HEAT An adaptation of the book Heat: A Firefighter’s Story
Chapter 4: Call to Duty
The story so far: Bob Shaw grows up on Hamilton Mountain in the 1950s and 60s, the son of a firefighter, and as a young man thinks a lot about the future and is known for being a hard worker with a “for sure” attitude towards life. Flashing forward to the future, July 9, 1997, the arsonist walks towards Hamilton Harbour.
The late ’60s and early ’70s were great times for young Bob Shaw. But by 1973, Bob was 24, and ready for a change.
“I’ve got to do something,” he announced to his longtime friend Paul Anderson. They shared an apartment on Forest Avenue with a couple of other guys. “I think I need to move out.”
“I knew you would,” Paul said.
“I’m thinking of trying for the fire department.”
“What took you so long? I always thought the job was made for you.”
The stars aligned for Bob Shaw. At that same time, he met Jacqueline Cannon. Their paths crossed because Paul was dating a woman named Trish Cannon on and off. Trish was Jacqueline’s older sister.
The first time Bob and Jacqueline met was at the apartment where a group of friends had gathered. Neither made much of a move. How could it be otherwise? They were both quiet, both preferred listening to talking.
Jacqueline was taken with Bob’s warm hazel eyes, big smile. A great face, she thought. He was in excellent shape, obviously, but it was his face that stuck in her mind.
She had blue-green eyes and the slender figure of a teenager, long, straight blond hair, a radiant smile. But she lacked confidence. She wasn’t wearing her glasses that first time they met. Then she didn’t see Bob for a few more weeks. The next time, she was at the apartment and the TV was on.
“Oh no,” she thought, “I’ll need my glasses.”
She was an attractive woman, but was worried that the glasses would not flatter her. Bob saw her squirming. “Jacqueline, what’s the matter?” “I— I wear glasses now.” “So?” “So I need them to watch TV.” “So put your glasses on!” His attitude made Jacqueline laugh. She put on the glasses. He had done something few could do, he had put her at ease. Everything was all right. From the start he had this presence, he was like a comfort blanket wrapped around her.
A few weeks later, Bob was laid up in the hospital getting a cyst removed from his back. He phoned Jacqueline to ask her out for their first real date.
“You wanna see a movie tonight?”
“Bob, you’re in the hospital.” “Yeah. Are you up for it?” He picked Jacqueline up at her house in his beloved green Mustang. Bob knocked on the door, she walked out with him to the car.
Jacqueline tugged on the Mustang’s passenger door handle, it wouldn’t open.
It had been stuck for ages. She looked over at her date, and Bob was already in the driver’s seat, window rolled down, firing up the engine. He was still a bit rough around the edges with women.
Jacqueline crawled in through the window.
They saw The Godfather Part II and loved it. Bob told her he had applied for a job with the fire department.
At that time he had been working with the city’s traffic department. One of his jobs was working with the crew that painted lines on the roads in the middle of the night. He loved it: straight nights, which gave him free days to play golf, go for long jogs, swim at the quarries.
But he had been thinking about firefighting as the next big step. His dad was still on the job. Bob was fit, had a quiet, tireless work ethic. He had what it took inside, had heard the call to duty.
But what about the hair? It was typical late-1970s, down to his shoulders. It wasn’t curly but was as thick as a tangle of copper wire.
As a practical matter, beards could never be permitted because it would prevent a good seal on an oxygen mask. His moustache could stay.
But the hair was too long for the conservative firefighter culture. Many of the senior officers had been hired not long after the war years, a time when nearly every man hired came from the military.
That included the fire chief, Len Saltmarsh, who joined the department in 1946 after being stationed with an air force radar unit in Labrador. Saltmarsh was a throwback. He was respected by his men, who, particularly when they themselves got older, came to appreciate his approach to discipline.
To the chief, firefighting was a straightforward undertaking. You answer the bell, you save a life when needed, you do what it takes to get the job done. He knew times were always changing, jobs changed, society changed. But firefighting? “There’s the old saying: Nero fiddled while Rome burned,” he said. “So they went and got the water out on it. Water’s been going around for a long time. Not that I can remember back quite that far, though.”
Chief Saltmarsh knew Bob was Harry Shaw’s son. Bob seemed like a solid, quiet guy. On the other hand, his hair as way too long.
“Cut your hair,” he told the young man.
Bob duly got it cut. He returned the next day to see the chief. Saltmarsh wasted no time in responding. It was still too shaggy.
“Problem is, there are some barbers around here who forget what the scissors are for,” Saltmarsh growled. “You better go back and cut it again.”
Jacqueline saw Bob after the second cutting of his hair.
“Oh my God,” she said. “I can’t believe it!”
“Jac, I had no choice,” he said with a smile.
Bob Shaw now had short hair and was a probie with the Hamilton Fire Department. His start date was Sept. 30, 1974.
He had only just started, but he had already saved his first person in distress. It was Jacqueline.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 9, 1997
The heat was intense by the late afternoon as the arsonist walked north. He watched some kids playing basketball in a park.
And then the arsonist arrived at Pier 4 Park. Needed to cool off. Felt the water pool around his feet.
Later, he was on the move again, walking, following the railway tracks south, in the direction of home. He wanted to go home. He was sure of that. He passed under a bridge. And heard the voice. “Wanna have some fun?” Was the voice real, was someone else really there? The arsonist wondered about that later. Was it a fictional character he had created? Someone he had invented in his mind’s eye, his partner in crime, the one who egged him on to do things he shouldn’t? It wasn’t his fault, was it? No, not his alone. If he did exist, what did he look like? Brown shoes. Blue jeans. He had a nickname: J-Dog. Yeah. J-Dog. He knew where there was a gas can. It was hidden in some bushes near the big old building. A red gas can, half-full.
“Wanna come with me? Wanna throw some gas around in the abandoned building? Light it up?”
“OK,” the arsonist heard himself say. “Let’s go.”
The arsonist was not going home, not yet. Maybe if there had been somebody else there at the time. Maybe then he wouldn’t have gone with J-Dog. Maybe he would have.
He continued along the tracks, the voices and visions dancing in his head. It wasn’t long before he arrived near an old factory.
The can was in the bushes, just as he was told.
Then he felt his hands grip the chain-link fence. There was no barbed wire at the top.
Up and over. To be continued Monday. Next Time: Bob Loves Jacqueline