EMMISIONS:A trip to the fire station with Turbo proved a sobering experience for us both, writes KILIAN DOYLE
AS YOU may know by now, my son Turbo is mad for anything with an engine. Vans, helicopters, motorbikes, dishwashers – if it makes a noise, he loves it.
Nothing spools Turbo up like a fire truck. Crazy about them so he is, bless his little cotton socks. He’s never happier than when tearing about in his fireman’s uniform, making nee-naw noises and attacking furniture with a plastic axe, scattering kittens in his wake. He may be only knee-high to a Basset, but in his sugar-addled brain, he’s a life-saving, awe- inspiring, disaster-tackling superman.
Mrs Emissions, a woman of great thoughtfulness, decided a family jaunt to the local fire station would be appropriate. For days beforehand, Turbo could speak of nothing else. He was as excited as, well, as a kid on his way to a fire station. But not half as excited as me. I was a little boy once, you know. In many ways, my long-suffering wife thinks I still am.
We were met at the door by a real fireman. Let’s call him Sam. Evidently well-versed in dealing with agog guests, he rattled off his tour spiel while showing us around. I was enrapt; Turbo less so. His previous exuberance dissolved into raw terror. He nuzzled into me for all he was worth. From a distance, I imagine he looked like a shrivelled Siamese twin hanging out of my neck.
Out to the engine itself. Turbo’s little eyes lit up and he jumped from my arms like a Para out of a chopper. I do believe he tried to hug it. I admit to welling up. I had to pretend I’d got soot in my eyes. Sam smiled at me. He knew.
“Any questions?” he asked Turbo.
Turbo looked blankly at him. I could see his tiny brain churning. “Questions? I’m two and a half. What are you on about, man?”
Rather than embarrass the poor chap, Turbo played the toddler card. “Red fire engine!” he blurted, before bursting into tears.
To avoid an awkward moment, I did my fatherly duty and piped in. “What are all these things for?” inquired I, pointing to a shelf of implements in the truck that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Torquemada’s basement.
Sam’s face darkened. “They’re for getting people out of wrecked cars,” he said, before explaining the uses for the various pincers and claws and hydraulic rams. His matter-of-fact delivery couldn’t hide the horror tearing up his soul. The eyes never lie.
You and I may shudder internally as we listen to radio reports about crashes, stare disbelievingly at newspaper photos of mangled wreckage and, sometimes if we’re feeling brave, resist the natural urge to switch channels when particularly graphic road safety ads come on. But, much as we try to fool ourselves we are inured to carnage, we have no real concept of what it feels like to stumble across the visceral, sanguineary awfulness of the genuine article. I hope we never have to.
For Sam, there is no escaping it. He’s seen it all, from minor spills to huge pile-ups, where he and his crew find themselves faced with the unenviable task of deciding which screaming, bloody victim to cut out first.
The vast majority of crashes, in his opinion, are due to excessive speed. Booze, drugs, weather and bad roads play their part, of course. But it essentially boils down to people driving too fast. While he reserves particular contempt for “gougers in souped-up bangers”, he says most drivers are guilty of needlessly putting themselves and others in danger from time to time. And who am I to argue?
For a change, I don’t want to come over all pious and sanctimonious – but it’s something to think about next time you’re in a hurry. If not for yourself, do it for Sam. He’s witnessed more than enough tragedy already.
