PENINSULA

Emma shared all of her marathons, obstacle course races, and gym selfies with her hundreds of thousands of followers. Each picture received hundreds of “likes.” Medals, trophies, and certificates proudly lined her walls. Her photos of family, friends, and her boyfriend, Carl, were locked in a drawer on a backup hard drive.

She was undoubtedly driven and had come a long way since the overdose death of her parents. Emma’s 95-year-old grandmother, Florence, had raised her and her junkie brother in a tenement. An abandoned amusement park rested a few blocks away.

Emma’s bedroom window overlooked the rickety boardwalk, rolling mounds of sand, and the ocean’s turbulent wake. Florence still pushed a cart to and from the grocery store, despite the neighborhood’s descent into crime.

Everyone on the peninsula knew the story Emma was trying to rewrite.

After being honorably discharged from the Army, Carl moved to the peninsula and joined the FDNY.

He stored his combat and firefighter medals in his old footlocker. Not one word was ever mentioned about how they were earned.

Carl was an outsider with no familiar last name or surviving family.

Before he met Emma, he’d drive by, hear country music, and smell beach bonfires through the open roof of his Jeep. He knew he couldn’t just walk up and join in.

Emma and Carl had met online. They had been dating for 5 years, and living together in Carl’s house for two. He framed dozens of their shared adventures and placed them on walls and shelves.

Carl had only gained access to the neighborhood social circle through Emma. The boardwalk and parking ended at 126th street. Only locals were welcomed beyond that point.

Emma was enamored with everything about first responder culture, from on-the-job stories, uniforms and medals, to perceived admiration.

All of Emma’s relentless studying and training had paid off. She posted herself in firefighter gear and told her social media followers she had just been accepted into the FDNY academy.

“You didn’t graduate yet, that’s not a good idea. People have died in that uniform. You’re using it for social media clout,” Carl said.

“It’s just a picture,” Emma angrily replied.

Carl knew Emma was fully capable, but naive to the physical and psychological hazards he had endured. Despite the danger, Carl knew the biggest stressors always came from within the organization.

He knew men would stare, make sexual comments, and find other ways to test boundaries. Others would outright dismiss her intelligence and abilities.

After all, she was joining an organization that had kept women out until 1982. Maybe there was a selfish angle too. Nearly every new hire had shed their old identity and believed the training’s propaganda and indoctrination. It was a tactic to motivate recruits, but some would turn the job into their entire identity.

What would those people do once the job was over?

Due to relentless male attention, he couldn’t recall a woman who ever stayed with the same man after joining the job. They were wooed by the shiny new culture and shed the man tied to their prior identity. Male supervisors presented themselves as mentors; until a new class of younger and fitter women came along.

“Emma, I told you not to tell anyone there it was your birthday. You can’t get it through your head. This is bigger than you and not all about you. Did you think the drill instructors were going to bake you a cake, light a candle, and sing to you? You’re there to learn a job, not to be celebrated, validated, or to be an influencer.”

“Carl, you’re acting like I’m immature and don’t know anything. I’m 32 and have worked since college.”

“This is a whole lot different than marketing. The daily stress, lack of sleep, scheduling, and shitty chain of command politics can drive anyone to the bottle,” Carl replied.

He continued, “I’ve been doing this job for eight years. Remember when that roof collapsed in that Brownsville fire? Connor lives in a wheelchair. Aidan got crushed to death.”

“I know how it really is, and would die for this job,” Emma responded.

“Die for this? A civil service job? To them, you’re only a serial number. They’ll have somebody sitting in your seat the following shift. Despite all of their talk of camaraderie, the job will never love you back. They’ll move on without you, but your friends and family never will.”

Someone ratted to instructors that it was Emma’s birthday. Despite being among the most fit in the class, they screamed “fatty” and “useless.” Push-ups were demanded, but she perfectly executed them in front of hundreds of recruits.

Emma walked in the door of their home crying.

Carl calmly stated, “If you can’t handle being yelled at, this isn’t for you. What are you going to do at a real fire that can kill you?”

It was all a recurring script. Female recruits were ordered to stay late for “additional training” by relentless male instructors like Ben Thompson.

That day, Emma was no different. She had yet to realize the routine and that nobody was truly helping her. Carl didn’t want to see her become a joke.

“You don’t get it, Emma.”

She replied, “You’re not supporting me, and worried that a woman may upstage you.”

“I drove you to every step of the hiring process. Shined your shoes. Picked up your uniforms. I even pulled strings to get you one-on-one training at the house with the women’s firefighter group. You wouldn’t have even gotten on the job if I hadn’t noticed your missing residency points. What more can I do? Nobody did any of that for me.”

Emma looked him in the eye, and said it all wasn’t working out. When Saturday came, Ben Thompson was waiting outside in the driver seat of an idling U-haul truck.

Before the sun went down, every piece of her had been removed from the house. The five-year relationship had died in seconds.

Carl knew that everyone on the peninsula would cut him off. His entire identity would now be reduced to Emma’s “ex.”

The following night on his way to work, Carl drove past the beach and saw Emma’s silhouette in a distant bonfire. She flickered in the light of the flames.

He kept driving.