The Last Firefighter
A short story
Dutch Conway always rushed out the door at 5:30am.
It was like clockwork. Tommy would walk out into the early morning, shivering in his slippers as the dog took a leak. The line of rowhouses around him would be dark and dreary. But, one by one, the lights to Truck Company No. 3 (Built 1881) would flip on, and its rich red door would swing open. Dutch would burn rubber as he peeled out, taking off mirrors of cars parked along the street.
“Get out of the damn way!!”, he would shriek. Tommy would shake his head and lead the dog back into the house.
Dutch was a wealthy man who spent his time and money holed up in a vintage firehouse. He never seemed to leave. In warm weather, he would pull the engine into the quiet side street, buffing and shining all its features. In the winter, he would cover the place in Christmas lights and warn about the dangers of holiday decorations to all passersby. The man lived the life of an old-timey firefighter, albeight without the license and obligation.
Nobody quite knew how Dutch got the money to live this life. The stock market? Exotic Goods? Horse Breeding? Whatever it was, it was not anything Tommy’s 2023 brain could connect the dots to. Plus it had to be SERIOUS money. There’s no way that , without it, Dutch could get away with what he got away without it.
The rumors had been circulating for awhile : Dutch liked to save his own buildings. He would buy dilapidated buildings in other parts of town, and then install a torching contraption to go off at a certain time. After returning to his station, he would come roaring out of the firehouse, sirens blaring. Authorities would help him put out the blaze, and his friends in the city government would cover for him, delivering the blabbering rich man to his firehouse and letting the process start all over again.
Tommy would catch an occasional fire in the city that seemed a little off. One or two in the central Northside; a particularly feisty one in Polish End. But all of them could be brushed off as letting the imagination run wild. But one morning while eating his morning cereal, Tommy knew for certain that this one could not be brushed off, and he was surprised to find a name attached.
Dutch had finally gone too far: He had secretly bought the old First National Bank building downtown and planted his signature contraption inside.
The behemoth that was the First National Bank building was truly a sight to behold. With its majestic Roman columns and fine latticework over 7th Avenue, the building had been continually neglected for years. Boards covered most of the windows and pigeons scratched at the outside façade. Most looked upon it as a point of nostalgia. It was a relic of the Gilded Age and other times of the city’s financial prosperity. But to Dutch Conway, it would be his masterpiece. He looked upon that building as if he was seeing the Promised Land.
The building was full of rickety lathing and horsehair plaster. Dutch would always set his device up to take advantage of the clothe wiring in the walls. It would run a current through whatever wiring was still there. It would only take a few notches on a timer, but after a few notches: KABOOM!. Flames everywhere.
Dutch set the device, and then he did as he had always done: ran back to his firehouse and grabbed his truck. But while he was gone, the bank fire quickly escalated. The columns blackened as the building was engulfed in flames. People crowded into the street, pointing and yelling for someone to do something.
In one gust of wind, the fire spread to four of the shops surrounding it. Fire companies from all over the city jammed the streets, racing to get to the fire. But through all the hubbub there was one man leading the pack:
Dutch Conway
His fire engine roared down the street, moving so quickly that its 1920’s era engine must have been redlining. He even had his firehouse dalmatian (Sparky) barking loudly at the smoke in the backseat.
Dutch pulled up to the fire and pulled out his hose. A gush of water spit into the bank. He puffed out his chest and pulled the lever all the way back. The heat that emanated from the gilded structure grew hotter and hotter. Beads of sweat ran down Dutch’s forehead.
“Don’t worry everyone we have this under control!!”, he yelled. Sparky barked to confirm his statement. The top floor of the bank collapsed.
Soon, the fire swept to more and more buildings in the downtown street. People were initially calm, but now they started running. Men pushing men, women pushing babies. Some even claim they saw a dairy cow galloping amidst the panic.
“Don’t worry everybody! We got this under control!”, Dutch yelled again, still spraying a bone-dry hose. Sparky barked to confirm these findings. Behind him, a fire engine crashed into a pole, trying to avoid some panicked onlookers.
The damage was estimated to be north of $20 million dollars. The street has still not been reopened. Black and gnarled storefronts have fresh oak boards nailed across them. The pigeons still sit atop their brick perches; They coo and topple loose bricks into the street below.
Tommy ate his cereal as he saw Dutch being led to awaiting police cars. From the news reports, he could see Dutch was successfully sued by all the 7th street business owners for damages, and he also lost his plea in the trial for arson. Tommy had already seen the FOR SALE sign resting in the window of the firehouse. Soon, Probably everything in Dutch’s bank accounts would be gone here too.
At least, Jake thought, there is a silver lining for Dutch: The judge agreed to his request to be held in a old-timey prison cell, complete with striped jumpsuit. His request for a matching jumpsuit for Sparky was denied.