Back in my irresponsible art school days, I shared an apartment (that would be a flat to you monarchists) with 2 other girls who, if this was possible, were even more irresponsible. My extremely early entrance into the world had caused me to develop a keen appreciation that the odds were stacked against me from day 1, so unlike them, I never left the apartment without my keys. It was a rather common occurrence to be sound asleep in my bed only to be awaken by a terrific banging on the front door by my 2 drunk roommates who had managed to find their way home after a night out on the town.
One Friday night began like many other Friday nights. The three of us gathered around the gin bottle on the kitchen table while ironing our outfits, applying make up in front of the plugged in make-up mirror, curling our hair in between generous sips of gins and vermouths. Yes, we were the quintessential Gisbon girls of the 1980's. All 3 of us were former finishing school girls who had come to the Big City to finish our formal educations, ie; land the husband. When we were ready, we took off, leaving the iron, the curlers, the hairspray, the make-up mirror, the make-up pouches, the extra jewelry, the perfumes, the gin bottle, the vermouth bottle, the cocktail onions and the empty glasses all out on table.
After meeting up with the group of Boston College dental students one of my roommates was trying to decide if she should date, and spending several hours of chatting, and dancing, I decided to hail a cab home. My roommates decided to go on to another dance club with the guys. I came home and fell into bed. Only to be rudely awaken yet again by a loud banging at the door.
I stumbled out of bed in my nightshirt. In those days I wore oversized Brooks Brothers cotton oxfords that I bought for a song in Filene's Basement. Back in the day, Filene's Basement would place a full-page ad in the Boston Globe when they received a new shipment of Brooks Brothers oxfords and my roommates and I made a beeline there at lunchtime because all the cute, young, well-dressed, and, most importantly, single stockbrokers, bankers, lawyers and whatnot would be there trying to snap them up. It was the greatest meet and greet in all of Boston Society. As a result, I had several oxford shirts that had no real purpose in my wardrobe so I took to sleeping in them. Anyway, I, half-alseep, my eyes shut from the light, swung the door open with a "Christine, can't you ever remember your keys?" only to hear,
"My name's not Christine. It's Patrick."
Well that opened my eyes. And standing before me was one of Boston's finest (literally) in complete fireman uniform, axe in hand. And underneath his helmet was the greatest set of Irish eyes looking straight at me. "Am I on fire?" I asked. He laughed. "No, the dumpster behind your building was. I've got to check your walls to see if there's any fire in them. These old buildings are tricky." I looked down at my nightshirt, saw that I was properly covered and looked up at him (he was smiling.) and said "Sure." He first checked my bedroom walls and he did remove his jacket to do so. He then moved on to checking all of the other rooms in the apartment with me following behind him carrying his big jacket. The last room was the kitchen and when he saw the kitchen table loaded down with all the beauty equipment, the gin and vermouth bottles, he just stopped dead in his tracks turned around and looked at me. "Ah, would you like a drink?" I asked turning quite pink. (What else could I say? Really. Think about it.)
Patrick laughed. And said no because he was on duty. He checked all the walls in the kitchen and pantry and then said, "There's no fire in your walls." "That's because you're checking the wrong ones." was what I wanted to say. But instead I said, "Oh, good. That's a relief." "I guess I'll go now." he said looking at me. "Oh, ok, alright, well, thank you for coming by." "No problem, just do'in my job." he said smiling. And, Patrick, to seal the memory of his Boston finest status forever in my mind, departed me forever by throwing open the window sash and taking my fire escape down to the waiting hook and ladder below.
Gosh...golly.
I was still in a dazed state when my two drunk roommates recently returned from their night out on the town suddenly burst into the kitchen and said loudly "Where's the fire?" "Not here unfortunately." and I stumbled back off to bed.
So, now you know the tale of how I missed hooking my ride to the Hook and Ladder of life. But thankfully, we've got the most generous God of all. And guess what? He's given me a second chance, a third chance, and well, really, a yearly chance to hook a ride on a ride on a hook and ladder. Tomorrow is the anniversary of September 11th. And to remember it, my two fellow female friends appreciative of men in uniform, bake cookies, gather flowers from our gardens to form a large bouquet and make a card remembering those who died trying to save thousands and thanking our men in uniform for what they do for us everyday. Then after school we gather all of our children up, have them sign the card and head down to the firehouse. After showing the kids around and taking them next door to the police station (with the cookies) and letting them get locked up in the jail cells, the firemen take us out for a spin through town in the hook and ladder. And we get to honk the horn and blow the whistle but the mayor doesn't allow us to flash the lights.
What can you expect? He's a florist.
(Oh, and Father M., unfortunately, you got bumped to the back of the cookie line. Yours will be arriving next week. And I have absolutely no idea why the leading of the type is so odd these days.)
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