Page 82 of Wild Card
In the privacy of the shower, it feels easier to confess that I’m not at my healthiest, but perhaps not only in a physical way.
As I dress and prepare to head back downstairs, I take a step back mentally and examine myself as if I were an outside spectator. I think about all my years as a wildland firefighter, all the things I’ve seen, all the men and women I’ve worked alongside.
I think about how I would react to seeing one of my coworkers feeling the way I do now.
The term “occupational burnout” pops up in my brain. I’ve seen it firsthand—watched friends and coworkers struggle with it, manage it, succumb to it, and beat it. And I wonder if that’s what I’m up against.
For years, this job has consumed me. I started at the bottom, completed grueling hours of in-flight training, and clawed my way up to become an aerial firefighter. It’s been all work and no play, and maybe it’s made me a bit of a dull boy.
I’ve been relentless in my pursuit of this job, and I’ve never considered taking a break. Hell, I barely even take vacations.
I pause as I pull my socks on, realizing that’s not exactly true. In a sense, I have taken a break. I used to spend my winters fighting fires in other parts of the world. Spring, fall, winter elsewhere—often Australia—and returning home to Canada, or down south in the States, for the summer. Fighting fires year-round.
It wasn’t until the last couple of years that I finally stepped back to spend the winter working quietly on small contracting jobs in the valley. A gig that gives me a brief break from the death and destruction of natural disasters.
For the longest time, I thought that work was all I had, but now I’m faced with the realization that maybe that’s not the case anymore.
I’m terrible at asking for help, but last night, I tried to. And Gwen justknew.
Coming home feeling so downtrodden and depleted scared me. It may even be the wake-up call I needed. I fucking hate asking for help, but I’m too old to ignore when I need it.
So I begrudgingly promise myself I’m going to phone our professional firefighters’ association and see if there’s anyone I can talk to.
But first, food. I’m starving. I didn’t eat properly while I was away either. I didn’t take care of myselfat all.
When I get downstairs, I’m met with the chatter and laughter I expected when I first got up this morning. The past several weeks before I left, I avoided joining them, but today I want to.
Gwen and Clyde are both in the kitchen, having a lively conversation with each other. And as I watch Clyde pull a bag of celery from the fridge, moving around comfortably, I can’t help but wonder if getting a little sun on his taint really did make him feel better. The improvement, even just in the days I was away, has been exceptional.
“What are we making?” I ask, as I stride into the kitchen.
Gwen turns to face me, knife in her hand, bits of raw chicken dangling from the end. If she looks surprised by my presence, she doesn’t show it. “You,” she says, “are not making anything. You are going to sit at that counter and relax. And later, you are going to take a nap.”
I quirk a brow at her. “I haven’t taken a nap after a full night’s sleep in years. I’m not a small child.”
Gwen doesn’t bother staring me down—she just goes back to dicing chicken breasts. “Well, if you can’t take care of yourself, then I will have to treat you like a small child. And that means you’re taking a nap. Your body needs it.”
Clyde watches us with narrowed eyes, gaze flicking back and forth between Gwen and me. “Why is she telling you to relax? I mean, we all know you need to relax. You’re wound as tight as a fishing reel. But since when do you listen to what she says?”
I drop onto a stool at the counter and look at Clyde. As irritating as he sometimes is, I have to confess that he’s one of my closest friends. So I try something new. I try not to bottle it all up. “Since I overdid it and made myself sick. I’ve been a little tightly wound, and I think it caught up with me.”
Clyde scoffs, grabbing a knife for the celery. “You think?”
I roll my eyes. “Just being open about it, Clyde. Not all of us reap the rewards of putting our perineum in the sun.”
He snorts now, grinning down at the celery he’s chopping. “I would tell you to try it, except you wouldn’t listen to me. You’re not enlightened enough.”
I shake my head, wondering how the fuck I got to a place where I’m talking about my feelings with the town conspiracy theorist and the girl I got drunk in an airport with.
“But I’ll tell you what would be good for you,” Clyde starts back in. “Pot.”
I go still, head tilting as I stare back at him. “Pot?”
He dips his chin. “Yeah. You know…marijuana. Ganja. Dope. Grass. Reefer. Mary Jane. I don’t know what you kids are calling it these days, but it might serve you well. It’s medicinal.”
Gwen snorts a laugh and covers her mouth with the back of her hand.
“What are you laughing at?” I ask her.
