By George Hackett
Newsweek
NEW YORK — "How hard is it, anyway, to drive a fire truck?" I asked Bobby Beddia, a New York City firefighter who died on the 17th floor of the Deutsche Bank building in New York City last Saturday.
"It's pretty easy," he said. "Pretty much everyone gets out of the way." We had been talking mostly about sports at Chumley's, a grungy-hip beer-and-burger joint in Greenwich Village. It was Sunday and golf was on TV; Bobby was behind the bar. A lot of firefighters in New York City have second jobs, and a few from the firehouse at 6th Avenue and Houston had a shift at Chumley's. "If only straightening my slice was so easy…" he said.
The Deutsche Bank building is a remnant of 9/11, across from Ground Zero: too damaged to use, too dangerous to simply knock down. It was being dismantled beam-by-beam — a slow process impeded by legal matters and worries about toxic materials. The fire, which may have started with a worker's cigarette, spread quickly through a maze-like trap of temporary walls and polyurethane. Because of the ongoing work, there were no operational standpipes for water, and no elevator besides a small exterior construction cage. Beddia and fellow firefighter Joseph Graffagnino, after climbing stairs hauling equipment, were surrounded by smoke when the oxygen in their tanks ran out. "Give them air, give them air," colleagues cried on the way to ambulances. Beddia, 53, and Graffagnino, 33, were declared dead at NYU hospital.
Most firehouses in New York hold two teams: A ladder company, which gets firefighters to upper floors and brings victims down, and an engine company which pumps water and goes in from the ground up. Beddia, who had logged 23 years with the department, was senior member of Engine 24. As the driver (or "chauffeur" in FDNY parlance), his responsibility after arrival was to stay with the truck and supervise the pumping process. On Saturday, he was taking the place of a colleague, and went up into the building.
I'm sure Bobby was excited about taking on the fire Saturday; he liked action. He was off duty six years ago when 9/11 hit. Like many other firefighters, he hurried to the World Trade Center on his own. But he always felt guilty that he had not been a first responder. His engine company survived; his housemates in Ladder 5 were all killed. He often talked about this. Now I can't stop picturing him yesterday, hurt, lying on his side in dark smoke, gasping for air, wondering if this was it. Before, I only saw him smiling.
I usually met Bobby through happenstance. On the street with his girlfriend, in the deli, through a window of a restaurant. I knew little about his private life, his family, his regrets. He would ask me when we would play golf, wasn't I worried about the Red Sox, what was up with that article in NEWSWEEK. I would ask him why Ladder 5 always looked shinier than Engine 24, was he dying his hair, how was the Alfa running.
When we met up at the right time, we would have a coffee or a glass of wine. Just last Friday we had a cup of coffee in the morning. I can't remember what we talked about.
Copyright 2007 Newsday, Inc.
