A DAY IN THE LIFE
At the afternoon change of tour in the Communications Center, the air was filled with the usual noise: dispatchers catching up on the day’s alarms, trading tours, confirming car pools, planning the logistics of the evening meal. Bob Seeley, with 15 years on the job, was preparing for his 4 p.m. to 12 a.m. tour by sharpening his pencil. It was an unnecessary exercise, now that computer-assisted dispatch (CAD) was in place, but old habits die hard. At 10 minutes of four, both Seely and Ron McGreavey, a 12year veteran, headsets in place, sat down at adjacent alarm receipt positions. Each man faced an identical console with banks of blinking telephone lines and a CRT in front of him.
THE TOUR BEGINS
Ron McGreavey, sitting immediately to Seeley’s left, reached forward to press a blinking call button, but the light went solid as Seeley picked it up first. McGreavey hit the next button down the blinking row. “Eire department, where’s the fire?”
“I don’t see any fire, but my smoke detector is making a funny noise.”
McGreavy was listening to a caller describe an intermittent beep from the smoke detector that had been installed a year ago by her church’s Senior Citizen Action Council. He asked her the standard questions about smelling any smoke or feeling any heat in the apartment, all of which elicited negative replies. McGreavey would bet that her smoke detector’s batteries had run down; but, of course, he couldn’t be sure. So he followed procedure and sent a truck company to the apartment.
“Just stay put, ma’am, and we’ll be there in a few minutes. If anything changes—if you smell anything or feel anything different—call us right back, okay?”
“Oh, thank you. God bless you all. I’ll wait for you right here.”
Bob Seeley pressed the first of six blinking buttons on a column of 911 lines. “Fire department, where’s the fire?”
“When are you gonna get over here?” The caller was both indignant and excited.
“Do you have fire?” Seeley was calm.
“Of course I’ve got a fire! What do you think I’m calling the fire department for?”
“Where’s the fire?”
“Across the street!”
Seeley thought he might have more success with an easier question: “What’s on fire?”
“There’s a car on fire! It’s gonna explode! When are you gonna get here?”
“When are we gonna get where? Tell me where the fire is!”
“Right in front of this big brown house.”
Deliberately: “What street is the brown house on?” Seeley was trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. It wasn’t easy.
“I don’t know. This is my cousin’s house. I’m just visiting.”
Seeley told the caller to go to the nearest fire alarm box and pull it. As he hung up on the indignant caller who didn’t know where he was, Seeley shook his head.
FIVE O’CLOCK
Ron McGreavey’s first hour saw him handle 11 calls: four open hydrants, three permits, three nonstructural fires, and a complaint. All in all, a pretty ho-hum assortment of demands.
“Fire department, where’s the fire?”
“Are you the young man I spoke to earlier?”
McGreavey smiled as he recognized the caller with the chirping smoke detector. “Yes. How’s your problem?”
“Oh, you men are wonderful! A big group of firemen came up here with their boots on and all.”
McGreavey tried to visualize the scene in which the apartment probably held more people than it had in the past 20 years.
“Did they take care of your problem?”
“Oh, yes. They took the smoke alarm down off the ceiling and replaced the battery. They even went down to the drugstore around the corner and bought a new battery.
“They wouldn’t take any money for it. I’m going to write the mayor a letter to say what wonderful help you’ve been. I live alone and it’s very frightening sometimes, but I feel better now that I know you people are always there to help me. I want to let the mayor know what a help you’ve been. Can you give me your name?”
“Uh, ma’am —I can tell you my dispatcher number. As a policy we don’t give out our names.”
“Oh. Isn’t that too bad! The city’s gotten to be so big that nobody knows anybody anymore. Everybody is a number. Okay, tell me your number. I’m sure the mayor will know who you are. They must know your number.”
He gave her his number. “You have a good night now, ma’am.”
“Oh, I will. Thank you so very much.”
In the first hour of his tour, Bob Seeley fielded 12 calls: nine nonstructural fires, one food on the stove, and two referrals to other city agencies. He pressed the button for his 13th call.
“Fire department, where’s the fire?”
An irate voice barked through the headset at him: “My tomato plants are ruined!”
Seeley maintained his telephone composure: “Sir, this is the fire department. Do you want the fire department?”
“You’re darn right, I want the fire department! And I want to know who’s responsible for putting all the hoses all over my tomato plants!”
“Where do you live, sir?”
Seeley soon found out that the caller lived in a house to the rear of an apartment building in which there had been an “all-hands” fire on the previous tour. Companies were still on the scene, mopping up and overhauling. The incensed citizen told Seeley that the firefighters, in order to reach a fire at the rear of the apartment building, had the nerve to stretch two hoselines up his driveway and into his backyard. In the process of doing this, these inconsiderate public servants trampled dozens of perfectly good tomato plants. While listening to this diatribe, Seeley entered the commands on his keyboard that called the history of the apartment house fire to the screen of the CRT in front of him. He noted that the firstdue companies rescued three civilians and debated with himself about whether to let the angry caller know this. Having been to enough fires to know that the orderly chaos that characterizes the early stages of search and rescue would preclude making tomato plants a priority item, he thought he might be able to convince the caller that a greater good had been served. He quickly lost that thought, however, as he heard the caller vow that not only would he recover the cost of his tomatoes, but he was going to recommend to his councilman that in the future firefighters should only be allowed to go in the front door of apartment houses. Seeley managed to control himself long enough to refer the tomato farmer to the Claims Section of the department’s Legal Division. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure your suggestions will be given the proper consideration.”
SEVEN O’CLOCK
By 7:00 p.m., concern over the meal was paramount. Irv Rumson, the tour supervisor, was making meatloaf for the eight dispatchers and himself. Since there was never a let-up in the alarm activity, the dispatchers ate in shifts. When Rumson came out of the kitchen with his first platter of meat, he hollered across the operating floor: “I need four eaters!” McGreavey looked at Seeley and shrugged. “Do you want to eat now, Bob?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m too aggravated to eat right now. I think I’ll wait for the second shift. You go ahead,”
“Really? You sure?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll be able to untie my stomach between now and then.”
“Okay. But don’t let the customers get to you!”
While McGreavey sailed into a slice of meatloaf. whose components he was sure he was better off not knowing, Seeley then pressed another button.
“Fire department, where’s the fire?”
“Oh, hello,”
“Do you have a fire?”
“No. I need some advice.”
“Okay,” said Seeley, wondering how much they paid Ann Landers. “What’s your problem?”
“My 10-year-old daughter is in her fourth-grade play tonight.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to take some pictures at the play.”
“Yes?”
“Well, can I do that?”
“Unless the school has any objections, you can. The fire department really has no interest in whether or not you take pictures tonight.”
“I’m going to be using a flash.”
There were other phones ringing and half the dispatchers were tackling Rumson’s meatloaf. One man was on the radio, and Seeley was talking with a reluctant photographer.
Seeley, while not fully understanding this call, knew that any of the other blinking lights in front of him could be holding someone in dire distress.
“If the place that’s running the show has no objections, neither do we.” Seeley was speaking rapidly now. He wanted to get rid of the caller.
“Well, I thought that flashbulbs sometimes explode, and if you throw them in the garbage and they’re still hot they can start a fire.”
“When was the last time you took a flash picture?” Seeley was no longer concealing the annoyance in his voice.
“About, oh—23 years ago.”
“Well, they’ve refined the process somewhat. Flashbulbs don’t explode anymore.”
“It’s okay, then? I mean, I don’t want to get into any difficulty.”
“It’s okay to use the flash—as long as there’s not a giant gorilla on the stage who would be upset by it!” shouted Seeley. He cut off his conversation by punching the next fire phone button. He took three calls on a dumpster fire before he began to calm down.
EIGHT O’CLOCK
McGreavey wandered across the floor to his position and tapped Seeley on the shoulder as he passed him. “Go eat. I survived.” Seeley didn’t laugh, but McGreavey figured his lack of humor was mostly due to the prospect of a slightly drier meatloaf than he had just eaten. There was only one phone button flashing as McGreavey returned to his alarm receipt position. In one swift motion, he put on his headset and hit the button on the second ring.
“Fire department, where’s the fire?”
“Oh, I don’t have a fire. I’m just looking for a little assistance.” The strong, deep southern accent was a change McGreavey found pleasant.
“Do you have an emergency?”
“Certainly not the kind y’all are used to, but I’m in a little jam here. My daddy works for the Atlanta Fire Department and he told me that whenever 1 was jammed up to call the fire department and they’ll help me out.”
“Okay.” McGreavey wasn’t sure where this was going, but no other phones were ringing and this guy didn’t sound drunk.
“Well, I’m drivin’ this big load of paper—real heavy stuff—and I’m on Atlantic Avenue and Hicks Street. Tryin’ to find a federal building. My map shows a federal courthouse down near here, so 1 figured it was all together. No dice. Now, y’all know the federal government would stop runnin’ if it didn’t have paper to push around, so 1 was wondering if you know another federal building around here somewhere.”
McGreavey instantly enjoyed the personable truck driver. In addition to directions to the federal building, he also told him how to get to the Communications Center so he could stop by for a cup of coffee and talk.
Bob Seeley, on the other hand, was not having such an enjoyable time. And he couldn’t place all the blame on the meatloaf. Irv Rumson got up from the table to answer the supervisor’s phone. It was mostly a one-sided conversation, with Rumson’s expression growing more and more pained each minute. Rumson hung up the phone and addressed the operating area with a shout: “Anybody here speak to somebody about flashbulbs?”
Seeley’s stomach sank faster than the leaden food. “Yeah, Irv, I did.” Rumson turned to Seeley with a look that suggested that he had expected somebody else to answer. It was Irv’s best “Wfry-did-you-do-this?” look. “Did you say something about a giant gorilla?” Rumson paused between each word as if he couldn’t believe he was actually saying them.
“Yeah, Irv. I did.”
“Why did you say something about a giant gorilla?”
“Well, the caller wouldn’t take yes for an answer and was a little annoying and….”
“A little annoying? Do you know who that was?”
Immediately, Seeley knew that he did not want to know who it was. He knew it was not the local chapter president of the Friends of the Fire Department. “Uh —no.”
“Councilman Perkins’ relative.”
“The councilman himself called back. He wanted to know if we thought his relative was a total idiot— don’t say it!—or perhaps that his 10year-old niece bore a resemblance to King Kong!”
Rumson slowed down long enough to sigh. “I’m sure that you can sharpen your pencil between now and tomorrow. Because when you walk in here tomorrow, the chief is going to want a rather detailed narrative of your public service this evening.”
“Okay, Irv, 10-4.” Seeley didn’t bother with the rest of the meal.
NINE O’CLOCK
“Fire department, where’s the fire?” It was McGreavey’s 47th call of the evening.
“Hi. I’m Mrs. McDonald, the scout leader whose troop visited your office yesterday, and I wanted to know where to send a thank-you letter.”
“Fire department, where’s the fire?” Bob Seeley’s 51st call was a working fire.
“I just threw the baby out the window to my neighbor! We’re at 428 Hastings Street and we can’t get out!” a frantic mother screamed to Bob Seeley. The first-due engine did get her out with a portable ladder. Even after 15 years, screaming strangers depending on Seeley for their lives still scared the devil out of him.
TEN O’CLOCK
Ron McGreavey was giving advice to an aspiring 14-year-old artist who was too late to enter this year’s Fire Prevention Week Poster Contest when Seeley took the heavily accented call threatening to blow up three banks.
Struggling with the accent, Seeley remembered his training for bomb threats and terrorists. He tried to keep the caller on the phone as long as possible, listening for clues in the background. He thought he might have heard some sort of horn or whistle. A tugboat? A factory? He asked obvious questions: “When is this going to happen? Why?”
Seeley determined he had 15 minutes to get three areas cleared. He also found he had a caller who claimed to be a member of a notorious terrorist group. Seeley believed him. His good judgment was vindicated when the bombs went off in rapid succession 13 to 16 minutes later. In less than an hour, federal investigators were listening to tapes of Seeley and his foreign caller. For 45 minutes, they asked Seeley what lie thought of the caller. Had he ever spoken to a person with that kind of accent before? Did he think there was anybody in the background when the call was made? Seeley was surprised they didn’t ask him how tall he thought the caller was. “You hear the tape. You hear what I hear. I can’t give you any more than that,” said Seeley. He was almost sorry that he had kept the caller on the line for a minute and three seconds. A shorter call might have made for a shorter interrogation. But he was happy that he got sufficient information quickly enough so that the police could evacuate the areas around the three banks. Nobody was hurt.
MIDNIGHT
“I think they questioned you because they have nothing else to do but listen to tapes and sift through rubble. You’re live and in person.” McGreavy was studying the decaying neighborhoods from the passenger window of Seeley’s subcompact.
“I’m just glad that the banks didn’t blow up earlier.”
“Yeah. There would have been a lot of injuries.”
“To heck with the injuries! They would have had that many more hours to ask me questions over and over.” Seeley was only half kidding. “They only stopped because it was change of tour and Irv told them I’d have to get overtime past midnight.”
“1 was beginning to worry about that; no overtime for the waiting carpool partner. Besides, we want to go fishing tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’ll pass on that trip, Ron. I’m beat. Besides, I have to do my ‘King Kong’ report for the chief.”
