Set Fire To The Rain

Ursusagalmatophilia

Letting Cassie's camera rest safely next to my radio against my shirt, I grabbed my helmet and slipped on my bunker jacket.

It's still a little loose around the sleeves, because it wasn't mine to begin with.

It's my dad's jacket.

After losing mine in a call, my first month on the job, I had to drag his out of a closet. It's seen better days, but that's the thing about my dad, he was always testing his luck on the job.

Cancer was the thing that finally took him out.

It feels heavier than my old coat, beat up and busted as it is.

But that's probably just my issue, not the actual coat's.

It's like I still haven't stopped seeing myself as the imposter when I slip into it.

And I can never wipe off all the ash and burn holes in dad's jacket. They weren't my burn holes. They weren't my fires.

The name Shea sweeping behind me in yellow block letters, that's the heaviest thing to carry around. Knowing I was never quite a Garivay, even though I had some of his looks, his humor, and his love for the job.

And even after being on my own in the department for 24 years, I still walk around under the wing of dad's shadow.

To a lot of the guys, I'm still Jan's boy.

Guys I've never even met still come up to me at department barbecues and appreciation dinners wanting to shake my hand and tell me about the dad I barely knew.

And what I did know, I only knew for a short time.

But they always had this bright look in their eyes when they told me how much my dad meant to them. As if they wanted me to say something profound on his behalf. Something like 'you're welcome, he was just doing his job' or 'it was no problem, he loved the work'.

I can't say that though.

I wish he wasn't gone either, and that I'd had more time with him too, but I can't take the credit for dad's work.

It's hard enough being the son of a retired battalion chief.

I always felt like I owed something to people, like everyone had already picked out the perfect picture frame for my life, and somehow I had to squeeze myself inside of it.

How can I give other people that closure, walking in my father's footsteps, when I never even got that closure from him as his son?

"We drew straws this morning," James told me, handing me a black coffee stirrer. "The shorter stick never got picked up by anyone, so we saved it for the guy covering your shift, but since he didn't show up and you did, I guess that means you get Patterson this call."

"I'm not even on duty!"

"Luck of the draw, man."

"Bullshit. The shorter stick never gets left over," I informed him. "The chances of that happening mathematically are like one in a million. None of you guys wanted to babysit him so you were going to hand him over to some unsuspecting bystander. I'm onto you guys. Draw 'em again."

"No take backs," James replied, jumping ahead of me into the rig.

"Where is he anyway?" I asked, closing the door behind us.

"Caught a ride with the medics."

"Are they keeping him this time?" I asked. "He's in the back of an ambulance more than he's in a fire engine now. What's going on? Is he hiding from me?"