Under the Pineapple

A roller-coaster week.

Thanksgiving with the family, at home for the first time in years.

Tragedy.

Hope on the employment front.  Almost good news, but don’t count your chickens too soon.

A funeral.

Traveling with an old friend; canceled for a funeral of his own.

I find myself standing on a street corner two hours from home in my Class A.  My funeral suit. I wish we had more happy occasions to wear the uniform.

Electronic sirens echo across the intersection.  I can see Engine 14 sitting in traffic beyond the lights; they don’t seem to be in any rush.  After a few seconds, Rescue 4 emerges from the side street with a police cruiser in tow.  They quickly disappear over the hill, and Engine 14 turns to follow at a leisurely pace.

I feel odd entering the restaurant in full uniform.  Still, I have to eat somewhere.  It might as well be good food as fast food, and I haven’t had a Stuffed Baby in years.

I take a booth near the front, facing out to the street.  The mid-afternoon crowd is thin.  A restaurateur works in the booth next to me, juggling his laptop and phone to get the best deal on tomorrow’s bread.

Another siren sounds.  Another Rescue flashes past the front windows.  I wonder if Michael Morse is working today.

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