This is NOT an interesting photo . . .

Firefighters Fight Fire?

By Gwen Moore

A few weeks ago, I was approached in a market by a rather good-looking young man dressed in a navy blue uniform asking me if I wanted to purchase a calendar.  Ah, this was a firefighter and he was hocking the annual firefighters’ calendar.  Of course I wanted one.  I couldn’t wait to look inside.  I am in the know on this particular subject.  I know that French firefighters are revered like American sports stars, movie stars and pop stars.  They are young, buff, physically fit, good looking and, most importantly, almost 100% bachelors. 

Gimme that calendar, young man.

Back in New York, I paid around 16 dollars for the FDNY calendar.  I flipped through the pages of the muscular men (no metrosexuals in here!) who adorn the top of each month and then wrapped it up to give to my mom for Christmas. 

If the FDNY, full of uneducated nitwits from the outer boroughs, can put out an annual calendar full of gorgeous, half-naked men soaking up the New York sun, then I could only imagine what France’s calendar looked like.  It must be full of the cutest, sexiest Parisian men wearing next to nothing.  Right?  I would buy the calendar, peek through it back in my apartment and then wrap it up and send it to mom for Christmas.   

How much does it cost, I asked him.  He explained that this was for charity and I could donate whatever I liked.  There was no set price.  Remembering what I had paid in New York, I pulled a 20-euro bill out of my Coach bag and handed it to him, smiling.  How much change would you like back, he asked me.  Change?  No, you said it’s for charity.  I wouldn’t ask for change back from you.  He looked confused that someone would pay 20 euros for the calendar.  He insisted that I get some money back.  He tried to hand me a 10 euro bill.  No, really, I said, I don’t want change back.  I put the calendar in my bag and anxiously scurried home to take a look. 

When I got home and flipped through the calendar, I suddenly understood why the firefighter didn’t want to accept 20 euros for it.  The calendar is worth about 20 francs, at best, and I never did get around to sending it to Mom for Christmas, although maybe she would have thought it was a good gag gift. 

I opened the first page.  A photo of a nude, glistening firefighter?  No.  A photo of an actual fire in an actual apartment and firefighters risking their lives to save an old woman.  She must be 85 years old.  No make-up.  Terrible looking nightgown.  She’s in a stretcher, being hoisted out of her bedroom window in the middle of the night by a crane while three firefighters guide her and simultaneously fight a fire. 

What the heck?  I turned the page.  A photo of a nude, glistening firefighter?  No.  A photo of a firefighter giving a little girl in a nightgown a drink of water.  In the background, her apartment is on fire.  There’s black smoke coming out of the windows.  She’s been coughing.  She needs a drink of water.  She’s not wearing make-up, either.  It doesn’t looked staged.  It looks real. 

The calendar is not full of studio photos of cute firefighters.  It’s nothing but real and very scary photos of real people snatched from the clutches of death by the likes of the kid who sold me this calendar.  The calendar shows firefighters risking their lives and saving others.  Not something I want to hang up in my kitchen or even think about on a daily basis.  I would be so depressed and frightened that my apartment would be next.  I would obsess over escape routes, emergency plans and my Red Cross-approved evacuation bag.  There is just one place where the calendar belongs. 

The poubelle.  The yellow one.

Next year, I’ll just give the kid a five-euro bill and thank him for saving Grandma Picard, but thank you, I don’t need the calendar this year.  Then again, maybe I could get him to give me a little private show for the full 20 euros.  I’ll have to wait another year to find out . . .