Juan was determined to get it right, but by the looks of things, he wasn’t doing a very good job of that. He was lying in the bed of a woman who wasn’t his wife, trying to figure out how he’d allowed himself to end up in this position again after promising himself that he would give up this lifestyle. The girl he’d just slept with was in the bathroom cleaning up, and Juan took this as a prime opportunity to escape before he was forced to look at her again, which he didn’t want to do, because instead of seeing her face he’d see his wife and his two daughters staring back at him and making him feel lower than a mongrel. Lower than a rat, even. He told himself he was equal to a fleck of excrement caked on a toilet bowl. So Juan chose to move, pulling on his skinny jeans and Austin Fire Department shirt, noting the Psychology 101 textbook on the nightstand and the orange Longhorns t-shirts flung across the floor like pieces of trash. He crept out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the muggy Texas morning, feeling stiff and mechanical, gray hairs sprouting like flies on his temples. 

It was 11:30 and Juan was down on the street, head-pounding, psyche torn, listening to the grackles shriek in the trees like hell birds. Texas in May. The heat was stifling. Five minutes under the sun and Juan had already sweated through his shirt. He was heading to his 24-hour shift at Station Three, where everyone knew him as J, and down on the street in the swirl of Texas steam and atonal grackles, J heard his wife calling out to him from some building somewhere. The voice was so distinct that J stopped and looked up and down the street, then up at the towering buildings, trying to figure out where it had come from, before realizing it had been a hallucination. A homeless man approached him and started rambling about how his car was out of gas, about how he needed a few bucks for a few gallons, but J, being a veteran Austinite, knew it was smoke and mirrors, so he said look, buddy, save your breath, here’s a couple bucks, go buy yourself a tall boy and bother someone else. The homeless man took the money and loped into the middle of the street, where a Jeep Rubicon had to slam on its brakes to keep from splattering him. J shook his head and walked on, feeling like death, like someone had scooped out his guts with a spoon.

J wasn’t sure how all of this started. He had once been good and just. Years ago now. But then at some point, an awful urge swelled in his gut and between his legs, reminding him he only had one life to live, and that there was fruit to be tasted beyond the domestic domain, that it was all his if he wanted it, if he didn’t mind cutting off slivers of his soul like slices of tenderloin and throwing them one-by-one into the trash, until all was gone and only a void remained. At first, J thought he’d be able to maintain this double life, to taste the fruit and feel no guilt. He was hardened enough. Steely enough. It was only a matter of appearances, he thought. But as time progressed and he continued to do the Bad Thing, twisting and turning in bed with the rotten fruit, the burden of giving away his soul proved to be so heavy that it ruined his physical and spiritual being. Tension in every muscle and his heart felt like it had been stabbed with a thousand thumbtacks. At some point, the fruit didn’t taste all that good anymore, or it only tasted good for a short period of time, after which it was so sour that he had to spit it out and wash his body until his skin was raw. It was then that he’d denounce the fruit, promise himself he’d never return to it. But then time would pass and he’d forget and that old familiar urge would rise up like a goat’s head and he’d think about the fruit and say hey, maybe it wasn’t so sour after all. Maybe I should give it just one more taste. Then he would, and it was awful, and he would want to kill himself because he’d become a monster.

**

J was the first person on his crew to arrive for the shift, like always, so after changing into his work pants and boots, he opened the back door of the engine and checked off the medical bag. Blood pressure cuff. CBG. Oxygen tank. It was all there. But J’s mind was only half-present, caught up in the Longhorns girl taking an Intro to Psychology class and working part-time as a barista at a coffee shop he often went to before his shifts. That’s where he’d met her. She wasn’t that good-looking but she had a nice smile and she wore this black choker and a little purple skirt that did something for J. They’d always chit-chat when J was there, fondling each other with their eyes, until one time, out of the blue, she said why don’t you come over to my apartment sometime, and smiled, and both of them knew what that meant. Today was the first day he’d taken her up on that offer, and after the jelly was expelled, J promised himself it would be the last, though he’d told himself the same thing with other girls and screwed that up, too. So J closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh and tried to convince himself that somewhere deep down he was a decent man, a decent God-fearing man with a wife and two kids, a decent just man who overall was pretty good but just had this one deformity in his character that he couldn’t eliminate. Did that make him awful? Some days he didn’t think so. Other days, he knew it did and that he was rambling down a dark path that led to death and death only.

The tones sounded louder than the loudest alarm clock. J’s heart skipped a beat. A voice over the intercom: “Quint 3, Engine 4, respond toNorthbound MoPac Expressway at W. 38th Street for an MVA, possible subject trapped. Quint 3, Engine 4, respond toNorthbound MoPac Expressway at W. 38th Street for an MVA, possible subject trapped.” J snapped into action, removing his turnout gear from his locker, donning his boots and turnout pants and throwing the rest of his equipment onto the truck. The other three guys on his crew walked into the bay moments later, and within 45 seconds of the alarm going off, Quint 3 was out the door, speeding lights and sirens toward the expressway, unsure of what they’d find when they got there but expecting the worst, always expecting the worst, because that was best: anticipate gore and work back from there, that way if it was nothing it would be a pleasant surprise. Most of the time, a pleasant surprise is what the boys on Quint 3 got. But not today. They knew it was bad from the moment they arrived: a Toyota Four-Runner had rolled over God knows how many times and lodged itself upside down against a cement wall. “Holy fucksticks,” said Ryan, the other backman on the truck. J donned his jacket and gloves and helmet and made his way toward the hunk of metal leaking fluid onto the pavement.

J could tell the driver was dead because there was a giant dent in his head and something, probably a piece of windshield glass, had slit his throat. There was a lot of blood and the woman in the passenger seat was injured by conscious. Her right forearm was cracked in half and the bones were sticking through the skin like white glaciers. She has a nasty cut on her cheek, but appeared OK, though it was impossible to tell if any of her internal organs were injured. J knelt down and made contact with the woman, who was staring straight ahead with a look of blind shock on her face. J said hey, you’ve been in a bad accident, but we’re going to get you out of here, OK? The woman nodded faintly, like she was only half there, and J got to work applying a c-collar. It was so hot, especially under the turnout gear, and J could feel the sweat on his legs. He was thinking about nothing except for what was right in front of him, the blood and the metal and the burning asphalt. His heart was pounding but he was numb and immersed, the way he wanted to be, grateful and maybe even happy despite it all. Time passed and the car was stabilized and Ryan got to work snipping the B-post with cutters so J and the paramedics could slide a backboard under the woman, who was still hanging upside down. J cut the seatbelt and helped lower the woman down, awkwardly, until she was lying on the backboard. Then she was transferred onto the stretcher and hustled into the back of the ambulance. At least they’d saved one life, J thought. At least we did some good.

**

Back at the station, the adrenaline drained from J and he returned to his body and his old worries. The rest of his shift was relatively slow, so he had a lot of time to stew on his misgivings. He and his crew went to a local elementary school in the afternoon to read books for part of a literacy initiative, but J couldn’t stay focused. He read the words stiffly and smiled and high-fived some of the kids who said they wanted to grow up to be firefighters, to be just like him, but in reality, his eyes were glossy and he was deep in a well. He could see his daughters’ faces in the girls sitting there cross-legged looking at him like he was a hero. At one point J went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and to look at himself in the mirror, but the mess he saw there was so painful that he caught his own eye for only a split second before turning away because the person staring back at him was no longer himself but a plastic thing, a manakin, an object with all the physical characteristics of a man but inside was hollowed out, a log eaten away by ants. The naked psychology student flashed across his mind, his hands all over her young body. Ecstasy. Guilt. The dented head, the slit throat. J washed his hands and left the bathroom.

When he returned to the station that evening his wife and kids were waiting for him. J’s stomach rose into his throat because he was sure he’d been found out. As J approached them in the parking lot there was a moment when he couldn’t decipher their expressions, that he was sure he’d been found out, that everything he’d worked so hard to maintain was about to collapse. But then his two girls flashed big smiles and ran up to him and jumped into his arms like he’d just returned from the war. Daddy, daddy, the older one said. We’ve missed you. When are you coming home? I’ll be home tomorrow, he said, don’t you worry. Why can’t you just come home now, the younger one said, Mama made chocolate chip cookies. I have to stay here, he said. I have to stay here in case there’s a fire. OK, said the older one. Can we look at the firetruck? Can we climb on it? Sure, J said, and picked both of them up and sat them down inside the cab and let them crawl around inside, and they laughed and shouted like they were in a jungle gym. His wife approached him and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“They missed you,” she said.

“I’ve missed them, too,” he said.

“I’ve missed you. Sometimes it’s crazy without you there.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow. I’m always home tomorrow.”

“Do you still want to go to the lake tomorrow? Grandpa wants all of us to go to the lake. He said we could use his boat.”

“Of course, yeah, that sounds great.”

The girls hopped off the firetruck and ran in circles around it playing tag.

“Come home as soon as you get off, OK? We need to get an early start of it. I know how you sometimes like to hang out at one of your buddy’s houses after work. What’s his name again?”

“Sam,” he stuttered. “He rides Engine 2.”

“Sam, that’s right. I can never keep up with all of your academy buddies. Well, tell Sam you’ve got a lake date with three girls tomorrow, OK?”

“Of course, honey.”

“Have ya’ll had any calls today?”

“Oh, a few, but nothing serious,” he lied. “Nothing worth talking about, anyway.”

She gave J a peck on the cheek and rounded up the girls and loaded them in the car. The oldest one rolled down the window as they were leaving and started waving and shouting I love you, daddy, see you tomorrow. J smiled and waved until they were out of sight. Then he walked back inside, through the bay and the dorms, straight into the bathroom stall, where knelt down in front of a toilet and threw up and cried. He heard someone else come in and use the urinal, wash their hands and leave. As soon as the door shut J gathered himself, tucked in his shirt and straightened his belt, then walked into the dayro to join the rest of his crew lounging in recliners and watching a college softball game.

**

J woke up the following morning around six. They’d had two minor calls during the night, one at 11 and the other at 3, so J felt sluggish as he drug himself into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Ryan was already sitting in the recliner, watching highlights from the previous night’s Rangers game. J wasn’t a baseball fan, but he kept up with the Rangers so he’d have something to talk about with the guys.

“Dude, watch this play by Profar,” Ryan said, pointing at the screen as the Texas shortstop made a diving catch in the hole and fired a strike to first base. “Kid’s good. Kid’s real good.” He took a deep breath then got up from the recliner to make a cup of coffee, straight black no cream.

“B-shift’s getting a guy from the rookie class, some kid named Skutnik,” he said, spilling a little coffee down the front of his shirt.

“Oh yeah? Any good?” J asked.

“I don’t know, as good as any man can be, I suppose. The last few classes that’ve come through don’t give me much hope.”

“I don’t know,” J said. “They come in green but they learn. Some of them learn. The good ones, at least.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “The good ones.”

J sat down with Ryan and watched some Sportscenter, then he went out into the bay to tinker with a chainsaw that had been giving his captain issues the previous shift. He saw that his hands were working on it, unscrewing parts and tightening the chain and all that, but his mind wasn’t on the task at hand. Instead, he was thinking about himself, his morality, where he stood in the grand scheme of it all. That’s always where his mind settled ever since he started doing the Bad Thing. There had been too many to name and he had no excuse. No priest or divine being could absolve him. As he was putting the chain back on, he cut his finger, bad enough to draw blood, so he went to the medical locker and wrapped several bandages around the wound. The blood of a cheat, spilled for you, he thought, immediately wondering where the thought had come from. But he knew exactly where it’d come from: His rotten blood spilled on everything for all time.

Was it his fault or just the way he was wired? The way all men were wired? All humans were wired? This was J’s argument to himself, but it was flimsy and he knew it. Animals like dogs could make this argument but a human had no means for abandoning his locus of control. So when J checked his phone and saw a text from the psychology student asking him to come over after his shift, which ended in 15 minutes, he had a decision to make, a decision made by millions of men before him. He could turn toward the good or continue down that dark path leading to death only. The choice was his and his alone, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that this was a matter of the loins, a matter out of his hands. Outside the bay window, a group of grackles gathered on the lawn and were shrieking in unison, staring at J and J only. A little bit later as he walked under the hot Texas sun, he felt determined to get it right, like he sometimes did, as he walked closer and closer to her apartment, which he had to pass on his way home to the wife and kids that missed him so much. He sat down on a park bench and did not move for a long time. When he rose he did what he did and figured that was the best he could do.

– Michael Schoeffel