There's usually a driver's mate in a fire truck. The cab is too wide for the driver to see right at a junction. The driver's mate shouts,
"Clear, clear, clear!" if it's alright to turn out.
Today it will not matter that there is no-one to be your driver's mate because there are no vehicles on the road. You slip into the plastic pants and braces. The truck smells of rubber and diesel; good manly smells. The crescendo of the engine revving startles you. The power of this beast is intoxicating.
The siren button is labelled clearly. Hey there's even a Braille tag under it. This makes you wonder about the disability employment policy of the fire service. Maybe all firemen read Braille, in case of thick smoke. The siren whoops out as you lurch onto the highway.
"Clear, clear, clear!" you shout as the tyres screech on the slimy asphalt. A straight runway of pale grey stretches out ahead of you; no impediment; just pure speedtrack. Oh shit! It's not automatic. The gear lever doesn't want to shift, the clutch seems too far away, how do you pull the seat forward? You feel your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you chug along the highway at a staccato 30 miles an hour, siren blaring. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Now you know the answer to the familiar question; if a tree falls in the forest and there is no-one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Well you sure blush even when there's no-one there to see you.
The painful experience comes to an end when you...
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