Storytime with Rust, Vol XLVI: "The Corvette Man" · 12:45am Aug 18th, 2014
I would like to share something with you all about my life. It isn't a happy story, but it isn't sad, either.
The Corvette Man
Prior to joining the Navy, I was a volunteer firefighter. I served for about a year before I left home to make my way in the world. I met a lot of great people during my time on the force, and had tons of crazy experiences -- some of them good, some of the bad, but I like to think all of them were needed. For a small town volunteer service, you'd think it wouldn't be that exciting. You're right, it wasn't. Most of our incidents were (thankfully) routine... but every once and a while, along comes The Big One.
Let me tell you about the corvette man and how he died.
I was eighteen at the time. It was the end of summer, the last breath of golden warmth before the New England frost hit. Senior year was starting up, but I wasn't really bothered by the academics, and generally ignored school, much to the chagrin of my mother. My days were spent down at the local boathouse rowing for the crew team, cruising the streets with my friends late at night on some weed-fueled fast food binge, or simply kicking back in my hammock with a good book. It was heaven; I was tan, fit, and content with my place in the world. But it was also boring.
Guess that's why I felt some relief the day the pager alarm sounded around seven at night. Despite knowing I was missing dinner, I raced into the house, threw on a pair of flip-flops, kissed my mother goodbye, raced back outside, and took off in the family station wagon, tire screeching around the corner as blue lights flashed across the roof. I knew the way to the station well, by now. It took me exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds (I often timed myself) to come to a halt in the parking lot, hastily stumbling out the door and opening up the bay with my fob key.
Our station had two engines; Engine 3, a heavy brush truck meant for offroading it through farming fields, and Engine 7; the baby of the fleet, a shiny new all-purpose firetruck. A jack of all trades, master of none. I loved that thing like a child. A Probationary Officer at the time, my job was to ride in the back, five-seat, and if we were responding to a real fire, wield the irons (axe and halligan) as we rolled up to a scene. I would be in charge of opening the door with the irons if it were locked, and using them to patrol the outside of the building.
There was only one other person in the bay. His name was John, and he was three months from retiring. He was 69. He was so short, the guys had to make him a special stool to climb into Engine 7, which he drove. It was Tuesday, which meant the rest of the department was on the other side of town, at a training op.
He took one look at me fumbling to hop into my gear, and said, "Get in the front, it's just us tonight."
I'd never ridden up front before, in shotgun. That was the Officer's seat. He controlled the lights and horns and other functions of the engine, and also commanded operations from the radio there. I was understandably nervous. Still, I climbed aboard just as the truck rumbled to life. "Engine seven, dispatch. Responding with two," I said into the radio. First time I'd ever used that, too.
John laughed at me as we pulled out, saying we'd need the sirens on. I obliged, flipping the switch and ripping the horn cord with gusto. The banshee scream of a fire engine on response echoed across my sleepy town with all the power of a realized childhood dream.
The details came fast over the radio. John swung the truck into a turn and we headed off to the scene. It was a reported car wreck, at an intersection in the east end of town, by the soccer field in the woods. It sounded bad. Ambulances were already en route.
An engine from the next town over beat us there, having been driving back from a meeting somewhere and overhearing the call. It wasn't uncommon, different fire departments helping out others. I doubted I would have been able to do much good, looking at the scene as we rolled past.
Several firemen were swarming over the ruins of a corvette, ripping out the door with some Jaws of Life. Something red and pale was inside, unmoving. The wreck itself was appalling; the corvette had collapsed like a beer can made of wet paper. Ways away, a soccer-mom minivan hunched over in the street, front end crumpled. It looked like the corvette had tried to cut out of an intersection without checking, and gotten t-boned by the van at full speed.
John's face was grim. "Gonna need Lifestar."
"Why?"
"Fiberglass body," was all he said.
We parked the engine about a hundred yards down the road, in the dirt parking lot of the soccer field. We got out and he started setting up cones, I diverted traffic. By now, dark had fallen, but the area was awash with pulses of hot blue and red. The Captain eventually showed up, barking orders through his megaphone as more teams arrived.
They got the driver out after some time. I could hear the tearing of metal all the way down the road. Someone brought out a stretcher. John came up to me in the street, telling me to go back the the truck and turn on all the scene lights. "For the helicopter," he explained.
I did as he told, and the dirt lot was soon illuminated by lights powerful enough for a stadium. Almost immediately after I'd done so, a heavy whud-whud-whudding split the air. A chopper descended out of the darkness, like it had been there all along and had only recently decided to drop down and show itself. How a helicopter snuck up on me like that, I'll never know, but I was too busy trying to keep my helmet down to wonder.
Why it landed in the dirt and gravel parking lot and not the soccer field is something I will also never know.
The chopper kicked up a wicked storm of dust and pebbles. From behind my visor, I could hear the sound of them pinging off myself and the truck I crouched at. I'd never seen one this close before, much less one landing five car-lengths away like something out of the desert wars.
They brought the stretcher in as soon as the blades stopped rotating. I remember perching on the pump console to get a better look at the victim. I remember thinking to myself how a person should probably not look like ground beef. I remember John patting me on the shoulder and nudging me back into the truck as the chopper took off. I remember getting out at the station, and suddenly realizing I'd left the windows open when Lifestar landed.
I spent an hour cleaning out the interior of Engine 7 with a cloth. Thinking, mostly. About corvettes and life and men made out of meat.
We later found out he died. Most of his right side had been decimated by the collision. Shattered bones, pulverized organs... it wasn't a painless death, either.
John took me aside before I left for home and told me I'd done a good job that night. It meant a lot, coming from him, but I didn't feel like I'd done anything worth commending. "It's never easy seeing people like that poor man," he said. "But that's why we're here." After a handshake and another pat on the shoulder, I drove home. This time, far under the speed limit.
Things were calm after that. It was a warm summer night. Crickets were chirping and the stars had come out. Took me a while of standing out in the driveway before I found the nerve to go inside. I entered the house, tossed my stuff on the fireplace, and sat down at the table as my family just finished up dinner. Burgers tonight. I looked down at my plate, at the untouched meal, and was reminded of the corvette man.
My mother asked me about the call, told me I seemed really out of it. "Are you alright?"
I looked her dead in the eyes and said, "Yes." I took only one bite out of the burger, before wrapping it up for tomorrow, leaving the table as everyone else did. My stepfather looked worried (he could always read me) but I assured him it was a fantastic meal and I was simply tired from the call.
That night, I lay awake to the sound of crickets, red and blue dancing on the underside of my eyelids.
Nothing like being a fire fighter to think about how easy it is for a life to end in a crash and stuff...
You truly have a way with words. I felt like I was there. I have the utmost respect for all rescue responders. Far braver than I.
Holy shit, dude.
~Skeeter The Lurker
Oddly, this story reminds of an incident in my Sophomore year at high school. A girl had broken up with her boyfriend and the following night the boy went to the hardware store, bought some rope, and hung himself from the bleachers. The one thing I really remember about it was how much people had simply wanted to go home or were wondering what was happening. Rather serendipitous to see both concern and apathy so close to each other.
You have a knack for storytelling, y'know that?
Damn... That's real.
2378525
I recall that drive very well. I essentially idled the whole way home. Very peaceful. Just the engine, the summer night, and Florence and The Machine. I don't recall what I was thinking about. Probably nothing.
It took ten minutes, twelve seconds.
It'll be nice to have you back.
Yep. That kinda thing'll stick with you.
Of course, most of us can't convey it in a compelling way like you do.
Rust, I have no idea what compelled you to tell us this story, but I'm glad you did. I sat down and thought after reading this, yet I fell like I thought about nothing. Death is a concept no one will ever understand, and I don't think anyone ever will.
*hugs, and doesn't let go* We've got you, brother. We're here waiting to welcome you home.
I read this...and it's almost like I could see it myself.
Rust, you are the writer's equivalent of Morgan Freeman.
Very powerful. Truly a moving Read.
Your way with the written word is amazing.
Damn
Wow. After all this time you're still in Tech School, or A School. Whatever the Navy calls it. I can understand why, seeing as how it's fucking nuclear reactors. That shit's hardcore. I'd rather just be a gunner's mate or something like that.
2379543
Nah, I graduated A-school back in winter. Qualified Machinist Mate. Now I'm in Power School, where the nukes are taught about reactors and how to operate them.
2379840 So... When do you guys upgrade to tritium reactors?
2379840
I didn't know you were in the Navy, I signed a Nuclear contract back in June, but I'm not shipping until February.
i have no real idea what to say about this that somebody else has not already said, honestly after reading that I just want to sit down and think about...well I don't know what.
ten minutes twelve seconds...I think that you will have some story to tell at the end of your road.
Its strange how we cope with such scenes like the one you described here. Having finished reading this, my thoughts drifted to a sister of mine and her years in high school. She was part of the guidance council, the group that was there for students who had problems, any sort of problems. Peer councilers I believe they were called.
I'll never forget the day she came home from school and told us of a student she knew who committed suicide right there at lunch shortly following a break up. I wonder how one manage something like that?
Closest thing to an accident I can remember came one late night years ago. I couldn't see much of it at the time on the freeway, but seeing a yellow tarp draped over a prone form told me enough Accident was terrible, but I never really glanced at the vehicles to see just how severe it was.
Anyhow, powerful this blog is, says I.
There isn't anything I could say that hasn't been said before, but... Wow. You really have a way of making it as if the reader is in the scene. I feel for you, it must be indescribable to see something like that.