expressions “I was... uh ... zoning out.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” This was from the taller black man. His name was Sam Fields. He’d been something of a mentor to Keezia during her probationary period.

“Positive, Sam. I’m fine.”

The four men exchanged glances, then apparently decided to take her at her word.

“Sorry about shakin’ you up,” the shorter black man said. “We moseyed over because we didn’t think it was right for the best-lookin’ firefighter in Atlanta to be standin’ all by herself.”

Keezia made a conscious shift into what she’d come to think of as her sassy-but-classy mode. It had taken her quite a while to find the courage to participate in the verbal give-and-take that was an integral part of fire fighting life. The habit of speaking up for herself had pretty much been beaten out of her during her marriage.

The first time she’d finally felt confident enough to crack back at somebody who was ragging on her, she’d been suffused by a heady rush of triumph It wasn’t that what she’d said had been so clever. Indeed, it had been pretty lame compared to the “snaps” some of the guys traded. Nonetheless. She’d said it.

“Funny, J.T.,” she drawled, arching an eyebrow. “I’ve heard you tell folks the best-looking firefighter in Atlanta is you. ”

This provoked a hoot of derision from the blond firefighter. “Oh, yeah,” he sarcastically concurred. “John Thomas thinks he’s a regular Denzel Washington.”

“Let’s not be talkin’ about who thinks what about their looks, Bobby,” J.T. retorted, jutting his jaw pugnaciously. “And it’s Wesley Snipes I resemble, man. Not Denzel.”

“What?” The man addressed as Bobby gave another hoot. “Give me a break! You resemble Wesley Snipes about as much as Mitch here resembles what’s-his-name—that guy from Backdraft.”

The redheaded Mitch, who’d started listing to the left, straightened abruptly.

“Backdraf?” he repeated, slurring the title slightly. “Oh, man, I love that movie! I mean, it’s gotta be the bes’ movie about firefightin’ ever made in the hist’ry of makin’ movies. Y’know? My girlfrien’... she gimme the video of it las’ Chris’mas.” He grinned at no one in particular. “Says watchin’ it with me makes her hot.”

“You talking about Ron Howard, Bobby?” The inquiry came from Sam Fields, who’d apparently decided that Mitch’s inebriated comments were better left uncommented upon. “That red-hatred, freckled guy who used to be on Happy Days?”

Bobby shook his head. “No, not—”

“You know, Sam,” J.T. interrupted, scrutinizing Mitch as though he were a prune example of some new species “Mitch does kind of look like that dude. I never noticed it before. Hey, Mitch. Sober up for a second will you, bro? Anybody ever tell you that you could be the twin of that Happy Days guy?”

Mitch gulped audibly, his eyes darting back and forth. He’d clearly lost the thread of the conversation. He opened and shut his mouth several times. Then he belched. The noise seemed to erupt from the depths of his belly and went on for at least a couple of seconds.

“He used to be on another show, too,” J.T. continued helpfully, evidently unfazed by his colleague’s sophomoric behavior. “Played a little kid. Name of Mopey. Or Dopey. Some-thin’ like that.”

“It was Opie, J.T.,” Keezia corrected, choking back a laugh.

J.T. regarded her dubiously “Oh, yeah?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t know who Mopey is, but Dopey’s a dwarf.”

“So? That Happy Days dude ain’t no giant!”

“I’m not talking about the Happy Days dude!” Bobby interjected impatiently “I’m talking about the guy who starred in Backdraft, not the damned director! You know—Kurt Russell.”

“You think Mitch looks like Kurt Russell?” Sam shook his head and clucked his tongue reprovingly. “White boy, you’d best have your vision checked.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t think Mitch looks like Kurt Russell,” he snapped. “Geez Louise, Sam. That’s the point I was tryin’ to make when we got off on this tangent! Mitch looks as much like Kurt Russell as J.T. looks like Wesley Snipes.”

“Well—”

“Forget Wesley Snipes, man,” J.T. suddenly commanded. “Anybody know the name of the fox who’s dancin’ with Fridge Randall?”

Bobby and Sam immediately turned m the direction J.T. was staring. Keezia gritted her teeth and looked down at the floor. She knew what was coming. She also knew she was in no mood to contend with it.

“Where?” she heard Sam ask.

“Over there,” J.T. replied, probably pointing.

“Over whe—” Bobby broke off, groaning melodramatically. Keezia took this to mean that he’d spotted the “fox.” “Oh, man,” he said in an awed tone. “Oh... mama Will you guys take a good look at that? The last time I saw somebody shakin’ like that, it was at my brother-in-law’s stag party ”

Maybe she should just turn on her heel and walk away, Keezia thought, clenching her hands against her thighs.

“You think Brother Randall recruited her from that Bible class he teaches?” Sam inquired.

“I’d definitely go down on my knees and pray for somethin’ like that,” J T. declared crudely. “Ooooh, baby! What I wouldn’t give to have—”

“Hey, cool it, J.T.,” Bobby cut in, his voice tight. Keezia lifted her head, startled by his abrupt change in tone. The fair-haired firefighter met her questioning gaze for a split second, then looked away. He was beet red. “There’s a lady present.”

Caught off balance by Bobby’s sudden and unsolicited assumption of the role of protector of her sensibilities, Keezia debated what she should do. She’d worked hard to become one of the guys; to prove herself capable of handling all aspects of the job, including the macho horseplay. But the kind of sexual innuendo she’d just heard made her uncomfortable on a number of different levels for a number of different reasons. She knew she couldn’t let it pass.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to say something. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure. Fortunately—if fortunately was the right word—Mitch preempted her.

“A lady?” he repeated, glancing around with a bewildered expression. “Where?”

Bobby smacked him on the back of the head, probably a bit harder than he intended. “Keezia, you cracker!”

“Yeah, man,” J T. seconded, sending her an apologetic look. “Keezia. ”

“Keezia?” Mitch turned and stared at her, his mouth gaping open. Then he apparently decided it was all a huge joke and uncorked a guffaw. “Keezia’s ... not a...lady!” he gasped through his hilarity. “She’s a firefighter. ”

While Ralph Randall was deeply grateful for the kind of upbringing he’d had, there were times when he wished his mama hadn’t been quite such a stickler about what she termed “mannerly behavior.”