As a member of the lowest rung on the ambulance, I am subject to whatever mandatory meetings and requirements the command asks of me. On Friday evening it was a cleanup in preparation for the open house the following day. Susan and our next-door neighbor Sara were bound for a play, and they dropped me off at the squad building. I brought along my uniform in case I was required not only to clean the building, but do it in my dress duds.

Most of my fellow "acting active" probationary members were there, and we were assigned various cleaning duties throughout the building. I was pleased to find that we were not required to scrub floors in our uniforms. Aside from that ray of light, the ambient mood was somewhat gloomy. A number of those present confided that they could think of better things to do on a Friday night. I was in a good mood, and relatively untroubled by this encroachment on my personal time. Working at home, I have far fewer chances to interact with other human beings, so my time at the squad, for better or worse, represents a chunk of my socializing opportunities.

Nonetheless, I often note that I am more willing to toe the official line and pay the necessary dues to advance through the squad's ranks. As I've mentioned, this is rather unusual, since I rarely react in this way to arbitrary organizational hierarchies. In my former job at a small nonprofit, I was seldom willing to put in the necessary time to earn respect or responsibility. I wanted others to immediately recognize my intelligence and potential, and hand me the things usually acquired through time and demonstrated commitment.

On the ambulance, my attitude is different. I have clear goals and know what I must do to obtain them: I want to be permitted to head an ambulance crew within six or seven months, and I'm willing to endure whatever they put in front of me to get there. I can easily perceive that the system will not change to accommodate me, so I have changed to adapt to the necessities it presents. Still, it blows me away to see myself responding to a paramilitary system of rank and authority in this way.

Having washed windows and scrubbed the scuff marks off doors for three hours, I returned to the squad on Saturday afternoon to assist with the squad's open house. I expected the event would attract few visitors, mostly families accommodating their children's fascination with emergency vehicles. I was amazed to find the squad building packed with people. Many, many kids were there, but a lot of adults were also present. All the ambulances and rescue trucks were dramatically arrayed in the squad bay and in front of the building, open for visitors to peruse. Rescue equipment was laid out on tables, and other squad volunteers were explaining their use on emergency calls. Behind the building, the heavy rescue and firefighter personnel were tearing apart cars to demonstrate extrication techniques before appreciative, oohing crowds.

I was assigned to lead tours of the station. While I could imagine few more boring ways to spend fifteen minutes that looking at where other people eat and train and watch television, many visitors were quite interested in the inner workings of the squad. I became a quite skillful guide. I started everyone off in the front hallway, where pictures of many dramatic fires and rescues from the squad 59-year history line the walls. Many of these images are quite grotesque, and thus proved riveting to the young people in the audience.

I typically ended the tour in the bunk room, which proved to be the most interesting part of the building for many visitors. I completely failed to anticipate this, but both kids and adults were fascinated by the room and its rows of metal bunk beds. The fire pole in the corner was a huge draw. I described what it was like to try to catch some sleep in a room where the lights suddenly go on and a nerve-shattering buzzer yanks us all awake to go out on a call. "Is it coed?" many people asked, and I responded that it indeed was, but we all sleep in our clothes anyway. We're a modest bunch, I told the crowd. I dramatized how, when a call comes in, we pull on our boots and slide down the pole into action. Everybody seemed to love it, and I began to relish my role as guide. I felt some genuine twinges of Pride in my uniform, describing this life to interested members of the communities we serve.

My lowest point during the day came when I was assigned to monitor the children's "Moon Bounce." We've all seen these enormous, inflatable houses, where kids boing and collide with such eager violence that terrible injuries seem inevitable. I let groups of ten tykes inside for a five-minute bounce, then ushered them out for the next group. Parents huddled around me at the entrance to the Moon Bounce, watching their kids risk their safety for a few moments of buoyancy.

Suddenly, disaster struck. The compressor that kept the Moon Bounce inflated shut down, and the whole structure quickly collapsed around the bouncing children. Young voices shrieked in confusion and fear. "They'll suffocate!" one parent screamed in my left ear, and I sprang into action. Unfortunately, my first move was to run to the air compressor and see if I could get it started again. Another member of the rescue squad, displaying a little more presence of mind, jumped into the flattened Moon Bounce structure and tried to hold up the flaccid ceiling while children spilled out the entrance.

Other squad members jumped into the Moon Bounce and began sweeping the interior to locate any trapped children. I must say, it was a rather impressive sight. By now, the children and their parents had calmed down, and everyone watched as the competent rescue personnel insured that no other young people were inside the completely-deflated structure. Unable to determine any problem with the air compressor (or how the compressor worked at all), I was running up along the extension cord that powered it to see if it had inadvertently been disconnected. By then, someone at the far end of the cord had found that it was pulled out of the wall socket inside the ambulance bay. Power was quickly restored, and the Moon Bounce inflated back to its former, play-friendly dimensions.

I let any children who had been inside the Moon Bounce during the disaster go back in first for another jumping session. One of the lieutenants came up behind me. "I leave you in charge of the Moon Bounce for a few minutes, and look what happens," he said in mock-serious tones. Despite the joke, I felt a measure of embarrassment. Who knows if some child out there had their enjoyment of a carefree Moon Bounce forever ruined by that terrifying moment when the air went out? I would hate to be in charge during the moment of someone's loss of childish innocence.

Shortly afterward, the Park Police's medivac helicopter landed in the rear parking lot, and in the excited rush to watch the dramatic landing, the trauma of the Moon Bounce Disaster was quickly forgotten.