Paint the Town

By Todd F.

“You guys headed to 51’s now?” Captain Clarke asked his paramedic team as they quickly threw their belongings together in 16’s locker room.

“Yeppers,” Bob Bellingham replied. “The team of Brice and Bellingham is just too damn good to break up.” He sniffed curiously at a blotchy t-shirt that may have been white once, then shrugged his shoulders and stuffed it into his duffle bag.

His partner cringed. “It is merely a coincidence that we’re working overtime at the same time, at the same station,” Craig Brice interjected, his nose wrinkling. “I am sure any ‘teamwork’ we manage to display will be more than overwhelmed by the odor emanating from your duffle.”

“What’s wrong?” Bob asked, rooting through his bag and looking genuinely concerned. “I only wore this stuff a few times. And most of the time I wore deodorant too.”

Captain Clarke smiled. “You boys have fun and play nice now,” the leader of Station 16’s C-shift said before walking out of the locker room and driving home.

*

“Hey everybody!” Bob said boisterously as he walked into the kitchen. ‘Everybody’ was a bit of an overstatement, since the only one there was Marco, scrubbing out the oven.

“Hey Animal!” Marco said. “Cap said you were working for Roy today. Who’s coming in for Johnny?”

“You mean he’s not here yet?” Bob asked, puzzled.

“Who?”

“Craig,” Bob said.

“Brice?” Marco said. Bellingham nodded, and Lopez grimaced.

“He left 15 minutes before I did,” Bob continued. “Man, that guy is the slowest driver I have EVER met. Why have such a nice piece of machinery, and then drive it like my grandmother?”

Captain Stanley, Mike and Chet walked in. “Nice to see you here,” Stanley said. “Where’s your partner?”

“I’m here,” said a voice from behind them. It was Brice. “And Bob, you know that driving too fast is an inefficient use of gasoline, especially in these times.”

“But you have a Javelin, man. A Javelin. What’s the point?” Bellingham shook his head wistfully. “Mikey, you’re his friend. Can’t you talk some reason into him?” he asked the engineer.

Stoker rolled his eyes.

“OK, so I know Gage is on vacation,” Chet interrupted, “but where is Roy?”

“Joanne is sick, which means the kids are sick, which means…..” Cap started.

“Nevermind, I get the picture. Man, I’m never getting married,” Chet said.

“I’m with you there, bro,” Bellingham agreed.

“This is all very fascinating,” Captain Stanley said. “But we have work to do. Brice, Bellingham, go find Dwyer and Smith and let them know you are here so they can go home. Then there’s 200 feet of hose that needs to be switched out. And our house officer has a ‘fun’ surprise this afternoon,” he said, glaring at Stoker. “Let’s get moving.”

*

“So what’s the surprise,” Brice asked Mike as they set the table for lunch.

“Paint.”

“Paint? Painting what?”

“The inside bay doors.”

“And how did this idea occur to you?”

“At a house officer meeting last month. Figured it would save money if we did the whole Battalion and put the primer and paint on one P.O.”

“The primer will not dry in time to paint today,” Brice warned.

“They are metal, so we have to prime. B-shift will paint tomorrow,” Mike replied. His fellow engineer on B-shift, Anton, was also a house officer – somehow the job traditionally always fell to engineers.

Brice nodded his approval. Over the years, diesel fumes had coated the white bay doors. They were now an unattractive shade of gray. He resumed setting down plates. “Captain Stanley didn’t looked pleased,” he noted as he carefully aligned a plate with a napkin and fork.

Mike haphazardly plunked a pile of napkins in the middle of the table. “He hates the smell of paint fumes even more than he hates fish,” the engineer said.

*

After lunch, Chet, Marco, Bob and Craig appeared as ordered in the apparatus bay. They all wore LACFD t-shirts and old uniform pants. Hank Stanley was in his office, door closed. If it could have been hermetically sealed, he probably would have done that too.

They were met by Mike, also in a t-shirt.

“Hose ‘em off,” he said without preamble, handing the garden hose and nozzle to Chet. “Dry ‘em off,” he continued, tossing a bundle of rags at Marco. “Edging,” he said, handing a brush and primer can to Brice. “Primer,” he concluded, handing a roller and a paint tray to Bellingham. The engineer then turned away from the quartet; he had mowing and landscaping duty today and was eager to get it over with.

“Um, Mikey,” Chet started.

Mike turned back to his crewmates.

“We only have one ladder,” Chet continued. “How do we get to the top panels? Or do you want us pulling ladders off the engine?”

Mike pointed toward the back bay doors. “Back of my truck. Two more ladders. Be nice to them; they belong to my father-in-law.”

He strode toward the back door, but was forced to do a quick about-face when the tones went off.

“Engine 51. Activated fire alarm. Legeer Manufacturing. 5600 Clark. 5600 Clark. Cross street Finch. Time out 1313.”

Mike, Marco and Chet jogged over to the engine as Captain Stanley stepped out of his office. He took an experimental sniff of the air, smiled as he deemed it paint free, and walked over to the radio alcove to acknowledge the call.

Mike and Marco smoothly slipped into their uniform shirts and got into their seats on the engine. Chet struggled with his shirt, which he had somehow turned inside-out. This prompted an exasperated comment from his superior.

“Geez Kelly, haven’t you learned how to get dressed yet?” Cap growled. “Get a move-on already.”

Chet finally tugged his shirt on and hopped on the rig. As the engine took off, Brice and Bellingham couldn’t help but laugh out loud; Chet’s shirt was lopsided, looking like it had been buttoned by a 2-year-old.

*

Brice grimly held on to the ladder as Bellingham’s aim with the garden hose once again went awry.

“Sorry Craig,” Bob said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to get ya there.”

“My clothing will eventually dry,” Craig replied. “But you are making it difficult for me to dry off the panels that have already been cleaned. As soon as I dry one off, you spatter it again.”

“You don’t have to be so anal about it,” Bellingham said in a huff. “It’s nice enough outside that they’ll drip-dry themselves in a few minutes.”

Craig ignored his partner and resumed his task of drying door panels. Drip-drying was just not as thorough as a wipe-down. Plus, he didn’t want to face the silent, but deadly, “wrath of Stoker” if it wasn’t done properly.

Bellingham looked up at his partner. Craig’s hair was damp and his glasses spotted. It was going to take more than a nice day for Craig to drip-dry. What the hell, he’s wet anyway, and I’m bored, Bellingham thought. He “accidentally” aimed the hose at his partner once again.

*

Brice’s shoes squished as he made his way down the ladder for more primer. While using a screwdriver to pry open the can, he saw Bellingham out of the corner of his eye rolling the panels that Brice had already edged. Craig grimaced, put the screwdriver down and headed back over to his partner.

“Here, let me show you,” he said, grabbing the roller from Bellingham and smearing primer on his own elbow. “It’s slightly overlapping strokes, in a W-type motion.”

“Gimme that,” Bellingham said, snatching the roller back from his partner, and getting a handful of primer in the process. “I know how to paint.”

“But you are doing it incorrectly. We won’t get maximum coverage for a minimum amount of primer.”

“Doing it incorrectly, my ass. It looks fine,” Bob said, indicating a freshly-primed door panel. “What’s wrong with that?”

Brice snatched the roller back, spattering both himself and Bellingham with primer. “I’ll roll. You do the edging.”

“If you insist, SIR,” Bellingham said snottily. Sometimes it was just easier to give in to his perpetually uptight partner than remind him who the senior member really was. Bob stomped over to the corner where the new can of primer awaited opening.

*

“Wonder why they aren’t back yet?” Bellingham asked his partner from atop the ladder.

“That call was out of district. It will take quite a while for them to return. I suggest in the future that you take a moment to refresh your memory by reviewing the district maps before doing overtime at an unfamiliar station.”

“I don’t need a map,” Bellingham stated factually. “I have you. You probably have the whole county memorized.” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the span of Brice’s admittedly impressive geographic knowledge… and swept the can of primer right off the ladder.

“Watch it!” Bob yelled, as the can landed at Brice’s feet.

Light gray primer washed over Craig’s shoes and pants in a wave, and spattered all around him – a veritable mushroom cloud of primer -- just missing the bumper of the squad parked several feet away. Rivers of primer flowed over the apparatus bay floor and under the bay door, running quickly down the apron-shaped driveway.

“Oh man,” Bob said as he scrambled down the ladder. “You all right?”

Brice stood still, as if in shock.

“Craig, I’m soooo sorry. C’mon man, are you all right?”

Brice opened his mouth to speak… and the tones went off.

“Squad 51, unknown illness. 1500 Miller. 1500 Miller. Cross street Jones. Time out, 1430.”

Brice looked dazed and confused, an uncharacteristic state of being for him. Bellingham grabbed his partner and steered him quickly into the bunk room.

“Put on your bunker pants to hide the primer. I’ll acknowledge L.A.” Bob ordered and ran out of the room again.

Brice did as he was told and made his way back to the squad. He put on his shirt, buttoned it with shaking fingers and tucked it into his bunker pants. He studied his fingers curiously for a moment before taking his seat in the squad.

As they took off, Brice opened his mouth to speak again. He spoke slowly, as if the workings of his mouth muscles were somehow foreign to him.

“Bob?”

“Yeah Craig?”

“I think there’s primer everywhere,” Brice said, with just a hint of surprise.

“You are probably right, my friend.”

“Absolutely everywhere.”

“Yep,” Bob said, carefully navigating a right turn and hoping that his partner would snap out of it long enough to tell him where hell 1500 Miller was.

“On my pants. On my shoes. Now the inside of my bunker pants too,” Brice’s voice was flat.

“Uh huh,” Bob said. He didn’t know what else to say.

There was another minute of awkward silence. Then Brice spoke up again. “On the floor. On the apron. Maybe even on the squad.”

“Yep, probably so,” Bob said, wondering what his partner was getting at.

Brice rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaving a smear of primer behind. “Perhaps on the way back, we could stop and purchase some thinner to clean the bay floor.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bellingham said.

Another silent minute went by.

“Bob?”

“Yeah Craig?”

“You should have turned left back there.”

“I’ll flip a U then,” Bellingham said, with some relief. This sounded more like the Craig Brice he knew.

*

Three hours later they pulled the squad back into the bay. The engine was back, but there was no sign of its crew. Bob and Craig looked at each other, reluctant to get out of the squad and face the disaster they left behind.

“At least we got the thinner,” Bob said, patting the bag that sat between them.

“Let’s face the music,” Brice replied, opening his door. The pair walked slowly into the day room, the odor of primer permeating the entire building.

Mike and Marco sat at the table, playing chess. Chet stood at the stove, stirring something. They stopped what they were doing as Brice and Bellingham walked in.

“You guys have something to tell us?” Chet asked, waving the spoon at them in a tsk-tsk motion.

“Yeah, I didn’t know we were painting the floor too, or Mike could have bought more supplies,” Marco joked. Mike smiled.

“I’m going to shower and change,” Brice said, and stomped out of the room. Or, rather, he would have stomped -- if his primer-encrusted pants underneath his bunker gear would have allowed him. Instead, he crackled and rustled as he made his way into the locker room.

Bob watched him go. “I think I’ll try to tackle that floor mess before Craig has a stroke. We bought some thinner on the way back,” Bellingham said. “Where’s Captain Stanley?”

Mike spoke up. “With this smell? Just guess.”

“Yeah, he ordered me to make my special chili just to override the primer stink. I don’t think it’s working, though,” Chet said.

“That’s OK, I’ll eat anything,” Bellingham said. “And after scraping that goo off the floor, I’ll be hungry enough, that’s for sure.” He walked out of the kitchen, with the laughter of his temporary crewmates echoing behind him.

*

The smell of the thinner and primer was just too much. Captain Stanley gave up sleep around 3 a.m. and instead was sitting in a lawn chair in the parking lot, sipping Sanka. He heard a noise and went to investigate. It was Chet, rummaging around in the storage closet in the apparatus bay. He held a pair of boots in one hand, and was reaching for a can of primer with the other.

“Kelly?” Hank Stanley asked in a puzzled tone.

“Cap!” Chet said in a stage whisper. “I… I didn’t know you were awake.”

“Obviously not. What the hell are you doing?”

Chet was caught red-handed. He decided to go for honesty. “Oh man, the Phantom saw Brice’s boots, and remembered the left-over primer, and just couldn’t resist. I mean, you see what those… those… substitutes… did to our floor, right?” Chet spat out the word ‘substitutes’ like it was a curse word.

Hank figured it wasn’t worth the effort to be angry. That would just wake up Brice, who, rumor had it, was such a light sleeper, ants marching in the next county could wake him up. Also, Chet had a point. And it would be tough explaining the Phantom to the Perfect Paramedic. “I don’t see any boots or primer here,” Cap whispered in return. “And I don’t see you here. Kapish?”

“Kapish, Cap. I’m in bed now. Can’t you tell?” And with that, Chet replaced the primer in the closet and quietly edged back into the dorm, boots in hand.

Captain Stanley shook his head slowly and headed back to his lawn chair and now-cold cup of decaf.

*

“Happy to see Brice and Bellingham back safe from Station 51,” Captain Clarke said as his men assembled in the apparatus bay two days later.

“It’s good to be back Captain,” Brice said.

“There’s no place like home,” Bellingham agreed.

“Good, good. Now this morning after rig checks we have a SCBA drill scheduled. Then this afternoon, something a little different. Rogers here came back from his house officer meeting with a great idea; we are going to paint the inside bay doors. They are looking pretty scuzzy at the moment. We’ll make a little painting party out of it, have some fun, maybe bring the radio out here.”

The other men looked pleased. But Brice and Bellingham looked at each other in a panic.

“You men have any better ideas?” their usually easy-going captain asked the pair. “Because the alternative is hose testing. The whole rack of spare hose needs to be tested this week.”

“We’ll do it!” Bellingham cried out.

“Yes, we would be happy to test hose with Rogers while you paint,” Brice responded a little too quickly.

“All right, I guess that will work” Captain Clarke said with reluctance. But secretly he was pleased. He’d heard through the Captains’ grapevine all about his paramedics’ painting adventures… and had spent a few hours figuring out how to work it to his advantage. Painting AND hose testing all in one day. They never taught me this in officer school, he mused, as his men dispersed to start their day.

The End