The Bravest

I

The bar was bustling with people. It was a popular bar, a crowd to be expected, but this was more. A choking mess of people that would've been unbearable if these men were not all friends. Colored lights danced upon the walls and ceiling, speakers blaring upbeat dance music. The actual bar was one of the main attractions, most of the crowd choked into the back of the building, where the alcohol was. The bar was tended by three pretty, young girls, not enough for the crowd, a constant swirl of motion, taking orders, snippets of conversation, brewing whatever concoction the people desired. There was a scattering of tables to the front of the bar, most taken, a glass wall facing outwards onto the street, the bustling sidewalks and clogged streets of New York City.

"Lieutenant Michael Faraday. It seems like it's been forever since you joined our noble cause. What is it, fourteen years now? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that's it. Holy cow, it seems like it was just yesterday that you walked into the firehouse so young and fresh faced. Of course, I wasn't much more of a veteran than you. But it is undoubtable that your work since then has built up this department and set a standard for new recruits that consistently puts our crews at the top of their game. For that, no words of praise or thanks can do enough. Today, we celebrate one more achievement in your illustrious career. The fire crews already know the story. For the families, I will quickly explain. Lieutenant Mike had been called out on a gas leak, what a scared mother said had the whole house smelling strongly of fumes. They'd responded like they did anything, Michael and another firefighter, Sal Spiga, had gotten the respirators on and went into the building. The woman hadn't been lying. The small apartment was filled with gas. Michael and Spiga worked to find the leak, which lasted nearly fifteen minutes, before it was finally found in a side vent. Never one to force dirty work upon others, Michael got down, began the work of stopping it, and was successful. However, it was in that moment that Spiga collapsed. Michael reacted quickly and accordingly, picking up the bigger man in a fireman's carry, taking him down three stories to the rest of the crew. On later inspection, Spiga's respirator had had its own leak. A few more minutes and Spiga would've died. Because of Lieutenant Michael, Spiga is safe and recovering today. For these actions, Michael, I am extremely proud and honored to present with you the highest decoration for firefighters, the Medal of Valor."

Michael looked up at the man standing on a table, a man he had known since he was a probationary firefighter, the lowest rank for a fire department. Captain Eugene Doughtman. He'd been a firefighter when Michael had sworn in, the two of them assigned to the same ladder crew. In time, for demonstrating valor himself, Doughtman had been promoted first to lieutenant, then, three years ago, to captain. Michael couldn't have asked for a better man to serve under, Doughtman a hard worker but fair to the men under him. A quiet leader who didn't seem to have the ability to lose his wits, was always focused, always sure. The kind of leader who would not ever send someone to do something that he wouldn't do himself. He was respected by all. As a lieutenant himself, Michael knew that paperwork was processing for his promotion to battalion chief. He deserved it.

The bar erupted in a cheer at the end of Captain Doughtman's speech, Michael's face burning, never one for attention, especially when it was a rowdy crowd of at least a few dozen, of which many of whom were already several drinks in. Michael hated the eyes on him, knew that they were happy eyes, grateful, proud, but it didn't make things different. Michael would be the first to say he was a quiet man, had never been a braggart or a big-talker. But he would never deny his acts of bravery either. He was a doer, not a speaker, and if he saw something that looked wrong or that needed a quick solution, Michael was not afraid to step in and work things out. As Spiga could attest, it had worked well for Michael so far.

The cheering faded off now, Michael grateful, the focus gone from Michael for a bit, back on the booze, previous conversations cut off from Doughtman's speech, husbands spending much needed time with wives, children in bed already, some alone time for the grown-ups. Michael looked down at his Nokia cellphone, a new message, blocky letters. Just arrived. Where are you? Michael smiled, could picture his wife clearly in his head, probably, no, definitely wrapped in a sweater, probably the red one that Michael liked, Ashley always cold. She'd never been a night owl, had made an exception for tonight, in celebration of her husband and the promise by him of free drinks on the tab of the firehouse. That had been part of his reward, his family's tab, Michael not about to waste the opportunity. He'd already had one drink, was debating another, didn't want to wake up hungover the next day. Looking back down at the text, he smiled again, thought about her phone call to him a few minutes before, ended because of Doughtman's speech, her voice, marred with frustration and curses, traffic into the city bad as usual. Ashley had never been one for that, a suburban girl before they'd met, had only finally consented to Michael's wishes of staying in New York when he'd put a down payment on a nice house in the suburbs outside of Jersey city, suburban for her, a short drive into the city for him.