Set Fire To The Rain

Here's to Divorce

Noe

I'm a hero.

At least that's what they call me on the streets.

Brooklyn's Bravest.

Angel of the ashes, walking the line of duty to serve and protect.

Any hour, any day of the week, any call.

Who's keeping score anyway?

I don't think acting like a decent human being in this city makes me a hero.

That elderly Puerto Rican guy with the pretzel stand on the corner of the firehouse, the one who can grill a mean bratwurst while he holds up a hand to stop me before I even reach for my wallet in my turnouts, "No, no, Señor, it's free. Thank you for your service! No, Señor, no dinero! Si, it's for you. It's on me, for everything you do in this city."

That guy's a hero.

Because no matter how many assholes he's had to scrap for all the stolen hotdog carts he's replaced, he's there every night, supporting his 5 grandkids until his son gets clean.

And when his back is turned bagging up my order, I always drop the 5 bucks into his tip cup anyway, because let's face the music, milk and diapers don't come cheap.

Saving people ain't always about being the "hero", lights and sirens blaring.

If that's really all it took in the end, I would've saved her too.

But for all the lives I save, and all these badges they keep throwing at me for doing it, the only thing I couldn't seem to save was my marriage.

And despite how many broken-hearted women are out there right now wishing I was dead, I convinced myself that me getting married again was off the table.

A guy at my age?

I guess you could say I was sick of the game they make out of dating.

When the fire burned out, and with it, that starstruck "dating a fireman" phase, it was only the 'I'm-not-like-most-girls' kind that toughed it out the longest, before like most girls, she realized being with a fireman isn't like the shit she reads in a book. Or the "I-want-a-wedding-but-not-a-marriage" type, that barely make it a secret they're after some "imaginary" payout I'm supposed to be worth to the city, in the event of my untimely death.

Needless to say, I could offer her a couple of drinks and a good night-in.

And when that was done, so was I.

But before you write me off as yet another asshole smoke-eating playboy fireman off Third Watch, hear me out.

I never planned on doing the "married life, with the white picket fence and a dog" thing again.

And despite the shit-talking that always finds its way back to me, from a certain family by the name of Vasquez, falling in love with a girl 16 years younger than me was an accident.

Because back then, all I could think about was balancing the scoreboard between me and that cheating succubus I signed off as my ex-wife.

Alyson Vasquez.

___________________

"So what are you saying?" I asked Alyson over the phone, 3 years earlier.

"Are you kidding me?" she went off. "This whole time I been here talking, and you weren't even listening?"

"I'm listening, but what you're saying isn't making any sense."

"Look, Noe," she sighed. "There's no way to sugarcoat it. So let's just be straightforward with each other, ok?"