The worlds most mediocre coffee

CW: References to medical trauma and child death.

The smell of burnt coffee always lingers in the air. As a fresh pot begins to fill from the spout of the Bunn Pour-O-Matic coffee maker, a standard that can be found in every firehouse in America, the smell of burnt coffee is replaced by the smell of fresh brewed Folgers. The recipe is simple: first I fill the paper filter exactly halfway with cheap, ground coffee. Any less and I’ll hear complaints that I made tea, or coffee flavored water. Any more and I’ll hear how undrinkable the concoction is, and how it could peel the paint from the side of ladder truck, all while it gets poured down the drain. Next, water is added using a twenty-year-old plastic jug whose sole purpose on this earth is to be filled momentarily to the faded marker line indicating the exact right amount of water, then quickly poured into the industrial-sized coffee maker. Lastly, the burner is turned on and the pot adjusted to sit at the perfect 27.4 degree angle otherwise the crackling noise of burning grime under the pot will drive somebody mad. Then, I wait. In exactly five minutes I will have created the world’s most mediocre pot of coffee.

The lifeblood of the firehouse is coffee. You are greeted in the morning by the off-going crew, who are more than happy to hand you a hot cup, and along with it, the reins to the station, so they can go home. You return the favor 48 hours later, after uncountable cups drank, by ensuring a full pot or two awaits your relief in anxious anticipation that your shift is ending.

During our shift we kill time solving all the world’s problems, debate about the world’s smallest issues, and scheme how to make more side money, all while grasping warm cups of joe. The aggressive gesturing and accompanied yelling, mug in hand, leads to permanent staining on the worn kitchen table. When it comes time to fix one of the never-ending repair issues on the fire engine or around the station, rest assured we will stand together as a crew, one hand on hip, the other holding our favorite thrift store mug, collectively scratching our heads and wondering how the thing broke in the first place.

Any visitor to the station is greeted with a cup of coffee and a seat at our table. If we like you, we might even make a fresh pot instead of pouring some of the leftovers. When a chief stops by the rookies push and shove for the opportunity to pull his chair out. They pace with anxious energy, like nervous butlers, one ear trying to absorb what the chief has to say, all the while trying their damnedest to ensure the chief’s cup never runs dry, lest they receive a verbal beating later.

We welcome our law enforcement brothers with open arms as they crave the contact of human connection they miss out on while sitting alone in their squad car all day. Often the target of violence and public disdain, they sometimes just need to feel safe and warm; the firehouse and Folgers usually does the trick. Some officers become like quirky cousins to our fire family, stopping by at the beginning of their shift. They linger in the kitchen and offer to taser one of us, always with the stipulation that we catch it on video. There is usually a friendly jab or two about how they took the wrong public service test, and how they missed out on the accolades and camaraderie to opt instead to be cold and alone in their cruiser all night. The laughter is often interrupted by a sudden call for a noise complaint, and with a roll of their eyes, our cop friends hand their half-drank cups back and dash out the door.

Terrible days and terrible nights can usually be distracted from by that bitter tasting bean water. After a particularly trying day dealing with one of our frequent flyers—not once, not twice, but six times in three hours—I was comforted by a cup of coffee and the assurance of a deputy chief that the department was finding alternative ways to deal with her. I continued to make her acquaintance multiple times a shift for the better part of a year. On more extreme occasions, a trained therapist drops by the station to help us cope with the horrible reality that can be our job. We treated the therapist not as an outsider, but as a shaman, someone whose mission is to guide us out of the darkness. After properly distributing the caffeinated warmth around the room, the water works begin. There is nothing wrong with a group of hardened, grown men, seated in a circle crying together with coffee dripping from their mustaches after debriefing the death of a child. Coffee may warm the soul, but nothing heals more than the feel of your brother’s hand on your shoulder when you feel at your lowest.

Sometimes, around four a.m. we give up on sleep entirely. The calls are never going to stop coming, so why fight it? Once I got the whole crew together to watch Ghostbusters on cable TV. Sweatshirts on, lights off, hoods up, silently sipping from burning cups and staring bleary-eyed at the television in the dark, I wondered yet again what mistakes I had made that led to me watching a Bill Murray classic before the roosters sang their morning song. Going on five calls after 1 a.m. will do that to a man.

The only three guarantees in the fire service are first, that your brothers will always have your back. Second, if you comment on how “quiet” a shift is, you have just signed your own death sentence, and can expect to be awake all night. Last, there is always a pot of coffee sizzling away on a Bunn Pour-O-Matic. It will never be the best coffee you’ve ever had, it may not even be the warmest, but it’s always there for those who need it.