I’m fairly
certain that over the years, fire academy instructors from all over the nation gather
to devise evil ways in which to mentally and physically exhaust recruits. Maybe
there’s some secret yearly convention, or a press conference into which only PT
instructors are allowed.

Regardless of how
these ancient methods are passed down, each and every one of them is an
ass-kicker. We came across one such ritual this morning, in the awkwardly–lit
minutes before dawn.

Take two truck
tires and stack them on top of one another. Tie a 100’ section of 2½” hose to
them, and get ready to run.

The first few
people to line up took off at a full sprint with a couple feet of hose
thrown over their shoulder, as instructed.  As expected, all three almost fell over when the hose pulled
taught (it was like watching Charlie Brown and the football). Unfortunately,
the recruits were expected to continue running for another fifty feet until we
reached a curb at the end of the driveway. Turn around, drop to a knee, and
haul those two tires towards you. Then, run back to where you began and run/haul
in the exact same manner until the tires reached the starting line again.

There are no
two objects in the universe that offer a higher coefficient of friction than rubber
on concrete.

After three
cycles of this, my right knee looked like hamburger (should have knelt on the
pile of hose, dummy), and my quadriceps locked up. According to the members of 994,
each recruit was once ordered to haul a single tire up to the top of the
tower—all while leaning over the edge and gripping the rope with thick fire
gloves.

_____

“Aw, dammit,
come on! I thought I had that one!”

I winced
slightly as Harold jiggled the needle in frustration. I was used to it, for
sure; but there were very few people that couldn’t get an IV in the pipe-sized
veins in my forearm.

Yes, it was
time to teach the EMTs in 994 how to insert an intravenous catheter.¹
As medics with experience, the four of us were tasked to assist in their education.

Apparently,
“assistant” is Acadamese for “pincushion.”

No, just
kidding. We offered our arms up to nervous, jittery volunteers—some of whom
were better than others. I’m currently sporting four holes in my arms, but
thankfully only one of them makes me look like a junkie. I remember my moment
of pride when I nailed my first IV, and I was happy to educate the recruits
about the procedure and share in their success.

The highlight
of the day came when our lead instructor, Sgt. Halliwell, became a test subject.
He knew that there were recruits who were squeamish with needles and blood, and
so he decided to stir up the shit and order one or two of them to start an IV on him.

Needless to
say, it didn’t end well. The Sergeant began screaming (only half–jokingly) the
moment his IV was jerked loose by an unsteady hand, and his pants and the floor
were spattered with blood. Everyone was laughing too hard at the inane things he was shouting to do anything
useful, and Recruit Campbell simply froze up. Shortly after the medieval bloodletting
session (complete with pictures), the Sergeant retreated back to his office—probably
to find some cookies and orange juice, given his recent blood donation.

Everyone was
still laughing as we did our final line-up in the warm afternoon sun.

“Who are we?”

“Nine-nine-four! Nine-nine-four!”

“Alright,
let’s get the fuck outta here. Can someone go check on the Sarge?”

1: In Washington, D.C., EMT-Basics are allowed to start IVs under certain circumstances. Most often, there must be an advanced provider (paramedic) en-route or on-scene in order for them to do so.

The holiday
schedule threw me all off. I missed a few posts, but luckily (for the blog, at least) Wednesday and
Friday of last week were fairly uninteresting.

Last night, I
started re-reading a book that I bought several years ago. Called Working
Fire: The Making of a Fireman by Zac Unger, it’s a non-fiction chronology of an Oakland, CA firefighter’s
trip through the academy and into the firehouses of the East Bay.

It’s
fascinating, and I’m jealous as hell of his ability to write. His phrasing is
so powerful, and I remember why I loved the book so much the first time around.
If I were to base a book off of these writings, I could only hope it would be
half as good as Unger’s.

I’m trying to
think of some new post topics. I mean, it’s good that I’m basing a blog around
my day-to-day happenings with DCFD, but I’m concerned that since something
spectacular doesn’t happen every day, the posts may become somewhat routine in
describing… well, our routine.

Perhaps I
should just hold out until the actual firefighting stuff starts, since I’m sure
that will bring all sorts of stories. Right now our classroom is filled only
with bathroom humor and protocol reviews.  

As an aside, if
anyone is interested in listening to the DCFD dispatch channel (all you
whackers out there), all the instructions are on this page, under “How to Listen.”

EDIT: Maybe it's okay that I'm doing the day-to-day chronology. I am, after all, simply recording what comes to me on a piecemeal basis. Later on, once it's all compiled, I'd be able to write a much more interesting "chapter" based off of several posts.

The National
Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration stated that today’s high temperature was
around 27º F, with the low at 14º F. Would anyone care to take a stab as to
which end of the spectrum we were standing in at 0600 hours?

The wind was
relentless today. From our morning PT up until our final Tower run at around
1420 hrs, we felt like we were going to be blown right out a window. It was
cold, harsh, and louder than hell roaring through the brick windows. Our last
Tower was surreal; it was just a discordant medley of boots stomping, recruits
screaming at the top of their lungs, and the high-pitched moan from the wind. I
was so struck by the intensity of it all that I almost stopped in amazement on
the way down—I did realize at the last second that there were three of the
biggest recruits in the class behind me, and I would have been thrown like a
bowling pin had I come to a dead halt.

So rumor has it
that there’s three new paramedics showing up in the morning. I imagine they’ll
be a) in civilian clothes, and b) just as confused-looking as we were, so I’m
sure we’ll be able to spot them pretty easily.

According to
the Assistant Chief of EMS (whom we met today; he’s essentially the boss of all
the firefighter/paramedics), within DC Fire, we’re pretty much able to write
our own ticket once we’re released into the department. The Assistant Chief,
who is a paramedic/firefighter himself, says that he’s continually pulling for
his higher-ranking PM/FFs for any lateral move that they might want. Whether
that’s a transfer into the armed investigation unit, or a move to Special
Operations/Rescue, there’s a lot of people behind us dual-role providers.

Additionally,
DCFD has a standing agreement with the University of the District of Columbia
(UDC) that if I wanted to go back to school and earn my Master’s in Public
Administration (MPA) or even my MBA, the Department pays for it 100%; I only
pay for books. The classes can be during the day or at night, and they’re
staggered so that they fit into my 24hrs on/72hrs off schedule. DCFD has even sent
people to the National Fire Academy, or to Georgetown for their Certified
Public Manager certificate. There’s a lot that this job can offer me!

It was a very
uplifting day, mainly because of the excellent talk with the Boss Paramedic.

I was thinking
today that I haven’t updated my thisisby.us account in a while. The entire site is shutting
down on February 1^st, 2009, and I’ll certainly miss it when it’s gone. I never
made enough money off the advertising revenue to make it worth my while, but I
enjoyed sharing my writing and having others on the site comment on it. I’ll
probably just keep the raw text of those posts around as filler; it’ll be a
nice throwback to the past! Besides, those stories are infinitely more gripping
than some of these posts about the Academy.

“Wake up, wake up, MPD! / We’ve been up
since a quarter to three! / If we had a lower IQ, / We’d be at police academy
just like you!”

994 was running
around a small paved circle that served as part of the DCFD driver’s training
course. It’s part of our morning PT running course, and it’s wonderfully
located right next to the common fence we share with the Metropolitan Police
Department Academy.

Friday was a
very PT-intensive day. All told, we probably ran about 4 miles around the
building, with Towers and basic exercises interspersed.

Step One: Two
laps around the compound.

Step Two:
Sit-ups, push-ups, stretching; maybe run the Tower once.

Step Three:
Repeat endlessly (as the instructor says, “When I get tired, you’ll stop
running! Until then, keep it up!)

The Tower is,
as I mentioned earlier, a five-story brick structure with a narrow metal
staircase going up one side. There are entrances into the structure (and thus
to the internal stairwell) on each floor. This allows for such wonderful drills
as “5-4-3-2-1s” in which you run to the fifth floor and all the way back down.
Without stopping, go to the fourth floor, duck in, and come down. Then to the
third… well, you get the idea.

That same
afternoon, there was a potluck lunch for the students. It was quite tasty; some
of the “family recipes” were questionable, but any meal in which deer-meat chili
is plated next to collard greens is a winner in my book.

Despite the
festive atmosphere, there was a looming sense of terror in all of the students.
All of the members of 994 were laid out in our chairs, arguing softly to
ourselves about whether we should succumb to the impending coma or try and fit
a few more chicken wings into us. The bigger problem that we chose to ignore
was what would happen after the meal.

We imagined
hearing “BOX!” come echoing down the hallway, and then running past snickering
instructors clutching forks and plates of food. We imagined them following us
out into the bay, watching as we groaned and forced our bloated selves into
now-too-tight bunker pants and coats.

Lastly, we
imagined running the Tower, probably with a 25-lb hose “rack” over our
shoulders (it’s about 50 feet of hose, folded over onto itself a couple of
times and duct-taped together; it’s a torture tool, nothing more).

I feel that now
would be a good time to mention that vomiting is not allowed in, on, around,
off of, or even near the Tower. You can’t even spit on the pavement! Any
infraction simply leads to more Towers.

The instructors
must have been in a good mood, because we just did our cleaning assignments and
went home. I can’t even imagine the chaos that would have ensued had we run the
Tower even once; did anyone ever see the scene in “Drop Dead Gorgeous” when all
the beauty pageant girls are throwing up everywhere? Methinks it would be
something like that, complete with “O Fortuna” playing in the background. 

I always told
myself that I wouldn’t be caught in Anacostia Park (or anywhere in that part of
Southwest D.C., really) when it was dark out. Unfortunately for me, that’s exactly
where we were headed, and the sun was nowhere in sight.

Fortunately for
me, it was 6:15 in the morning—there’s not a whole lot of danger that hangs out
around sunrise. Recruit Class 994 was being bussed to the park for our timed
mile-and-a-half run. It was cold, it was miserable… oh, and did I mention how
dark it was?

Our course was
plotted out along a road that hugs the Anacostia River. We were to run
approximately 0.75 miles to where an instructor (in a DCFD car, the lucky
bastard) was posted and then turn around and come back. I fell into a steady
pace, and completed the run in 13:34 (by my math, that’s about a 9-minute mile.
Considering how much I hate running and how little I do it, that’s not bad!)

What struck me
as more compelling than the pounding in my chest and yesterday’s residual
soreness in my legs was the look of the sun rising over the water. For the past
two weeks, I’ve been arriving at the Academy before sunrise; thus, whenever it
started to become light out, the sun was always impeded by the trees, fences,
and structures surrounding the compound. Out here, the warm light was
completely unconfined, and allowed to slowly and gently expose the
pothole-ridden asphalt to a group of tired recruits.

We were all
identical in our DCFD sweats and hats, and we ran silently; each person fell
into a rhythm that precluded any talking or joking around. As a fellow medic
friend of mine used to say: “Head down; power through.”

As the last of
the recruits huffed their way across the finish line, we piled onto the bus and
headed back to the Academy.

We’ve begun
reviewing protocols for our classroom portion; as with everything else, we
medics are placed in a strange position. Seeing as everyone else in 994 is an
EMT-Basic, we’re forced to sit and listen to the simplest part of the
protocols. The advanced protocols we’d be using as paramedics (which are in the
book, but not discussed in class) are all but forgotten, and we have no
opportunity to ask clarification questions. This may or may not be taken care
of during our precepting time at DC General hospital—I don’t think anybody
really knows at this point.

Oh, and a fun
fact about Class 994: before we four medics arrived, the other thirty-two
people had managed to rack up a “Tower debt.” This means that before anybody
can start Firefighter I and II in February, the class has to repay their debt
to the instructors whom they pissed off at various points within the last few
months. Fortunately for myself, Mike, Rich, and Carl, we arrived just in time to
help them pay all 45 Towers back!

We’re currently
down to 40 (progress is slow, to say the least). However, if the paramedics are
going to be a part of the class, the paramedics are going to suffer with the
class. We might be the “new guys,” but we’re all just recruits here. 

I counted off
the final push-up, and collapsed to the floor shortly thereafter (narrowly
missing a very important Styrofoam cup).

It was PT
assessment day today, and we began counting reps and shouting encouragement
before the sun even peeked over the horizon at us. Everyone in the class was
paired up, and the goal was to perform as many push-ups and sit-ups within a
one minute time frame each. Rich and I looked around nervously, wondering if
we’d be shamed horribly. One small Styrofoam cup was placed on the floor
between us two guys (no, this isn’t the Academy’s version of internet meme
hazing), and it was used to count “proper” repetitions of push-ups. If your
chest didn’t hit the cup, that rep didn’t count. I managed to crank out 37
push-ups and 40 sit-ups; not a bad showing, considering the numbers of the rest
of the class (and they’ve been training for fourteen weeks!)

After those
two, we went into the gym and did pull-ups. I gave up eight before I just
couldn’t clear the bar anymore and had to drop off. Several of the recruits
seem almost superhuman when it comes to bodyweight exercises; one rattled off
43 pull-ups and barely broke a sweat!

The final event
for today was the grip strength test; I’m not sure upon what scale it’s
measured, but I registered a “52” for my left hand and a “55” for my right
(these numbers, while meaningless to everyone else, are recorded here only for
recordkeeping purposes). The ultimate goal is to come back after a few months
and see if you’ve markedly improved—tomorrow we’ll probably do the 1.5 mile run,
so we’ll see how that goes.

We did more Box
Alarm drills today, as well. There’s nothing quite like being the person
closest to the only door in the classroom when the Sergeant screams “BOX!” I just reacted and bolted out the
door, which I suppose is what they’re trying to ingrain in us; I didn’t bother
to look back (although I’m sure it would have made an excellent photograph)
because I had a mental image of a mob of clamoring recruits mowing me over on
the way to their lockers. Remember that unfortunate Wal-Mart employee on Black
Friday? Yeah, it looks and sounds kind of like that.

After the final
drill, we ran the Tower in full bunker gear. If you thought the narrow
stairwell was tight to begin with, try doing it with a big, padded marshmallow
suit on. I’ll try to provide a picture sometime for an idea.

Speaking of
pictures, I double-checked: cameras are allowed at the Academy, and they’re
even encouraged for recruit classes. At the end of the year, a class is
supposed to put together a video/slideshow presentation. Because of this, one
person is designated each day to be the class photographer—should something
interesting arise, grab the digital camera and go! One of the other recruits
brings his every day, and it’s become the de facto “class camera” that we use.

Before I knew
about all that, I did let it slip that I was into photography as a hobby; I think now, 994 is going to make me take pictures of a lot of stuff. It might be a pain in the
ass at certain points, but I think overall it will be very fun. I mean, how
often does the opportunity arise to photograph all the crazy stuff we get to do
at the DCFD Training Academy? Buildings on fire within spitting distance, and
three blurred figures smashing in a door. Dirty, blackened recruits with little
but their bright white eyes shining from a soot-covered face. The tense body
language of four men trying desperately to hang on to a hose that threatens to
toss them all in the air. The look of relief when one rips off a melted face
mask and experiences the privilege of breathing fresh air again. These are the moments
you want when you’re out shooting: they’re full of human emotion, they’re screaming
with bright color, and they’re framed with some of the most intriguing
composition you’ll ever find.

I think there’s
going to be more than a few “keeper” shots that come out of the next several
months.

Normally
ringing with the sharp sound of heavy boots, the Tower steps were much quieter
in sneakers. The only sounds we could hear were the huffing of tired lungs and
the occasional curse (as someone smashed their shin against the narrow metal
structure).

We ran the
tower for the first time today. We did an abbreviated PT regimen—which the four
of us found pretty easy, as we’re all in reasonably good shape—and then joined
the rest of 994 for a final Tower run. We wanted to do more, but I feel like
the four of us were just happy to be out and moving in the morning. The
sedentary lifestyle we had been afforded before today was growing old quickly,
and we had found ourselves stricken with cabin fever (I am, however, fairly
certain that we’ll be desiring the old do-nothing routine after we accelerate
our PT to the pace at which everyone else is).

Shortly after
we showered and dressed back into our uniforms, Sgt. Paulson ordered everyone
into the engine bay. We grabbed our recently-acquired bunker gear, and he
started to time all the “new guys” against the seasoned recruits. Unlike my
other three paramedic peers, I have no firefighting experience; thus, getting
all my gear on quickly is going to take a bit of getting used to. Fortunately,
I’m not so inept that I can’t do it in under a minute, which is the only
requirement. The damn tight coat sleeve keeps tripping me up, but I’m pulling a
respectable 45 seconds to don my gear.

As we began
removing our gear for what we anticipated was yet another round of racing the
clock, we failed to notice that Sgt. Paulson snuck out of the bay. He pulled
around to the front in one of the Academy’s fire engines, and we saw a maniacal
smile shine through the front window as the air brake hissed with an ungodly
noise.

“Three people!
Grab your gear, climb in… we’re going for a ride! When I stop this engine
again, get the hell out—and you better be
dressed!”

Three brave
souls stepped forward and climbed into the cab, nervously placing their
boots/pants and coats around the cab. Sgt. Paulson roared the engine and took
off around the building, all the while shouting to the recruits to “GO, GO,
GO!” When he lurched back into view, three very flustered and half-dressed
recruits tumbled out. Their uniform shoes, discarded every which way inside the
vehicle, clattered out behind them.

Donning gear on
firm ground is very different from doing so in a moving vehicle—especially if
you’ve never done it before! The small group gathered outside all took our
turns (read: attempts at) dressing in the engine; some succeeded, some didn’t.
I, personally, could put everything on except my gloves (the last item on your
to-do list). Considering my inexperience, I was pretty damn proud of that!

I feel it’s
worth noting that Sgt. Paulson certainly didn’t make it easy for us. The first
attempt we had was fairly straightforward—all you had to do was balance in a
vehicle that was making four smooth right turns and then slowing to a stop. By
the time we all rode for our last circuit, the Sergeant was slamming on the
brakes at random intervals, shouting back to us “Car just cut me off!” or
“Fucking pedestrians!” My last trip around, I didn’t even get my coat on
properly. I spent way too much time being thrown around the cab, contemplating
the choice between hanging on and not getting dressed, or trying to get dressed
and bashing my head off the interior.

Some of us
started putting our helmets on first.

Despite the
potential for brain injury, and the frustration of trying to get dressed under
fire; everyone who was outside that day had an absolute blast. I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun driving
in circles!

The remainder
of the day was spent cleaning up, having the instructors tell us more stuff to
clean up, and just generally chatting with the staff. Interestingly enough, we
picked up a few fun facts that even the local-ites and hardcore history buffs
didn’t know:

·      St. Elizabeth's
Hospital in SE Washington was the nation’s first psychiatric institution.
Laying claim to research by Carl Jung and habitation by Ezra Pound and John
Hinckley, the structure has a large brick wall on one side and an iron fence on
the other. Although hospital officials have claimed that it was used as a
deterrent for wounded soldiers from escaping (it was used during the Civil War,
when it officially changed its name from Government Hospital for the Insane to
St. Elizabeth’s in order to not worry the loved ones that the soldiers would
write home to), the best guess is as follows: since it was the first facility
of its kind, it had to hold both Caucasian and non-Caucasian patients.
Southeast D.C. was, at this time, a white-only farmland, and only the Caucasian
patients were allowed on the fence side—otherwise, the townfolk might have been
disturbed by the African-Americans, Hispanics, and other races.

·      Washington, D.C. was originally outlined
as a perfect diamond (or square, depending on your point of view) when mapped
out; land was taken from both Maryland and Virginia to form what would be the
nation’s capital. Unfortunately, after the Civil War, Congress returned
Virginia’s land in 1846 and kept the remainder; this explains the
strangely-shaped diamond look that the city retains today.

·      Every District resident knows that Pierre
L’Enfant designed the city, right? I mean, we have a Metro station named after
him! Turns out, L’Enfant was hired in March of 1791; his temperament towards
George Washington and his frequent disagreements with the District
Commissioners led to his dismissal in February of 1792. Shortly thereafter,
Andrew Ellicott (for whom Ellicott City, MD is named) revised and finished the
plans; it was his copy upon which the city was based. L’Enfant was not paid for
any of what he had done in that year, and spent the rest of his life in a
downward spiral. Upon his death, his possessions amounted to forty-six dollars.

·      Constitution Avenue used to be a canal.
Before it was shut down for unsanitary conditions, The Washington City Canal
allowed passage of the Tiber Creek through the city. The original plan was to
use it for commercial purposes, but after sewage began backing up, it was
drained and filled with earth. A few buildings were placed on top of wooden
piers in the marshy ground, and when architects diverted the last of the
underground water in 1990-1998, some of the foundation of the IRS building
sank. What a pity.

·      Adams Morgan is so named because of the
two segregated schools that used to be in the area: Thomas P. Morgan Elementary
School, and John Quincy Adams Elementary School.

·      There was once a traffic circle at Florida
Ave and N. Capitol Street that doesn’t exist today. Built around 1900 and
demolished in 1947, Truxton Circle still lends its name to a small neighborhood (inhabitants of which are rebelling over the idea of rebuilding the accident- and
traffic-jam-prone circle).

I’m sure I’ll have
more fun facts (and pro-tips about getting around the city) as time progresses. There’s a lot to be learned about a tricky city like
Washington…

This post was delayed due to the fact that
as Monday’s particular issue was somewhat sensitive, it seemed prudent of me to
hold off on posting until I could revise the text properly. Can’t be leaking
out any “For Official Use Only” issues, now can I?

To put it simply, most of Monday was spent
discussing (and subsequently avoiding) the story picked up by MSNBC in this article (it was
eventually featured
again in the D.C. Examiner, several days later). I’ll let those fine
journalists do the writing for me today.

We, as recruit class 994, were slated to
go to this particular party. However, we did not attend any events that day.
Nor did we serve any drinks; indeed, we didn’t even leave the Academy. And
thank God for that, as I spent enough time as a waiter (see first post) before
DCFD and I swore I’d never do it again. What a nightmare that would have been!

There’s not much else I can say on the
topic without going into more detail than DC Fire & EMS would be
comfortable with, so I’ll let you make your own interpretations of how
appropriate it is to use recruits like this.

Just before our day ended, I received a
uniform voucher from the instructors—long story short, I am now in possession
of four full uniforms. No more business casual for me!

It fit
uncomfortably at first, and I felt very much like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow
Man. Despite this, I stood in the apparatus bay feeling very manly; the four of
us had just been fitted for our first set of firefighting gear.

Mike, Rich, Carl, and I had retrieved a full set of gear—helmet, coat, pants, gloves, and
boots—from a big closet full of old equipment. Everyone at the academy used old
stuff that was recycled every year. It was dirty as hell and smelled like a
house fire… and that’s why we liked it so much.

It’s a very
comforting feeling to be bundled up in clothing that you know can protect you
from hundreds of degrees of heat. The whole process took about twenty minutes
to get everyone fitted, and then we secured all of it in our lockers.

We can’t wait
to use it. Unfortunately, it’s going to be a while before we’ll be anywhere near something that’s on fire.
Protocols, precepting, PT… this is going to be a long month and a half.

The remainder
of the day was spent asking one of the instructors (who is a
firefighter/paramedic himself) about the job, the people, and who has what
reputation as good/bad houses. We all strive for a fun, busy house with
hardworking crew members and lots of tradition—I wonder how many of us will be
so lucky as to land in one.

It’s 0645, and
I’m on my third cup of coffee. Well, it’s what passes for coffee at the
academy—but it’s hot, it’s dark, and there’s plenty of it.

These days are
getting easier. The 4am wakeup call is okay, as long as I fall into bed at a
reasonable hour. Additionally, the four of us are becoming accustomed to the
morning routine with Recruit Class 994. We know when and how to fall into
formation, and we’re learning the ways to check the equipment and clean the
rooms.

Unfortunately,
despite all our forward progress within the class, the administration is still
telling us to wait it out. 994 (a class of non-paramedic recruits) is in the
process of passing their EMT-Basic certification tests, and won’t begin the
firefighting portion of the academy until the first week of February. The best
guess we’ve been given is that we’ll be sent out either next week or the week
after to precept and train at D.C. General hospital (yeah, the crappy one).
Once there, we’ll be spending 40 hours/week on ambulances with city medics so
that they can check out our skills (as firefighter/paramedics, our ultimate
destination is on a fire engine, but we still have to have the city make sure
we know what we’re doing—thus the time spent on an ambulance). After that, we
can return to the academy and join 994 for the firefighting portion.

Today was just
a lot of waiting in the classroom. The four of us did some more paperwork,
spent some time talking to the instructors and the other recruits, and then
were dismissed with the rest of the class.

We did hear,
however, that next week we’d be starting physical training. Thankfully, we
won’t have to play catch-up with the rest of 994, who have been training for
three months. The instructors decided to start us on our own PT class, simply
because Human Resources has decided to hire a small handful of paramedics every
two weeks. It’s a strange and new way of doing the hiring, and nobody’s really
sure how it’s going to work.

I can only hope
that the collection of paramedic recruits will grow steadily, because then we
might have our very own class! Not that 994 isn’t a fantastic bunch of people…
but at best, we’re learning how to swim in the deep end. We might be more
cohesive as a group starting from scratch. It’s all about the experience—and
right now, the four of us are having a very frustrating one.

I kept one
eyelid open as I attempted to force down as much of the coffee as possible. I
was in the parking lot of the academy, and it was 5:00am. (I just didn’t want
to get caught snoozing in my car while I waited for others to arrive.) As it
turns out, I didn’t have to wait long for some company. A few minutes later, a
large group of SUVs and pickup trucks rumbled into the parking lot and
performed a stunningly graceful ballet of backing ten-odd large trucks into the
spaces in record time (at the end of the day, mine was the only car in the
parking lot that wasn’t facing outward). I saw Mike and Rich, and quickly walked
to catch up to them.

Surrounded by
recruits busily going about their morning chores, we placed our lunches in the
fridge and were stopped by a big, energetic guy named Freddy. He was
charismatic, he commanded respect, and he was quite obviously in charge of
something. Turns out he was the elected leader of Recruit Class 994, who had
started as a Firefighter/EMT-Basic class on September 15^th. One of the Sergeants had told him that for now, we were part of 994—luckily for us, Fred was excited about this, as it gave “the class four more people to fight
against those fuckers down the hall.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of
the instructors’ offices, and we allowed a slight chuckle to escape our lips.

Everyone in the
class, upon learning that there were “new guys” around, seemed really willing
to help us. We joined them for morning formation, inspection, marching, and
flag detail; at each new instance, I either had a hand pulling my shirt in the
direction of where I should go, or a terse whisper telling me to do something.
I’m not sure if it was out of kindness, or if it was because they didn’t want
to run the tower for our mistakes; either way, it was a comforting moment in a
foreign setting.

The fluorescent
lights in Classroom 1 did little to satiate the darkness that was sucking them
through the only two windows in the room. It was 0630, and darker than hell
outside. The rest of the class was getting dressed for PT, and so the four of
us sat by ourselves in a room littered with jackets, duffels, books, and a
ridiculously large stuffed dragon (no, we didn’t know what it was doing there,
either). We had a brief talk with Sgt. Paulson, who looked like a
stereotypical drill instructor and had a growl to match. Fortunately, he was
just educating us on some of the finer points of being a recruit, and had no
reason to be mean to us (Rich: “Oh, but I can tell just by lookin’ at him… he
can be.”)

On our way into
the locker room to pick out lockers for our shower gear, we heard Sgt. Paulson let out a loud whoop. “Someone forgot to lock their locker! Well, isn’t this
something!” The four of us didn’t know if it was something or not, but we knew
it certainly couldn’t be good for that poor guy. In trash bags, the sergeant bagged up everything he could get his hands on, and carried it all outside.

He led the way
through the recruits doing situps and medicine ball work on the floor, and
spoke briefly to the PT instructor. We saw him gesture to the bags he was
carrying, and then the Sergeant walked back to us. “When I go outside, stand in
a line behind me.” We nodded.

“BOX!”
he shouted at the top of his lungs. This is shorthand for “box alarm,” and is
the training academy substitution for a firefighter on duty getting dispatched
to a call. Reacting instantly, the recruits scrambled mercilessly to get out
the door. They sprinted towards their fire gear, which was all individually
piled on the concrete near the tower, and began diving into it.

After everyone
was dressed and standing at the ready, Sgt. Paulson threw the lock on the
ground and said “Someone here has left his locker unlocked for the second time. Someone here will be the
reason that PT is not over today. You thought you were almost done, but someone
screwed it all up for you. Who is that someone?”

A tall guy on
our left raised his hand amid groans from his fellow recruits.

“Mr. Anderson! You will now stand up here with me, and watch as your classmates run two
towers! Everyone, make sure that we can all hear you as you thank Mr. Anderson for what he gave you! Go!”

Once up and
down is one “tower.” Dressed in full bunker gear, with people bunching up
behind and in front of them, most everyone in the class looked miserable while
climbing those metal steps. However, they still found the energy after PT and
all the tower work to shout “THANK YOU, MR. ANDERSON!” every time they reached
another floor in the tower. Mr. Anderson, on the other hand, had nothing to do
but watch. (His comeuppance came later, as he was forced to run the tower with
a big, heavy hose pack on his shoulder. The sergeant also threw his combination
lock and the garbage bags with his stuff into a big plastic tube, which he had to crawl through to retrieve his items.)

It’s only 8:15.

We returned to
the classroom to find the recruits milling about after their showers, trying to
unwind a bit before they had to sit down for several hours of class. The
lieutenant came to speak to us about a few things, and Sgt. Paulson began
making silent rounds of the classroom. He would peek at recruits’ boots to
check the shine, or just stand near them and act menacing until they became
nervous. The tension was palpably rising in the classroom, and recruits began
nervously pawing through duffel bags looking for boot polish kits,
certification cards, or any other piece of gear that might be requested at a
second’s notice—failure to comply leads the whole class back to the tower.

The four of us
were split off and forced to do more paperwork, then we had our photos taken
for our D.C. Fire ID badges. We also drove all over the city picking up uniforms,
fitting into bunker gear, and retrieving city protocol books that we would
have to learn eventually. (The books were picked up at D.C. General, which is the
most run-down hospital I’ve seen in a while. Most of it has been closed down,
and there’s duct tape, discarded equipment, and scuff marks everywhere. The
place looks like you could film a great horror movie in it, though!)

By the time we
arrived back at the academy from our city-wide shopping trip, it was nearly
time for the day to end. We joined 994 for their final formation (as well as
their end-of-day pushups; “we pay to get in, and we pay to get out,” as Fred says), and then were dismissed with everyone else.

Leaving Day 2 was
considerably less nerve-wracking than the first day, but I think all four of us
still had an impending sense of doom and confusion; the Academy staff still don’t
have a clear idea of what to do with us.

My first day with
the DC Fire Department started off in the exact
environment that I was trying to avoid by joining public safety: a boardroom,
clothed in an itchy starched collar and surrounded by a plethora of sub-par
PowerPoint presentations. Yes, it was “D.C. New Employee Orientation” day, so
I’m seated next to people who are going to all parts of the city government:
Technology Officers are seated next to janitors, and administrative assistants
are crammed in with us civil-service folk. The highlight may have been when
they told us how to properly answer the phones and leave voicemail messages
(although, my long-standing relationship with OSHA regulations caused me to
giggle violently at “…so if the paper shredder jams, don’t you go stickin’ your
finger in it. That’s how you and OSHA can create a safe work environment!”)
Regardless, most of the paperwork said “Not applicable to civil service,” or
“If you’re a firefighter/police officer, you can disregard this policy…” Ugh.
After we were finally able to leave that fluorescent hellhole, our DCFD Offer
Letters said report to the Training Academy; it was approximately 2pm.

I caught a ride
with Mike, another firefighter/paramedic I had spotted at the orientation (we
were easy to pick out; look for four physically fit, anxious-looking white
guys, obviously uncomfortable in dress clothes and itching for sunlight and
PT—more on why there’s only four of us later). Mike and I arrived just behind
the others, who had already fallen in step behind the Captain of the training
academy; he shouted something unintelligible, but we caught the gist of it and
began jogging across tarmac in dress shoes, slacks, and ties. Yes, we had been
there less than a minute and already we were running, surrounded by the huffing
bodies a recruit class already in session.

We filed into
the administrative office of the training center, and were directed up against
the wall like perpetrators in a lineup. In front of us were several people, all
of whom were eying us… and none of whom looked happy. Thus began the first of
(I’m sure) many grillings; we were asked about our work history, our education,
our favorite sports teams (if you know about me and sports—eek!), and any other
topic that came to mind. Finally the Captain jumped in and said “Shit, we
didn’t even know you’d be arriving today. We just heard some rumor that they’d
be sending us some medics, and you four arrived about fifteen minutes before
our day ends here at the academy. So what in the hell…” His voice trailed off
as he stared at our paperwork. We did the best we could to shut up and stare at
a nice-looking spot on the wall.

After the
Captain decided he’d “deal with this tomorrow, after we find a place for you
four,” he gave us a tour of the facility. In true academy fashion, it included
brief explanations of a few rules… but only after
all four of us had walked on the grass (a big no-no), and two of us had entered
through the main front door (a really big
no-no, as that entrance is reserved for those who have already graduated from
this institution). Apparently the building is 6+ years past its scheduled
demolition date, but the city can’t tear it down yet because of the volume of
recruits coursing through it. (Unfortunately, the system outgrew the current
facilities years and years ago, and the “annex” they built wasn’t nearly
adequate enough to handle the overflow.)

So here’s the
deal with there only being four of us. Apparently, out of the last few testing
sessions to weed out all the FF/PM applicants, only four of us made it through
the administrative meat grinder: myself and three guys named Mike, Rich, and Carl. The biggest concern for us right now is whether we’re
going to join the recruit class that’s currently in session (three months in,
training/doing PT since September, i.e. eons ahead of us) or are we put in
limbo until we have more people to form a full class that’s worth the city’s
time and money?

All we knew
then was that we were to report for duty tomorrow morning. As the Captain put
it, “0600 is when your shift starts… but it would be in your best interest [insert stern look here] to arrive at 0530.
You’re dismissed.”

On our way out
(utilizing of one of the few doors we can
use), we were relieved to plunge into the cold December air—it seemed to calm
these four suddenly-overwhelmed paramedics. Our reprieve didn’t last long,
however; our attention was drawn overhead as we walked past “The Tower,” a five-story bastion of suffering. Encircled by a narrow metal staircase, the
tower is the most obvious (and apparently the most-used) structure at the
academy. Pained, angry shouts pulled our eyes upward, to see two men racing
frantically from the bottom. The instructor would have them begin at the
bottom, and stagger their start. The first runner’s job was to evade capture by
the second runner, who in turn sought to tag the leader and thus win the race.
“Faster!” “Catch him!” and “Louder!” echoed harshly off the brick walls,
seeming to focus at the bottom of the stairwell. Cadets waiting their turn eyed
us with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension; their comrades’ shouts were no
longer interesting enough to distract them from these four strangers.

On the drive
back to the Metro station, I think the best summary came after a long, nervous
silence:

Rich: What the fuck did we
get ourselves into? Aw, hell. I want to go back to working in pool maintenance.

Carl: Um, guys? If I pass out at some point, I’m really sorry.

Me:
It’s okay. We’ll pick you up and do our best to hold you at attention so we
don’t have to run that godforsaken tower.

Rich: I get the feeling that it doesn’t really matter. They’ll just
make us run it for something else.

…I see a light at the end of a very long tunnel.

This, of course, means that I have an official start date for
the DC Fire Academy. On December 8th, I am to report for training at 7am. It's
been a long time coming, but it's good to know that my 1+ years of effort have
not been in vain. 

(Rumor has it
that the DC Fire Department is on the verge of a hiring freeze, and that our
upcoming class will be the last for roughly two years. Phew! I snuck right in
under the wire.)

In speaking to
other members of DCFD whom I know, most of day one and two will be paperwork.
I’m eagerly awaiting whatever may happen when the paperwork stops; although I’m
not entirely sure of a typical day’s schedule (it depends on the instructor), I’m
pretty sure that this week is going to fiercely kick my ass.

More updates to
follow, for sure… now that I have (relevant) material to blog, posts may be
coming rapid-fire (if I have enough energy at the end of the day to type, that
is).

This is going
to be a trip and a half. [insert Mr. Rogers voice here*] "Won’t you join me on my journey to become a Washington,
D.C. Firefighter/Paramedic?"

I'm a little nervous… but there's no backing out now. Onward!

* I loved that man and was extremely upset to hear of his passing. A integral part of my childhood… gone! God bless him.