‘Shake Superman’s hand’
Milwaukee firefighters honor memory of Darrin Jones, who died just three months from retirement.
Hearts remain heavy at Milwaukee Fire Station 12 on the city’s south side because, for the guys at that house, Superman is dead.
Darrin Jones, 53, died Feb. 1 in his sleep, just three months away from retirement.
When his fellow firefighters heard the news, they rushed to Jones’ house, carried his body from his bedroom and escorted him to the Krause Funeral Home.
“We’d rather do it ourselves,” Milwaukee fire Lt. Anthony Jacobs said.
“We got a chance to be with him one last time.”
Firefighter Pharoah Kinnebrew said he was glad he was able to carry the body.
“It was like our last time actually seeing him,” Kinnebrew said.
Firefighter and heavy equipment operator Chad Szeklinski said the other firefighters were standing in the bedroom “in disbelief.”
“I looked at (carrying his body) as an honor,” Szeklinski said. “That’s something that’s going to live in my head the rest of my life.”
Jones left behind a wife, Pauline
Grant-Jones; a son, Devin Jones; and two step-children, Kayla Grant-Dixon and Bradley Grant.
Although Jones is gone, Milwaukee firefighters, particularly those at Station 12, plan to make sure he is not forgotten.
Giving out nicknames
Jones was a man of nicknames, often giving guys monikers without rhyme or reason. There were “Man Crush” and “E-Dub,” “Junior Glue,” “Gadget Man” and others.
“The more I hated it, the more he called me it,” Jones’ longtime partner, firefighter James Nash, said of his nickname, “Hot Dog.”
He got it the first day they worked together 13 years ago when Jones quipped that he thought Nash would be taller.
“I was like, ‘What?’ And he said, ‘From now on I’m going to call you Hot Dog.’ And I was like, ‘I don’t even like hot dogs!’ ”
“There was no shaking it after that,” he said. He called Szeklinski “Man Crush” after Nash joked that Szeklinski had a crush on Jones.
And he dubbed firefighter Greg Ewert “E-Dub” because he thought his name was too long.
Jones occasionally referred to himself as “the Glue,” as in the guy who keeps everyone together.
“He made sure we hung out together,” said firefighter Jason Strez.
“We’d go out to eat and the bill would be paid for. And we’d be like, ‘What are you doing?’ We were trying to throw our money (on the table). And he goes ‘What does the Glue do?’ ”
Strez remembers Jones telling him “you’re not old enough to be the glue yet.” So he called him “Junior Glue.”
Jones was most known around the firehouse as Superman, a name he gave himself after recovering from an injury early in his career.
“He broke his neck and then bounced back,” Kinnebrew said. “He came back to the job in a couple of months.”
Strez remembers Jones telling him, “All I’m saying is you’ve never seen me and Superman in the same room.”
‘Shake Superman’s hand’
Jones had many jobs with the fire department, but one job his fellow firefighters remember with pride was negotiator.
Jacobs remembers responding to a call in late 2017 about a suicidal person standing on the Wisconsin Avenue bridge over the Milwaukee River.
The crew was below the bridge and put up a ladder to help get the person down. The person said if they came close with the ladder he was going to jump. To which Jacobs said Jones replied:
“If you’re going to jump, go ahead man, but we’re just going to fetch you out and you’re just going be wet and cold, so you might as well come on down. Come on down this ladder and shake Superman’s hand.”
The man eventually came down the ladder and shook Jones’ hand.
Life at the firehouse
At the firehouse, Jones wouldn’t let any of the other guys cook.
“He always claimed to be the best cook in the firehouse,” Jacobs said. “If you didn’t believe it, he’ll make you believe it.”
Jones’ signature meals were fried chicken, which they called “chicken shack,” and barbecue ribs.
“He taught me how to smoke ribs,” Szeklinski said. “I had no barbecue background, and he taught me how to do it right.”
Whenever Jones went to the grocery store to get food to cook, he always picked up a movie from Redbox that the guys could watch after dinner.
Usually, it would be the typical movies that were newly released on DVD, but occasionally Jones would pick up a movie that no one heard of, like “Attack of the Killer Donuts.”
“We’ll never get those two hours back,” Strez said jokingly.
When Jones would go on vacation he would “call in” Ewert to cook the way a baseball manager would call in for a relief pitcher.
“‘I’m putting you in, kid,’” Ewert remembers Jones saying while tapping his forearm with three fingers.
In the last year, Station 12 had been hit with several deaths of loved ones.
Kinnebrew recently lost his father and grandmother and said Jones was always there to support him.
“He went to all of the funerals,” Kinnebrew said. “He told me to keep my head up. … He came to check on me when I was home.”
Jones would often take a moment with each of his colleagues to tell them, “I’m here for you, man.”
“As much as he joked and laughed … he secretly knew who each one of us was and knew when something was wrong,” Strez said. “He knew how to touch you and he knew how to talk to you where he knew that something was personally wrong with you. He knew how to open up in his own way to you. … He knew each person and how to fix them.”
Szeklinski said Jones was the “total package.” “Even though he was the funniest guy I’ve ever known, he still was serious about his job,” Szeklinski said. “He wanted to make sure everything got done in the firehouse when it was supposed to be done.” Jones planned to have May 5 as his last day of work. “A lot of us took off that May 5th because we were all going to go out with him,” Szeklinski said. “He got a little irritated and was like ‘Why are y’all taking off on my last day?’ ”
The firefighters at Station 12 plan to get together on May 5 to do something special in Jones’ honor.
After Jones died, a challenge coin was commissioned in his memory and given to members of the firehouse and his family. Four coins were buried with him.
“We’re part of the Honor Guard, and it’s a huge deal to receive a challenge coin from a firefighter from another department from around the nation,” Strez said. “I can honestly say in the 20 years that I’ve been on the job, he’s the only person that has his own coin.”
On the coin is the Superman logo with a black bar across the front.
It’s a fitting tribute, he said, recalling Jones’ signature salute as he left a party or gathering. He’d throw up a peace sign and say, “Superman has left the building.”