Entry 1:

We got our asses kicked last night, and I'm going off shift feeling grumpy and disoriented. We had three runs after midnight—not a single one worth going to—and I never really got back to sleep. My room at the firehouse overlooks a dark street that is full of transvestite hookers plying their trade. They're all about six foot three with big breasts and stubble, and they spend the night fighting with each other and catcalling the guys who cruise by. When we pull out of the barn for a run they always wave and smile, blow little kisses. Dominique is the senior man down there, and at about 3 a.m. I hollered for him/her to tell everyone to keep it down. No luck. Times are good in Oakland these days; business is booming. Often when I leave work in the morning Dominique and her crew are also calling it a night, and I notice with dismay that we share the same slumped shoulders and bleary, overworked expressions.

I work a 24-hour shift, from 8 a.m. to 8 a.m., during which time my station averages about a dozen calls. Yesterday we had seven medicals, a fun little room-and-contents fire, a Dumpster fire, and our typical 6 a.m. wake-up call to the Santa Maria Hotel. The Santa Maria is a high-rise residential hotel (read: tenement) with a truly terrible wiring job on the alarm system. My crew went there 127 times last year, always for false alarms. The routine is invariably the same: We go screaming up  Eighth Street with lights and sirens, Truck 9 pulls up nose-in from Oak, and we all pile out in full costume. Already laden with air bottles, axes, and big flashlights, my partner JoJo and I each grab a high-rise pack (100 feet of hose, a nozzle and fittings for the standpipe) while the captain gets the keys and starts propping open doors. We trudge (cussing all the way) to the alarm panel in the basement, hit the reset button, and wait a minute to see if the reset holds—it wouldn't if something was actually burning. Then we hump our crap back upstairs and shoot the breeze with the guys from 9 for a few minutes unless it's night and we're all desperate for sleep. We can't just blow off this routine call from the Santa Maria even though we all know it's going to be false. One day we'll pull up and see the place going to the moon, so we have to pretend it's the real thing every time. Come to think of it, it might not be the worst thing in the world to lose the Santa Maria one day; downtown could use a new parking lot.

The Santa Maria isn't our only chronic abuser by any means, though it is certainly the worst. I can count on at least two false ringing alarms per shift, and I know the addresses and floor plans of these buildings as well as I know my own home. Most cities have a policy for this sort of thing: two freebies and then the building owner gets hit with a hefty fine, but Oakland hasn't advanced that far. While it's no real burden to me personally to answer these false calls—I'm at work all day no matter what—they distract us from our true purpose. While I'm playing the Santa Maria game for the third time in a week, the building next door to my firehouse could be burning down, and the folks hanging from the windows will have to wait for a distant engine company to come save them. Not to mention the fact that every time we drive Code 3 carries a risk, even with well-trained and careful drivers. I'd hate to be the fire chief who had to explain to a grieving mother that her little boy was killed while a crew was responding to a false alarm that had happened 500 times since he'd been promoted to top brass.

When we got back from the 6 a.m. Santa Maria run there was no point in going back to sleep, so I folded up my sheets and caught a quick shower, just a few seconds really. There is nothing worse than hearing a run come in when you're in the shower or just finishing up your paperwork on the toilet, so I keep my bathroom breaks brief. Afterwards the C shift was starting to filter in, so the eight of us (four offgoing, four oncoming) sat around in the kitchen drinking coffee and spreading malicious rumors about people we know. Some firehouses have up to 10 people on a shift, but my current station has only four. It's a lot like a cozy house, except it's spotlessly clean. Let's face it—when we're not fighting fires, we're the best-paid janitors in the city, so we take pride in well-buffed floors. We have an office, a TV room, and a dorm wing, but firehouse life focuses on the kitchen. Everyone is on their own for breakfast, but we cook and eat lunch and dinner together. The day revolves around the meals, and they often last hours after the food is gone, everyone telling stories, reluctant to break up and go back to work. This morning I was too tired to be social, so I read the paper until somebody snuck up and lit it on fire—a tired old joke, but always good for a laugh.