It was only when I tried to twist my hands into the spidery contortions necessary to play a guitar that I really began to appreciate good guitar playing. For starters, I discovered I was physically incompatible with "Turkey in the Straw." It felt like I would have to break several fingers and allow them to mend grotesquely distorted before I would be able to coax the appropriate sound out of the instrument. The next time I listened to someone play, I connected the sounds with the memory, and heard things there I'd never noticed before.

Learning about something allows one to see it in much finer detail than before. That's how it's been with "Hazmat" class. After twenty-some hours at the Academy (Wednesday nights and all day Saturdays) I'm more finely tuned into the destructive potential all around us than I've been in a long while. As a semi begins to pass me on the highway, I'm thinking "That's a MC 406 class, probably carrying flammable liquids." Then I strain to read the hazmat placard on the back, glancing into the next lane repeatedly at seventy miles per hour, trying to discern the material index number so I can look it up in the DOT guide later. I am probably, to those around me, as hazardous a material as anything else on the road at that moment.

One night in Hazmat class we watched a training movie featuring actual footage of horrific accidents that killed or maimed firefighters, with commentary on how they might have been prevented. It was like viewing a snuff film -- Fire & Rescue Faces of Death -- and there were moments when many of us writhed in discomfort at what we saw. Flaming people, screaming; electrocuted people, twitching; victims of a massive explosion, stumbling mindlessly. It kicked a big dent in my desire to take Essentials of Firefighting class. Fire is one of the worst things that can fail to kill a person.

I sat next to a fellow member of my night crew, and afterwards we chatted about the more grisly elements of the video. She has no desire to pursue the firefighting side of the rescue biz, but is interested in training as an ambulance driver. In contrast, I am terrified at the idea of getting behind the wheel of a monstrous, high-speed piece of destructive potential like an ambulance. It seems to me that driving a rescue vehicle carries with it a much higher probability that one's own mistakes will harm innocent others. If you're crawling into a burning building, you've pretty much already admitted that your self-preservation drive is not very conventional. I care less that my decisions may contribute to my own demise as much as the idea that my judgment might kill other people.

I was thinking that if I start firefighting training, maybe I should keep a regular journal of it that stays separate from the Tales. Maybe it might even collate into a nice article or pamphlet or book or sandwich-man sign someday. I like the name "Essentials of Firefighting" enough to name the journal that, which leads to a question: is the name of a class in a taxpayer-supported fire & rescue training facility trademarked? It is the eternal American question: will I get sued for this?

Making Essentials the topic of a journal has an additional benefit: I could speak more freely about my experiences there. Lately I've been struggling with how the absolute necessity of protecting patient confidentiality delineates what I can say in the Tales. These events -- some ugly, some whimsical -- make a growing contribution to my perception of the world, but I simply cannot share them in a public forum. I'm not really supposed to share them with anyone. What am I to do with all that time, all those moments of my life gone undercover?