Fire Department Bob

By Curt Swarm

Bob used to be a fireman for the City of Denver back in the fifties and sixties. It was men only then. He said that while on duty, they would get so drunk that he would actually pass out on the cement floor with his head behind the dual wheels of the ladder truck, so that if there was an alarm, he would have to get up, man the rear steering wheel, or his head would be crushed. It was accepted behavior. And expected, according to Bob.

They all drank heavily while on shift, and put pressure on the guys who didn’t drink, or drink as much, to join in the cup-that-bindeth.

If there was a particularly bad call, like with an apartment house fire with “crispy critters,” he called them, some of whom were children and pets, the firemen knew they could pull into the alley behind a certain bar, and drinks would be set up. No questions asked. I’m not making this up.

I told Bob he had all the justification he needed for a case of work-related alcoholism. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s just the way it was.”

Fortunately Bob got the help he needed and found a life of sobriety and fulfillment. He wouldn’t use anything with alcohol, like deodorant, after shave, mouth wash, etc.

He was also a smoker, tearing the filter off cigarettes, and smoking them, the torn end sticking out of his mouth like a hay seed. He claimed the tobacco was stronger and dryer in a cigarette with the filter removed. He also claimed he was allergic to cigarette smoke, not nicotine. (I found this flabbergasting.) He would stand under the exhaust hood of a stove and smoke, the fan drawing the smoke away. He said it worked for him. He also had COPD, pursing his lips while exhaling.

He could also make the best fire department coffee. He would make a fresh pot, dump about half of it out, add a little more grounds to the grounds already there, and salt, reperk, and presto, some of the boldest, best tasting coffee I’ve ever had. He said he’d been the official coffee maker for the fire department because they needed full-bodied coffee with a kick for the morning after.

Before he was a fireman, Bob drove for Monfort of Colorado (later ConAgra), delivering live cattle from Greeley to Chicago for slaughter. He said Monfort “owned” the left lane of the highway. They drove 80-100 miles an hour, and people moved over. The Highway Patrol looked the other way. He said they had to drive fast because if a steer died in route, they were docked.

Bob went crazy once. He had some sort of an infection and the doctor put him on a strong steroid. Steroids were just coming out then and people didn’t know much about them. He lost his memory and thought his wife, whom he didn’t recognize, was trying to kill him. He thought she was going to stab him in the back while he was asleep. He called the police. The police evaluated the situation and were able to get Bob in the hospital for a week. When Bob came home, he apologized, and ran to the exhaust hood of the kitchen stove to smoke. He hadn’t been allowed to smoke in the hospital.

Bob was in his eighties when he was telling me all this. His wife was listening, and didn’t contradict anything he said. She even nodded her head in agreement, chuckled, and made some hand movements, like sticking a knife in Bob’s back. They had a colorful marriage.

I was there at their house installing a garage door opener. Bob swore that the main spring would disengage and kill me. I tried to convince him that the main spring remained stable. He brewed some coffee, tore the filter off a cigarette, and the garage door opener worked fine.

Contact Curt Swarm at curtswarm@yahoo.com