Sometimes things aren’t as they seem.

One of the things that isn’t as it seems is the popular belief that Firefighters are kind, caring, upstanding wholesome heroes. In truth we are often cruel individuals, devious unkind bastards who heartlessly take advantage of other’s weaknesses and take great delight in doing so.

On my crew is a colorful individual by the name of Bob, Big Bob we call him. He’s big of voice, heart and body. Blond, handlebar mustache, and handsome as hell. He’s as redneck as possible and totally unrepenant about it. He professes to hate all minorities and religions other than Christian. He has no acceptance whatever of any sexual orientation other than heterosexual. You’d think he wouldn’t get along with an ugly, open-minded, all-accepting Jew such as myself, but we’re the best of friends.

Big Bob and I are heavily into first aid, and we think alike when on an emergency or fire scene. This makes for some very good times .

It was a rainy Sunday, around noon. In BC it rains a lot, and when it rains it rains hard. When it rains, Motor Vehicle Accidents are common. This particular Sunday we were tapped out and responded.

“Hall 5, Hall 5  from dispatch, MVA with injuries, extrication required, 36 Avenue and 194 Street”

We were in the back of the rescue rig as we whipped onto the street. We could see the Pumper  shadowing us through the back window while we howled down the street. Gloves snapped on, our jump bag was grabbed and  oxygen equipment readied, we were in form, in the groove, and on the ball. We spoke in clipped word bursts, little talking was required, we were back to back and on the way.

When the rig rolled up we could see it looked like a bad one, a small pickup had been broadsided in the intersection, one still inside, the second car was in the ditch with people moving. Bob and I hit the ground running, one in each direction, he to the truck, me to the car.

Thankfully the injuries in the car were light, seat belt bruises and fear. I left the patients with a cop and looked for Bob. Bob was inside the cab of the truck and busy, I took off across the street to see what I could do. The driver was hurt, but not dying. He had some broken ribs and was in shock. We worked quickly to stabilize him and get him ready for extrication. In short order the jaws did their job and the truck released its captive. We stepped back from the wreck and started getting our gear back in order. One of the fire crew was working near us, Pete is a good guy, but has a very weak stomach, that’s why he handles the hose lines or other jobs at MVAs. “Jesus guys… I don’t know how you can handle that”, he said turning a bit green and looking at our turnout clothing.

Let me interject here and tell you that trauma first aid is never pretty. One of the LEAST pretty things about it is the fact that when many people have serious injuries, one or more functions of the body usually lets go, either they urinate, defecate, or vomit, sometimes all three. Hollywood doesn’t usually dwell on this, but it’s all too real. You get used to it after awhile.

The fronts and sleeves of our jackets were smeared with a melange of goo. Barely recognizable chunks of food were mixed among semi-liquid dollops that were ladled thickly in clots down our fronts. Pete could barely look at us without heaving.

I looked at Bob, he looked at me. This was a time for decisive action.

I reached out to the front of Bob’s jacket and wiped down it, taking about a tablespoonful of this mess in the end of my index finger.

 I turned to Pete, and licked it off, smacking my lips and said “Hell, it’s not so bad once you get used to it”

Bob, not to be outdone, wiped about twice as much off me as I took off him, and slapped it on his tongue with obscene relish. He sucked his fingers clean, looked at me and said “Gee, he liked his meat rare eh?”

Pete was frozen in place,  his mouth worked unsuccessfully to form words to fit his horror, only a strangled, animal-like sound escaped his now colourless lips. He turned and fled to the nearby ditch where his body was wracked with spasms for a full ten minutes. I swear that everything he had eaten for a week was left there.

Pete has told the story repeatedly to anyone who would listen, For our part, Bob and I never reply if asked about it.

The truth?

It was Grey cup weekend, the guy in the truck was on his way to a football party and had two big bowls of dip on the seat beside him. When he was broadsided, he ended up wearing them. In the close confines of the cab Bob and I got smeared heavily with it. It wasn’t as it appeared. If Pete learned the truth he’d probably kill us both.

It was pretty good dip too.

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