Four firefighters climbed down in full turnout gear. Lieutenant Danny Soto in the lead reading dispatch notes on the tablet strapped to his forearm. “Fire hazard report at this address. Caller reports heavy smoke, open flames, children present.” And then Tommy Garza, fire chief of Brazos County, Texas, wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and cargo shorts smelling like charcoal and smash burgers and grilled onions, stepped around the corner of my house and into view.
The look on Lieutenant Danny Soto’s face is something I will remember for the rest of my life. Soto stopped walking. His right hand reaching for his shoulder radio, froze mid-motion. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Chief Tommy stood on the front walkway with his hands in his pockets, hair flat from sweat, grease spot on his T-shirt.
He looked exactly like what he was, a guy who’d been flipping burgers at his best friend’s house for 4 hours. Hey Danny. Chief, where are you? Soto looked at the house, at Tommy, at his tablet, back at Tommy. We received a report of a fire hazard at this address.
I heard the call. Heavy smoke, open flames, children in danger. I know what the report said, Danny. I’ve been standing in that backyard since 10:30 this morning. Tommy paused, looked down at his T-shirt.
Making burgers. Soto’s face went through approximately seven distinct emotions in 3 seconds. Confusion, recognition, disbelief, amusement, professional discipline. The struggle to maintain professional discipline. And then a brief, very human moment where the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that said, “This is the single funniest thing that has ever happened on one of my calls, and I am not allowed to laugh because I am wearing turnout gear.”
McKinnon, standing two steps behind Soto, had no such discipline. He turned away and coughed into his glove. It was not a cough. Danny, let’s do this by the book, Tommy said, the chief’s voice now, the one that moves rooms. Walk the property, full inspection, document everything.
I want this done right. Copy that, Chief. Soto and his crew walked around to the backyard. 43 people watched as four firefighters in full turnout gear filed past the coolers, past the folding tables loaded with potato salad and tres leches cake, past the sprinkler where three kids stood motionless with their mouths open, and into the cooking area. Soto inspected the smoker, checked clearances, fence line, house property line, measured firebox temperature, checked the spark arrester, noted the concrete pad.
He inspected Tommy’s griddle, checked the propane connection, noted the fire extinguisher. I kept clipped to the smoker frame, a habit I’d picked up from Tommy years ago. He walked the perimeter. Decorative fire ring, cold, empty, unused. Drainage easement clear, recently mowed.
