ommercial Street in Provincetown is a narrow, irregular lane that runs more or less parallel to the town beach. It serves as the main drag, in more ways than one. About four or five on a summer afternoon, when everyone is out shopping or promenading, it's pretty hard not to make contact.
I was rushing to get to the post office before it closed, when I bumped into someone in the swarm of pedestrians. "So Where's the fire, Jack?"
"Sorry, I didn't see you."
"Am I that easy to miss?"
"No, now that you mention it."
A stocky man in his 30s stood a scant 12 inches in front of me. Pale blue eyes set close together in a sunburned face. Paintbrush mustache over a small mouth. Brown hair, bleached blond by the sun, swept back in an old-fashioned wave. Thick arms and legs — he must have been into some serious weight-training — and a middle held in firmly. Plain white T-shirt, blue work pants and a pair of broad, red suspenders.
"I like your outfit," I said, "especially the suspenders." From the overhanging cliff formed by his pectoral muscles, the straps hung free of his body clear down to the waist.
"Thanks. I could say the same about yours." As it happened, I was wearing no more than a pair of frayed blue jeans.
"I forgot to put on a shirt."
"Sure, Jack. We should all be so absent-minded."
As he stuck his hands in his pockets and wagged his knees in and out like a pair of bellows, I had to smile. I traced a finger down one of the red straps, then snapped it.
"Sorry, I couldn't resist."
"No problem." Far from being annoyed, he looked rather pleased. He hooked his thumbs to each side and ran them up and down, stretching the elastic.
"Are you really a fireman?"
"Got an emergency, maybe a small brush fire?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
"You were in a big hurry a minute ago."
"Well, I ran into some traffic."
"Yeah, what you might call a priority vehicle."
"Carrying some heavy equipment."
"But it's sort of a nuisance to maintain."
"I'll bet. Has it seen a lot of action?"
"Not lately. People are more careful about playing with matches these days. But I try to keep it in working order, with plenty of spit and polish."
"Well, it's good to know we're in such capable hands. If I see billows of smoke anywhere, I'll give you a buzz. What's your name?"
"Unlisted — you can call me Smokey. I'm staying over at Engine Company A. It's a guest house converted from an old fire station."
"Naturally. So you're really a hook-and-ladder man?"
"Want to see my hose?"
"Later. I have to deal with another branch of the Civil Service right now." I flapped the envelopes in my hand.
"OK, Jack."
"Why do you keep calling me Jack?"
"Oh, it's an old joke, a tradition. We call the new guy Jack until he puts out his first fire. You know the nursery rhyme: 'Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.' After that, he becomes a true smoke-eater, or smokey, for short."
"I think you're making this up."
"Hey, you get a blaze, and I'll come running."
"That I have to see."
"Then come on over to the Fireman's Ball. It's like a Red Party, an annual event. It'll be a hot time in old Provincetown tonight!"
"I didn't bring anything red to wear, and I refuse to go shopping. Look at this crowd."
"That's cool. Come as you are, then, topless. I promise, you won't be turned away."
"Where is this shindig?"
"Downstairs where I'm staying. So you'll come?"
"Maybe. If I can find it."
"You won't be able to miss it. Just look for red."
Shaking my head in a mixture of admiration and disbelief, I pressed onward to the post office, where at first I forgot what I'd come for. The crusty old girl at the teller's window called me back to reality.
"You again?"
"Uh, yes. Some first-class stamps. No, not that kind."
"Fussy, are you? It gets there just as fast no matter whose face is on it, and this is the only kind I've got left. Or there's a commemorative, a man in a funny red hat. 'Saving Lives,' it says."
"I'll take the firefighter. That should last me awhile."
"Until the next time. You must write letters like a house afire." The clock struck the hour, and the window slammed shut.
As I came down the steps, I again collided with someone. This time it was no stranger, but my friend Charles, from New York.
"Bless my heart, if it isn't the Constant Correspondent! I got your card with the boiled lobster on it and the charming note, and I just had to come see for myself. I flew in today on one of those rubber-band airplanes where they ask how much you weigh. Really, that's such a personal question. So what are you up to? Come along to tea."
And so on, until we reached the Boatslip, a motel with a pool and a wide terrace, overlooking the harbor. A tiny, roped-off area, like a boxing ring, was set aside for dancing; two or three bars and a roving corps of waiters served drinks. In shorts and resort wear, a vast number of men milled around, gazed at the sailboats on the water and reconnoitered each other. As we watched the wriggling dance pit, Charles filled me in on the week's events, most of which involved himself. Charles gets around. In turn, I told him about my encounter with "Smokey."
"How exciting! He must have lots of stories."
"I'm sure he does, but are they for real?"
Who cares? The scenery alone sounds worth the trip, as they say.
Red suspenders? He's probably here, you know. Let's see if we can sniff him out."
We moved slowly across the terrace, peering this way and that, but with no luck. Charles sighed.
"If you're that interested, I know where to find him later."
"You do? Tell!"
"He invited me to a Fireman's Ball tonight, but I don't have a costume."
"Oh, I can lend you something red: a dress, a scarf, a wig. . .That's it! You can go as Lucille Ball, to the ball!"
"That's more in your line, Charles."
"You're right. I'll go as Lucy, and you will escort me."
I backed away.
"Now don't sulk. If you don't take me to the ball, not only will I never speak to you again, but I won't stop talking about you to other people. And you know how vicious I can be."
I certainly did. "All right, you win. Where shall I pick you up?"
"Any street corner will do. On second thought, you had better come to my room, upstairs at 12 Carver Street. There's a sign by the door of a ship in full rig - my haven in the storm."
"Ten o'clock sharp."
Charles began to protest.
"This is Massachusetts — they close early."
"And if it feels good, it's probably illegal."
"Or at least frowned on."
"Well, I'd better start my make-up."
When we arrived at Engine Company A, a few minutes before midnight, the party was in full swing. The former garage, where the fire engines used to be parked, was now a bar and restaurant. With the tables cleared away, it resembled a Gay Nineties dance hall, industrial-style. Some of the old equipment still hung on the walls - a pickax, a brass horn and a festively draped hose - but the centerpiece was the fire pole, dropping through a hole in the ceiling. Every now and then, a reveler slid down from the guest rooms upstairs, making the most of an already dramatic entrance.
Charles' costume had evolved into the Fireman's Bride, with a giant red bow in his powdered wig. I had merely added a white dress shirt and black bow tie to my blue jeans. We entered arm in arm, a correct couple. As always, Charles was instantly besieged by admirers, so he patted my arm and released it.
"You've done your duty. Now go find your man. If the conversation starts to flag, bring him over to pay his respects. Otherwise, I can fend for myself."
It didn't take long to spot him. Not quite dancing by himself, but moving rhythmically to the music, he had discarded the T-shirt. His red suspenders now stretched taut over a bare torso, which looked fresh and meaty, possibly sunburned. When he saw me trying to get to him, his little mustache spread out in a smile. He strong-armed his way through the crowd, and we met in the thick of it.
Without a word, we just started dancing together. Small talk would have been inaudible over the music, as well as pointless. My partner did seem concerned about something, though. He looked me up and down and mouthed the same two syllables over and over. At first, I thought he was saying: "Oh yeah!" But his expression didn't match.
Gradually, as he pointed at other people and his own suspenders, I realized that he was saying: "No red!" I shrugged and kept on dancing. At the moment, that was all I could do, and all I wanted to do. But Smokey had another idea.
Motioning me to close my eyes and turn around, he seemed to slip something off, then tug on the seat of my blue jeans. I felt two straps flung over my shoulders, and his arms surrounding me from behind. Two little tugs at the front of my waistband, and he twirled me to face him. I opened my eyes and saw that I was wearing his red suspenders.
Smokey's pants, as I might have guessed, did not fall down or even sag. What I had not expected was the effect of his naked chest. Like a sort of reverse tattoo, or a photographic negative, the suspenders had left a perfect after image. Under the straps, the skin remained white, glowing like moonlight against the red of his sunburn.
This strange sight, added to the unfamiliar webby feeling of the suspenders, got me obscurely excited. It was also becoming hot on the dance floor, in spite of a breeze off the ocean. We danced to the end of the song, then by unspoken agreement worked our way to the edge. We got some interested stares along the way, for me in my natty ensemble of bow tie and suspenders, but more for Smokey's body art.
"Glad to see you could make it, Jack."
"Well, I was recruited against my will, but I'm not sorry now."
"Recruited? How's that?"
"A sort of Ladies' Auxiliary. You see the scarlet ball gown with the big, white hairdo?"
"With the red ribbon?"
"To the max. I told her about you, and she's dying to make your acquaintance. But take it from me —she's not to be trusted."
"Not my type, anyway — too flamboyant. And I've got an interest closer to home, a burning desire, you might say."
"Anything I should know about, for insurance reasons?"
"Oh, you can probably see it without binoculars."
"I did notice a slight injury, only skin-deep."
"It goes much deeper than that, believe me. But I did stay out too long today."
"Does it hurt much?"
"Not yet, but I'm really burning up."
"Sounds serious."
"It can be a problem if you leave it untended."
"Not enough circulation."
"You got it. The heat builds up."
"With no way to relieve it."
"And the next thing you know, you've got a fire."
"So how can I help?"
"Well, you're wearing the uniform, and you brought your own equipment, I hope."
"Check."
"I think it's time to put the pumper into action."
"OK, if you show me the nearest fireplug."
"Sure thing, Jack. Come on up to headquarters. I can give you some very personal training."
"Do you think I have what it takes?"
"We'll find out. You have to be forceful at times. In this case, you may have to break in through the rear."
"I'll try to minimize the property damage. So this is the drill room."
“Right. You first. Oh, one thing, Jack. It's important to maintain a sense of who and where you are at all times. As a rookie, you'll have to follow my instructions to the letter."
"Whatever you say, Chief."
"Also, it may be necessary to administer first aid. How's your resuscitation technique?"
"Lots of practice on mouth-to-mouth."
"Let's have a quick demonstration."
We did, to our mutual satisfaction.
"Good. We've arrived at the scene, now, so break out your equipment. But do me a favor, Jack."
"What's that?"
"Keep those red suspenders on. If you want to handle a blaze effectively, you've got to wear the proper gear."
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