can do. They dedicated every bit of themselves to the job, to the ideal, that we all strive for. To do whatever it takes, to be the fire wall between all harm and the people of our community who we hold so precious....â He trails off under the thunder of love and crowd madness that rolls right up over us from the back of the crowd, and over our heads. Fifty different hands slap my back, and I feel DJ beside me being bounced forward and forward with the same thing. I notice for the first time, as Jim dabs at his eyes and wipes his flushed face like heâs battling a real fire right now, the buckets. Along the front lip of the stage, a row of old-timey tin fire-brigade buckets stands guard. Rather, they stand for collection.
People are walking up, like some kind of revival meeting, and howling things as they stuff money into those buckets. Dollars, coins. Some drop gently, some jam. Some sharpshooters even throw from a few rows back, but it is accumulating rapidly.
Weâre even getting paid for this.
I look at DJ, and he looks down at the ground.
âAnd what these two kings did, giving their lives, is what every single one of us, each and every member of this service would gladly do. But the difference, my friends, the difference is, they did it. And there isnât a person in this crowd who is surprised that Dave and Russell were the two men who gave their lives that day because they were Outrageous Courageous â¦â
The crowd goes beyond mental here, in a way that makes me every bit as proud as I am frightened of the power of it.
â⦠and they were the Hothouse Heroes, our heroes, your heroes, and we are here to testify and to celebrate today â¦â
I cannot hear what he is saying anymore. DJ has his hands covering his ears. I see my mother walking onto the stage, arm in arm with DJâs mother.
It feels almost like we are being physically crushed from behind by the crowd even though, in reality, they are more like protecting and cocooning us. Then, holding us. Then, lifting us.
Oh God, they want us onstage. They are motioning DJ and me up onto the stage, as the band, the Hothouse Heroes minus two, settle into position with their instruments.
âNo,â DJ says, though I am the only person in this world who can actually hear him. âNo, thank you anyway, but Iâm good right here.â His actionsâas much as you could call them actionsâdonât really back up his words. He falls into the crowdâs embrace like he is a stuffed DJ effigy.
It must give him some comfort that I am on the same crowd-surf to the stage, and we are never separated for a second. We remain so close, in fact, that I am able to crane my neck a little, and take a good healthy bite right out of that burger. I smile with accomplishment as I chew, and if I have helped loosen him up at all, his wince is nevertheless not a celebration of comfort. He shoves the burger at me, like you do when somebody has polluted your food so you donât want it anymore.
âQuite a tâdo, after all, isnât it?â my mother shouts into my ear as I am delivered and the crowd somehow manages a higher gear of delirium.
âItâs a tâdo and a half,â I shout as I lean back into her and weakly wave out at the fans. Beside me, DJâs mother has her arm tightly around her sonâs shoulders. DJ is peering one by one into the brigade buckets of money, which are still filling up.
âWe might never have to work, our whole lives,â he says joylessly into my ear.
âIâll work anyway, just to be near the common folks,â I say truthlessly into his.
âNow you all know,â big Jim says, reclaiming control of the proceedings, âwhat dedicated and gifted musicians have always wound up at this very firehouse....â
Behind him, the individual band members start cracking up.
âDonât be modest, men. And, itâs no secret that Russ and Dave
People are walking up, like some kind of revival meeting, and howling things as they stuff money into those buckets. Dollars, coins. Some drop gently, some jam. Some sharpshooters even throw from a few rows back, but it is accumulating rapidly.
Weâre even getting paid for this.
I look at DJ, and he looks down at the ground.
âAnd what these two kings did, giving their lives, is what every single one of us, each and every member of this service would gladly do. But the difference, my friends, the difference is, they did it. And there isnât a person in this crowd who is surprised that Dave and Russell were the two men who gave their lives that day because they were Outrageous Courageous â¦â
The crowd goes beyond mental here, in a way that makes me every bit as proud as I am frightened of the power of it.
â⦠and they were the Hothouse Heroes, our heroes, your heroes, and we are here to testify and to celebrate today â¦â
I cannot hear what he is saying anymore. DJ has his hands covering his ears. I see my mother walking onto the stage, arm in arm with DJâs mother.
It feels almost like we are being physically crushed from behind by the crowd even though, in reality, they are more like protecting and cocooning us. Then, holding us. Then, lifting us.
Oh God, they want us onstage. They are motioning DJ and me up onto the stage, as the band, the Hothouse Heroes minus two, settle into position with their instruments.
âNo,â DJ says, though I am the only person in this world who can actually hear him. âNo, thank you anyway, but Iâm good right here.â His actionsâas much as you could call them actionsâdonât really back up his words. He falls into the crowdâs embrace like he is a stuffed DJ effigy.
It must give him some comfort that I am on the same crowd-surf to the stage, and we are never separated for a second. We remain so close, in fact, that I am able to crane my neck a little, and take a good healthy bite right out of that burger. I smile with accomplishment as I chew, and if I have helped loosen him up at all, his wince is nevertheless not a celebration of comfort. He shoves the burger at me, like you do when somebody has polluted your food so you donât want it anymore.
âQuite a tâdo, after all, isnât it?â my mother shouts into my ear as I am delivered and the crowd somehow manages a higher gear of delirium.
âItâs a tâdo and a half,â I shout as I lean back into her and weakly wave out at the fans. Beside me, DJâs mother has her arm tightly around her sonâs shoulders. DJ is peering one by one into the brigade buckets of money, which are still filling up.
âWe might never have to work, our whole lives,â he says joylessly into my ear.
âIâll work anyway, just to be near the common folks,â I say truthlessly into his.
âNow you all know,â big Jim says, reclaiming control of the proceedings, âwhat dedicated and gifted musicians have always wound up at this very firehouse....â
Behind him, the individual band members start cracking up.
âDonât be modest, men. And, itâs no secret that Russ and Dave
Similar Books
