Work Text:
Hi there. My name is Teddy, and I'm an NYC transfer. I moved out to LA to retire. A back injury put me out of my job early, and I can't stand sitting around, so I opened a diner.
Sounds as generic as a box of corn flakes, right? Well, this diner’s special in that it’s run by a firefighter, for firefighters. And doctors. And cops. And honestly, just about damn anyone else who walks through those doors.
But it's usually firefighters. We're all brothers here, we all have the same aspects, and I live for it. Integrity, compassion, a deep understanding of our jobs...and the appetite of a horse.
If someone leaves my diner unsatisfied or hungry, then I did something damn wrong. That also applies to work shit. For some reason, I seem to have become an unofficial counselor to these men.
Yeah, I'm surprised too. Maybe it's the Italian-American ways of telling it straight, and with all the colorful language interjected in all the right places. I didn't put sunshine and rainbows on things. "Oh, just write your feelings in a journal hun, you'll be fine." Fuck that! I give it to the guys straight, no frills. Like a pry bar to a door, or a K12 to a cement wall. You get the point.
Here's a good one though. Caught me a bit off guard.
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I was running the Saturday brunch shift, as per usual. Was quieter than normal, so I was catching up on the newspapers of the week I'd missed. I get four men that walk in and grab a table. Three of them I recognized, and one I didn't.
Now, I made it a mission to try and memorize folks. If I didn't, I had The Book. Yeah, The Book - it had names, badge numbers, and stations of every firefighter that came through that door. This kid I definitely hadn't seen before.
He seemed out of the place with the other three. Leaning back. Quiet. Reacting occasionally when prompted. A different demeanor from the rest. Definitely a boot.
I removed my reading glasses and hooked them on my shirt, placing my pen down. I leaned forward, observing some more.
It was curious, after all. Usually boots would try to get along in the conversation, interjecting where they could and laughing along in the process. This twig of a kid, who looked like he took his first legal drink a month ago, was doing the opposite.
Suzanne opens the door to the kitchen, walking out with a tray of food. I know it's headed to the same table, because one of the men is a regular and he always orders the same thing.
'Extra toasty toast' is always a part of it. What a fucking psychopath.
I raise an eyebrow at the large amount of the food the boot ordered. Guess he recognizes the need to get some meat on his bones. I watch him look it over briefly and smile before digging right in, even before Suzanne has left.
I laugh. At least he has the appetite of a firefighter.
Suzanne notices as she walks back over. She stops by my side, holding the tray against her stomach.
I meet her gaze. Enchanting, as usual.
"10s, right?" She comments. I nod in confirmation.
"Battalion station. Lotta men work out of it."
I decide to let the men eat without me staring them down. I lean back and stretch, trying to alleviate the pain in my back. Work injuries that force you to end your career early will do that to you.
It's bullshit to be sure, but at least I could still help my fellow firehouse brothers. I looked around, noticing the rather isolated crowd had all been helped in some fashion. Time to do the rounds, then.
I made it a routine to visit the tables each hour or two. The men that visited regularly knew I could hand out advice and solve issues in ways they never thought of. I could laugh with them, be sad with them, and generally make sure everyone was doing well and nothing was hanging over their heads.
And, yeah. I've had to keep an eye on one or two men. Tell the others to keep an eye on them. Call them, visit them, ensure that whatever pool of shit they were treading through wasn't done alone.
And then I reached 10s table.
By then, Suzanne had already brought their receipt, and food was still being consumed. Conversations were light, and coffee was topped off. They weren't paying any attention to me, so I decided to simply nod their way and continue on.
It wasn't five minutes later, back behind the counter doing paperwork, that I heard mocking laughter emanating from their table. I looked up again to see the three men laughing among each other, with the boot leaning back, arms folded. He looked unhappy, uncomfortable.
It took me longer than it should've to notice they were mocking the boot's race.
...
Absolutely amazing. Fucking children, I've got here.
I don't mind a bit of ribbing or light joking. That was one of the things we did at firehouses. Pranks were our love language, as my old captain loved to say. I made a line against personal attacks though. Despite race, religion and politics threading that line, I knew from what I was hearing that it was hopping over the line into the unnecessary territory.
I began to walk over to them. And what of it, mocking his race? These white fuckers didn't work half as hard as the others. Native American, Spanish...they could blow these bastards away any day of the week.
"14 bucks? You're telling me you don't have 14 bucks?"
I watched one of the assholes lean back in his chair, interlacing his hands behind his head. His smile grew larger as he pointed at the boot.
"You know what a side business could be for you? Making dream catchers!"
The other two laughed along.
Honest to...
I slapped a hand on the table, making everyone jump. The boot in particular, who looked up at me in slight fear.
"What's goin' on here?" I make sure to use my captain's voice.
"Give us a break, Teddy." I watched Rod, one of the linemen, lean forward. "Can't we joke around here?"
"There's a difference between joking and insulting. You should know that."
"Lay off me, huh? I'm a good customer."
I grumble a response interposed with cursing. I look over at the boot, raise an eyebrow at the receipt firmly in his grasp, then snatch it out with a sleight of hand.
"Wha--hey!"
I fake looking it over, ignoring his protests. A deep rumble comes from my chest, looking back over at Rod.
"14 bucks ain't a lot, huh?"
I shove the bill at him. "Then you can pay it for the kid."
"I'm not--"
I made a mocking soft expression. "Aw, what'sa matter?"
I flick it his way. "Can dish shit out, but can't take it? It's only 14 bucks!"
That stole the words from Rod's mouth. He took a deep breath, glared up at me then grabbed the receipt. He knew he had dug himself in a hole.
"And for the rest of you..." I stood back up to my full height. "You're actin' like playground bullies. Light joking only."
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It was around half an hour later, behind the bar yet again reading the paper, when I heard someone clear their throat. I let the top of the paper fall down backwards, looking up over my reading glasses. It was the twig, and he seemed like he wanted to say something.
I made a face and squinted at him.
"You gonna say something, or are you gonna stand there and collect dust?"
He didn't seem to appreciate that.
"I don't need your help."
I blinked a couple times.
"Run that by me again, kid?"
"Johnny."
"Johnny. Sounds less official than John but whatever. What'd'ya say?"
"I said...I don't need your help." He crossed his arms. "I coulda paid for that. You made the situation worse, stepping in."
He sure as hell couldn't pay for it. He couldn't hide the slight panic underneath a layer of puffed-up pride from me. He also couldn't hide the relief when I told that bastard to pay his check. My eyes may be old, beat up and probably still covered in a layer of fucking soot, but they were still sharp.
I knew these types of fresh firefighters. Recognized them from a mile away. Worked with and trained 'em myself. Young, cocky, defensive, not quite understanding of the weight they had to carry.
That also extended to not needing help. A pride thing, like I said. Bullshit. Pride got you nowhere in this job, except in a high level position with no one who liked you.
Most people would've sighed at his words, put down the paper, and gave him a stern talking-to. But that would push him away. Cause him to never come back. Never bring his roaring appetite. Yes, that's an important deciding factor.
I held the same expression as I closed the paper and laid it on the counter. I removed my reading glasses and placed them on top as I closed my eyes.
"Pride gets you nowhere in this job." I half-opened my eyes to meet his angry gaze. "You'll end up like all the others."
His jaw became set. Defiant. Wonder if he hates being told he's wrong.
"I'm not like all the others."
I let out a single laugh. "Oh, yeah you are. Once you're two years down the line, burned out at the bottom of a bottle, you'll realize I'm right."
He looked like he wanted to argue with me. Guess the casual words of wisdom aren't exactly working on him. I bet he's also a softie.
I shook my head and raised my hand. "Forget it, forget it. You're probably not used to roughness as kindness." I gesture to the stool in front of him. "Take a seat."
"Why?"
I smirk. "So I can tell you the secrets of the universe?"
John uncrossed his arms and gave me a curious stare. Silence followed for a few seconds until he firmly planted himself in the seat.
Well. That was easy. Fukin' weird kid. Whatever.
I cleared my throat, laying an arm across the bar.
"Let's get at least one thing straight. I have nearly 30 years of experience in firefighting. I made Battalion chief. I've seen some shit."
I give him a chance to absorb that before continuing. "That means I can give advice and work out things in ways you've never thought of."
John gives me a confused look. God, he needs to grow his hair out so I don't see his entire face move during expressions.
"Alright. I'll bite. Like what?"
Hook, line and sinker.
"For example, I've worked directly with two Indians as captain."
John looked like he had something to say, but I kept talking.
"You're not all the same, I'm not accusing you of that." I crossed my arms on the table, leaning forward.
"Here's what I'm thinkin'. You feel like you have to prove something. Dispel rumors. One voice for an entire group. Up against stereotypes in a profession that can love that kinda shit."
I seemed to have caught John off guard. He went quiet again, leaning back. It seemed he was all ears, listening intently.
"I was told a lot by those two. I've had my perspective changed. I know about the harsh experience, the fucking anthropologists."
I leaned back, trying to hide the sudden hitch in my back. Leaning forward for too long did that to me.
"Basically, I'm here to help. I've seen everything. I've seen a lotta specific things." I gesture towards him. "That means I can help you. And I'd suggest you take that advice."
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And wouldn't you know it, he did take my advice. I gave him some Cuban coffee, poured myself a cup, and we spent a good couple of hours talking honestly.
He was surprised someone actually understood - at least partially - what he had dealt with and was dealing with now. He was almost out of the probation period (that's where the word probie comes from, don'cha know) and was rather excited about it. He was going from 10s to 8s.
8s was the Hollywood station. Lucky 8s, as they said. One of the busiest stations the county had.
Though, I wasn't worried. I was excited for the kid. I knew he was up for the challenge. More than that though? I knew for certain I had a new repeat customer.