Table of contents | Previous chapter Introduction | Cast of characters   Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby   Chapter Four needed to talk to the council about Betty Sue’s fire department idea, but the Open Meetings Law prevented me from talking to more than three of the council members at a time without calling a public meeting. And where to begin? Mayor McTavish was an obvious choice. She relished challenges and change, and wasn’t afraid to put her political career — if that’s what you called an unpaid, part-time position — on the line if the cause was something she believed in.       But I chose Seth Rosenberg.       “Okay, I see the advantages,” he said. “Tell me what you see as the drawbacks.”       We stood on a catwalk above the main saws. The huge blade of the band saw was being removed for sharpening, and the mill was quiet.       “Well, there is only one, but it’s a huge one,” I said. “If the firefighters don’t buy into it, we may be dead in the water. They have an incredible base of support in the community.”       “Could that be overcome if the community knows what the trade-offs are?”       “I’m not sure,” I said. “Relatively few residents ever use the services of the fire department, but when they do, they become immediate fans. And the word spreads. Did you know that they carry an envelope with $100 in each fire engine? If they respond to a burned-out house, or to a bad accident, the incident commander is free to use his judgment on using the money to help the family out — for emergency motel stay or meals or whatever they need. Can you imagine the impact this has on folks?”       I tagged along as Seth crossed the catwalk to the other side of the plant.       “Besides,” I said, “most of the firefighters I know are super folks. They really do believe in helping people, and they are decent, hardworking individuals. I know it sounds corny, but some of my best friends have been firefighters.”       Seth leaned on the rail. “Sounds like maybe your heart’s not in this either.”       “You could be right.” Below us, the mill workers were checking their machinery. A couple of guys swept up sawdust. “But while I do have a lot of respect for them as individuals, I think as a profession — well, maybe more as an institution — there are some problems. Ask any city manager which union is the hardest to work with, and fire will always come out at the top of the list. And staff in other city departments see them as prima donnas who get their way on everything just because they provide a popular service. The reputation may not be deserved, but it’s there.”       “And you’re sure you’re not seeing this as a way to get revenge for run-ins you’ve had in the past with the union?”       Sometimes Seth was too perceptive. “I’ve asked myself the same question, but I think I really am innocent here. Our labor/management relationship has been pretty decent over the past few years, even though the union is starting to chafe with the belt-tightening we’ve been doing. I’m not carrying any baggage from previous cities — well, not much anyway — so I don’t think that’s coloring my judgment. In fact, if I had my druthers, I would just as soon not rock the boat with the union.”       Seth nodded, and after a pause, dropped down the stairs to the mill floor. I hustled to keep up. He approached a man I assumed to be the mill foreman.       “Are you going to be able to run the second shift?” Seth asked.       “Yeah, I think so. A couple of the guys on the green chain said they couldn’t stay back, but I think we can cover for them.”       “Good. Let me know if you run into any problems.”       We passed through Seth’s office — which was cramped and piled with books and files — and sat down in an adjoining glass-walled conference room. He pulled a pipe out of his coat pocket and tapped in some tobacco from a pouch.       “You’re right about one thing,” he said. “The fire department’s an impressive public relations machine. It seems like every week we read about a daring rescue or a fire prevention program at a grade school, or some award for bravery that’s being given to a firefighter or citizen. And during slow times, they still manage to get in the paper with some program to give toys to children or food baskets to poor families.”       “Uh huh. The motive is pure, I think, but the press coverage isn’t any accident either,” I said.       “Right, and I don’t fault them for it. Matter of fact, it makes our job easier when it comes time to pass bond elections. I can’t think of a time when the voters turned down a fire bond.”       I watched as he lit his pipe.       “What about the fire chief?” Seth asked.       “He says he’ll back me, but I know he isn’t convinced. He probably reckoned he was done with headaches like this when he retired from the last job.” I filled him in on some of my conversation with Max.       “Now let me ask you a question,” I said. “How do you think the business community would react?”       He thought about it. “They’d probably be supportive. What you’re talking about is a business-like decision — realigning your operations for increased efficiency. For companies like mine, the main benefit of the fire department is to keep our insurance cost down. We don’t tend to worry about cats in trees.”       Over the course of a week, I managed to meet privately with each of the council members. Sometimes they were hard to read. Maggie, especially, would tell me she liked an idea, and then privately complain about it to one of her colleagues. But in this case, they all seemed to understand the implications of tinkering with the fire department. I emphasized that it was only a concept, and that it would get plenty of public discussion before we made any decisions. But without their moral support, it wasn’t even worth taking it public.       The next element of the strategy that Ken Longstreet, the finance director, had laid out involved the union leadership. But it didn’t work out the way we had hoped. John Lennon wrote that life is what happens while you’re making other plans, and this seemed to be the guiding principle in city management. •      •      •       The city council met twice each month, on Tuesday evenings. The council members sat at a U-shaped desk, raised about six inches above the floor. The city attorney, recording clerk, and I sat at a long table across from the speakers’ lectern. The audience was to our side. The meeting agenda was fairly light, typical for mid-summer meetings where everyone wanted to get out while there was still daylight.       While people were taking their seats, I organized my agenda file and collected my thoughts. The mayor ran the meeting, but I had to make sure that the staff members were ready to make their presentations and respond to any questions. I sensed that more people were filing into the room than I expected. I looked up.       In full dress uniform, the top brass of the fire department were wordlessly taking seats at the back of the room. Following them came a dozen firefighters, led by union president Brian Gallagher.       Who leaked the story?       I looked at Max, sitting in the front row with the other department heads. He shrugged. Great.       Mayor McTavish beckoned me up to the council table.       “What’s up?” she asked.       “I don’t have a clue. I haven’t had a chance to meet with the union yet, but it looks like they got word anyway. Maybe it’s a preemptive strike. Or maybe they’re here on something totally unrelated.”       “Oh, sure,” she said, and rolled her eyes.       The mayor gaveled the meeting open and asked for the roll call. The first item on the agenda was public comment, where anyone could speak to the council on any subject that wasn’t already on the agenda. Mayor McTavish asked if there was anyone in the room who wanted to address the council.       Silence. I stole a glance at the firefighters. They simply sat with their arms crossed.       The mayor quickly moved on to the next agenda item. The council dealt with some routine business. Their questions and comments were shorter than usual.       Near the end of the agenda, under “new business,” Bess Wilson moved up to the seat next to me and gave her staff presentation on exempting the Nova Ceramics work from the bidding process. Pete Koenig weighed in on the legal implications.       “Why does it matter if the project takes a couple of extra months?” Maggie Henderson asked.       Bess said, “Nova is in a hurry — ”       “ — to get their plant open,” Mayor McTavish finished. “It’s all in the staff report.” I looked at Maggie, but she seemed oblivious to the slap.       “Oh. But why is that so important?” she said.       “Don’t you want to see those jobs come on line as soon as possible?” the mayor asked. “Besides, it’s all their money, so if they want to move quickly, it seems to me we ought to accommodate them.”       If other council members had questions, they held them. The massed presence of the fire department continued to weigh on them. The voice vote was unanimous in favor of exempting the Nova work from the bidding process. I looked out in the audience for Todd Pritchard, but I wasn’t sure I would recognize him if I saw him anyway.       When the gavel dropped to end the meeting, the fire officers and staff filed out without a word. Sabrina Chan, the reporter for The Oregonian, followed them out the door. In less than a minute she was back in the room looking for me.       “What were all the firefighters here for?” she asked.       “I really don’t know. They didn’t tell you?”       “No — all they said was they wanted to attend a meeting to stay current with city issues. Sounds fishy to me, though.” Sabrina didn’t have a lot of years of experience, but she did have a knack for hooking a story. “So you’re sure you don’t know why they were here?”       “No,” I said, technically telling the truth. She searched my eyes.       “Okay. If you find out, though, I want to be the first to know.”       “Sure, Sabrina.” •      •      •       People said that Brian Gallagher was a good poker player, and it didn’t surprise me. He was a thorn in my side most of the time, but I had to admire his skill at sizing up the odds and turning them to his advantage. In a perverse way, I actually enjoyed sparring with him.       We sat in a corner booth in the Fir Away Cafe. Gallagher was theoretically on duty, but it seemed like the guys cut him plenty of slack when he was doing union business. Like a lot of the firefighters, he started out in the construction business, and still did some house framing on the side. His face was weathered from working outdoors, and his black hair was streaked with gray.       Gallagher ordered a fruit plate and coffee and I asked for a double espresso. We engaged in the ritual of small talk while the waitress fetched our food.       “So what did you think of the council meeting last night?” I asked.       “Pretty dull. How do you sit through them?”       “Coffee. And I hide a copy of Sports Illustrated in my agenda folder.”       Gallagher laughed.        I said, “So why were you there?”       He held his spoon a second before digging it into a slice of pineapple.       “Just wanted to stay up on city issues.”       “Okay.” I didn’t expect much of an answer anyway. “Look,” I said, “I don’t know who you’ve talked to, or what about, but it doesn’t really matter. You deserve to know what’s going on, and frankly, I need your help.”       He leaned back and took a sip of coffee, looking at me without expression.       I plunged ahead, sketching out the concept of separating the fire from the medical responses, but not mentioning the possibility of contracting with an ambulance company. No sense playing that card yet. I took ownership for the plan, not to slight Betty Sue, but to protect her. And I didn’t pretend the idea was Max’s — Gallagher would have seen through that, even if Max had really kept it confidential.       “So why do you think I would help you with this scheme? And what kind of help do you have in mind?” he asked.       “I think you know why I need your help. Firefighters don’t often welcome change. Uh, what was your other question?”       “What makes you think I would want to help you?” he said.       “Here’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “A change to an 8-hour shift is about the only thing that is bargainable in this plan. Everything else — change in assignments and duties and reassignments to different fire stations — is a management right and outside the contract — ”       “What? You don’t really believe that — ”       “Hear me out,” I said. “Even though I think most of this is a management right, I’m willing — in fact, I want — the staff to be involved in all the decisions about it.”       “I’ve heard that before — we get involved and make suggestions, and the response we get is, ’Thank you for your input.’ That doesn’t cut it.”       “Okay. We can discuss how decisions get made later, but the point is, I’m willing to give you real power over them. I can’t pretend to be an expert on the day-to-day operations of fire and medical services. Even Max has been away from the front line long enough that he told me he recognizes the need for a labor/management approach here.”       I made the last part up — Max had said no such thing. But he couldn’t deny saying it without sounding like an obstructionist.       “And Brian, my intention in all this is not to screw the union. As a city, we absolutely have to reduce our costs, and the fire department is too big a piece of the budget to keep off limits. But the important thing is to get long-term savings. In the short term, I’m willing to give you a lot. An immediate ten percent pay increase for any firefighters switching to an eight-hour shift, giving them parity with police officers. A promise of no layoffs, using attrition only to reduce positions. No demands for concessions in other parts of the contract, like a cap on medical insurance costs or reductions in other fringes — and you’re going to see a lot of that kind of thing in other cities as they come to grips with tax limitations like we’ve had to.”       He shrugged.       I said, “I’m just telling you my bottom line. We can go through a process where you win all these things through tough negotiations, so you can come out as a hero to your membership. That’s fine with me. I want us to both win on this.”       Gallagher pulled out a can of Skoal and stuck a pinch in his cheek.       “Why didn’t you talk to us first?” he said. “You say you want it to be a win-win situation, and then you cut us out of the decision.”       Interesting — was he revealing that he knew the council had been briefed, or was he just fishing? I said, “The only people who know about it are the council members. I understand your concern, but look at it from my point of view. I had to sound them out to see if it was even worth moving ahead with. And believe me, they haven’t made any final decisions. But they did make it clear that they didn’t consider the fire department to be off limits in solutions to the budget problem, and that’s really what I needed to hear.” And what I wanted Gallagher to hear, too.       “So what’s next?” he asked.       “I want to meet directly with the firefighters,” I said. “Go over the concept, and get their feedback. So I need you to tell me how you want them to be involved in decision making. It would be too cumbersome to have all forty of them making each decision, but they all need to have a say in some way.”       “Stay out of that part, Ben. We have a good track record of dealing with issues. We don’t need your help in telling us how to do it ... but I don’t think it will even go that far.”       “How come?”       “I’ve been a firefighter for eighteen years. Been a paramedic for eighteen years. They’re the same thing. You try to tell us that we can be one but not the other ... it ain’t going to work. Sort of like telling a duck he can fly but he can’t swim anymore. Or telling a pilot he can take off but he can’t land. Or telling — ”       “ — telling a medieval barber he can’t perform surgery anymore,” I said. “Okay, I get the point. But a lot of professions have gone through changes. Matter of fact, most professions that I can think of have, in some way or another. Having firefighters be paramedics is itself a change that happened less than 50 years ago. It doesn’t have to stay that way forever. Doctors don’t insist on putting out fires, and the Forest Service fire jumpers aren’t paramedics — at least not for the Forest Service. Keep an open mind, Brian.”       “I always do,” he said.       “I’ll give you some time to think it over,” I said. “But I don’t want to go public with it until I have a chance to talk to your fellow employees. I would appreciate it if you would keep it confidential until then. I don’t want them reading about it in the paper first.”       “Okay,” he said. •      •      •       That afternoon I climbed into Jake Wildavsky’s massive city-issued pickup truck and joined him on an inspection of a new filter unit at our sewage treatment plant. Not that I knew anything about sewer engineering or biology, but I wanted the excuse to get out of the office. Besides, I was proud of this new addition — the engineers said it took us from secondary to tertiary treatment, which didn’t mean much to me. But the bottom line was that during most of the year, the treated water going into the Willamette River from our plant was cleaner than the river itself, with its upstream farm fields and towns.       We bumped over a grate at the plant entrance and slowed in front of Bo French’s camp. Jake leaned out the window.       “Hey Bo, what’s happening?”       “It’s a glorious day, Jake. A good time to ponder the meaning of life and cook a few weenies.”       “Well, you hang in there. Let me know when you find the answer.”       Bo had moved onto the sewer plant property over a decade ago. It seemed an odd place to take refuge, but it was secluded and had running water. In the live-and-let-live philosophy of the Northwest, the treatment plant operators tolerated Bo’s presence, even though he must have been violating a few city ordinances. He did, after all, keep an eye on the place after hours.       Once a month Bo would make the hike up to town to collect his railroad pension and social security check, and pick up provisions. I got a call from a concerned resident who felt it was unconscionable for the city to allow the man to live like that. I told her that Bo had been offered public housing, but had refused it. She said this just showed he was incapable of making rational decisions, and that he should be institutionalized. She was genuinely concerned about his well being, I think, but didn’t have much grasp of the concept of free will.       Bo kept a fire going in a fifty-five gallon drum. He gathered sticks in the woods at the plant entrance, and driftwood on the bank of the river near the outfall pipe. At one point he had started a collection of stray dogs that wandered near the plant, but the staff finally vetoed that idea. The ducks and geese that lived on the settling pond, and the occasional deer that wandered up the edge of the river, were enough in the animal department.       Jake found the senior plant operator in the lab. He was pouring a light brown liquid out of a flask into a mug. Before I could say anything, he took a sip.       “Don’t worry — it’s just a custom brew of tea,” he said. “Coffee was starting to give me a buzz.”       “How do you keep from mixing that stuff up with your treatment samples?”       “Good question. But they probably taste the same anyway.”       We hiked over to the filtration unit. I listened to the two of them talking about the procedures for cleaning the filters for a while, then wandered over to the rail and watched a couple of sailboats tack up the river. The sky was deep blue, and Mt. Hood and the Cascades dominated the horizon. Bo was right — life was good. Next chapter: Kate Copyright © 2001, Scott D. Lazenby. Reproduction in any form without the written permission of the author is prohibited. Illustration: Paul Salmon