I was thinking about a favorite firehouse story. An old lieutenant told it to me, and it makes me laugh everytime it pops into me head. (I’ll change the names to protect the innocent.) This old lieutenant was a fireman in the Bronx, and his story takes place in the days before bunker gear, when firemen wore long turnout coats and boots that pulled up to their thighs (gear I wish we still wore in the summertime). Lt. Timmy told me about a big, crazy S.O.B. he used to work with named Burger. “Burger was a nut,” he said, and he was laughing. “We were at this one good fire together where we had the floor above. It was a good fire, charged to the balls.” [charged to the balls: heat and smoke so thick it’s like there’s a cinder block wall an inch in front of your face.] “We forced our entry to the apartment above. I went left, he went right. I’m going along the wall, doing my search, and I come across a room and turn in. There’s a sink. It’s a bathroom. I grab hold of a leg. What the f–k? There’s someone’s in there sitting down. So I yell, ‘Who’s that!’ and I hear this muffled, ‘I’s Burrer!’ ‘What?!’ ‘It’s Burger!’ He’s screaming through his mask. ‘Burger? What the f–k are you doing?’ ‘I’m taking a shit!’ Crazy bastard was taking a shit!” Timmy’s laughing, I’m laughing, everyone who hears the story is laughing, because that is a classic firehouse story. And a big, crazy S.O.B. like Burger becomes a legend on this job.