From: eah4@po.CWRU.Edu (Elizabeth A. Hlabse)
Newsgroups: alt.ql.creative
Subject: Flashover, Part 1
Date: 22 Apr 1993 15:30:42 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Message-Id: <1r6dn3$qle@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu>
Reply-To: eah4@po.CWRU.Edu (Elizabeth A. Hlabse)
Nntp-Posting-Host: slc12.ins.cwru.edu




"Flashover - June 20, 1989"
Part 1

by Tracy E. Finifter


        My first realization upon "arriving" was that my clothes were far too 
heavy.  As more of my surroundings fell into place, I fell from where I was 
standing onto the ground, after which I became aware of laughter, probably 
directed at me.  Looking around, I found that I had fallen off the step of 
a fire engine, upon which several firemen were looking at me, obviously 
amused by my disorientation.  From the looks of the truck, I was pretty 
late in history, either late eighties or early nineties.  One guy came up 
to me, dressed in fireman's pants and boots, complete with the red 
suspenders.

        "Take it easy, Steve."  My new companion helped me to my feet.  "You 
can take off your coat now, if you're warm."

        "Thanks," I muttered as I took off the heavy jacket.  I was warm.  It 
must be summer, whenever I was, and this heavy gear certainly didn't help 
matters.

        "Hey, Steve!" shouted someone from the back of the truck.  "Come back 
here for a minute.  I want to show you something."

        It took me a few seconds and the prodding of the other firemen for me 
to respond to my new name.  Setting my coat on the step of the truck, I 
headed to the back, unaware of the giggles by some of the men.  As I 
stepped behind the truck, the fireman that had called me over quickly 
stepped back.

        "What is it?" I asked, still confused enough to not notice.  His only 
response was a nod to the front of the truck.

        And that's when it hit me, literally.  A stream of cold water gushed 
out of the back of the truck, nearly knocking me over.  I tried to run out 
of its way, but it was too late; I was thoroughly soaked.  All I could 
manage to say was, "Oh boy."

        The firemen around me exploded in laughter at my latest, uh, 
situation.  My only response was a glance skyward and the silent question I 
asked Him/Her/It every time I leaped.  Why me?

        And once again, I got no answer.  Just an escort, via twelve firemen 
and three bright red firetrucks back to our station.  I wondered how else I 
could mess up things for my new persona.  It was like this at the beginning 
of every leap; a bumble here, a fumble there, and the leapee's reputation 
could be ruined forever.

        Back at the firehouse, I waited until all the other firemen had gotten 
off the trucks and went to their hooks before I went to hang up my 
equipment.  Hopefully, my hook would be the last empty one and have a last 
name on it, as most of them did.  However, by the time all the firemen were 
at their hooks, all the ones with names were taken and there were four 
others left empty.  I took the first empty one I found, a little tired of 
faking my way through this.  I wished Al would get here.

        "Jeez, Sam, you're sopping wet."

        When I recovered from my mild heart attack, I glared at my holographic 
friend and resumed hanging my outfit.  Ask and ye shall receive, I guess.  
Now that he was here, I could hopefully get several dozen of my questions 
answered.  That is, once I managed to find some space away from the other 
firemen in the station.

        My prayer was answered when one by one, they started heading into a 
back room.  "Coming back for a beer, Steve?" one of them called out.

        "I'll be there in a minute," I answered.  He shrugged and headed back 
with the rest.

        Al seemed to be consumed with other matters.  He started circling 
around the closest fire truck, cigar and handlink in hand.  "Look at this, 
Sam!  Isn't she a beauty!  Although, yellow's better."  He popped the cigar 
into his mouth.

        Ringing the last of the excess water out of my shirt and basically 
ignoring his reverie, I stepped over towards him.  "Names, dates, places, 
etc. Al?"

        "Hmm?  Oh, yeah, right."  He started poking the handlink.  "Let's see, 
your name is Steven Wilkes and you're a computer salesman and volunteer 
firefighter in Cheesequake, New Jersey in 1989.  June 20, 1989, to be 
exact."

        "Okay, what am I here to do?"

        "We're not sure yet.  Ziggy's having some... problems," he said with 
the kind of reluctant tone which told me I was not going to like what else 
he had to say.

        "Problems?" I asked.  "What kind of problems?"

        Al hesitated for a second before answering me.  "He says he's 
depressed."

        I looked at Al incredulously.  "Depressed?  Why is he depressed?"

        "Well, Sam, you know how he was wrong about what you were there to do 
that last leap?"

        "Yeah."

        "Well, it really got to him.  You know how he hates to be wrong.  So 
he decided he's not going to tell us anything unless it's 100%."

        I sighed.  I hated not knowing what I had to do, but I couldn't yell 
at Al if Ziggy was being temperamental.  "What am I supposed to do in the 
meantime?  I don't know anything about being a fireman or..."

        Al cut me off in mid-protest.  "Firefighter, Sam.  And don't worry 
about it.  You're a volunteer in a rinky-dink town, what are the chances 
that you're going to have something big?"

        "I was kind of hoping that that's what you were here to tell me."  I 
let out another sigh and leaned on the wall.

        Al bit down on the cigar and started punching more buttons on the 
handlink.  "I can tell you that you've only joined the department three 
months ago, and started Firefighter 1 last month.  That makes you the 
probie around here and would explain why your name's not above your hook, 
not to mention your initiation."

        "Probie?  Initiation?  What are you talking about?"

        "A probie is a probationary member, the new kid.  And new kids usually 
get initiated."  Al pointed at the puddle under my gear to show what he 
meant.

        "Right, Al."  I decided, reluctantly, to humor his incredible wealth 
of useless knowledge.  It was probably something he learned in the Navy.

        Al was staring at the truck again.  "Isn't this a beautiful piece of 
apparatus?"

        "It's just a truck."

        Al looked back at me, with an expression of mock horror.  "Bite your 
tongue, Sam.  Besides, it's not a truck, it's an engine.  That ladder over 
there is a truck.  Pumpers are always called engines and ladders are always 
called trucks.  Look at this '88 Pierce pumper, 1250 GPM, 1000 gallon tank, 
center mount pump panel, and gorgeous!"

        I gaped at Al, unable to hide my surprise.  "How in the world do you 
know all that?  And don't even tell me you were a firefighter, too."  I had 
come to the realization long ago that Al had supposedly done more during 
his life than was humanly possible, for ten men.  If he was also about to 
tell me that he had been a firefighter, I would have screamed.  I really 
would have.

        "No, one of my old girlfriends was."

        I closed my eyes and dropped my head.  I should have known.

        Al continued, "Her name was Kelly and boy, could she handle hose..." 
and fell into his most lecherous stare.

        "Al!"  I had had enough.

        "Fine, Sam.  I'll go see if Beeks and Gooshie have gotten anything 
more out of Ziggy yet."  With that, he punched a button on the handlink, 
summoning the Imaging Chamber door.  As he slipped back into the future, I 
went into the back room, and immediately started choking on the massive 
cloud of cigarette smoke I encountered.

        "You all right there, Steve?" One of the smokers asked me.

        "Uh, yeah," I managed between mild coughing fits.

        "Here, this one's on me," called another man, handing me a beer.  I 
drank it quickly, probably too quickly, but between the heat and the smoke, 
I had built up quite a thirst.  "Thanks," I said.

        "Don't mention it," the 'bartender', for lack of a name, replied.  He 
was big, but friendly, and sort of reminded me of Santa Claus in an odd 
sort of way.  "You did real good at the drill today, you handled yourself 
real well," he said.

        "Thanks," I said again, feeling a little guilty about taking credit 
for my persona's accomplishments.  I tried slinking into the back corner of 
the room, in hopes that by observing conversations I could pick up some 
names.  It worked well enough.  During the course of the night, I learned 
that the bartender was the assistant chief of the department, a man name 
Barry.  There was also Chris, Mike, and Joe who repeatedly tried to involve 
me more in their conversation.  I fumbled along as best I could, giving 
vague answers to their questions and smiling politely at their stories.  
Mostly they talked about their work, wives and girlfriends, and recent fire 
calls.  I had never been a computer salesman before, I didn't know if my 
persona was married or not, and I hadn't been to any of the calls, so I 
didn't contribute much to the discussion.


To be continued...


* Tracy Finifter                        |    "We are all born mad.          *
*  finifter@gandalf.rutgers.edu         |       Some remain so."            *
*  Douglass College, Rutgers University |               - Samuel Beckett    *
*      13 days 'till "Mirror Image"     |                                   *