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"You mean the guy who looks like me? The dark-haired paramedic? He's young and good-lookin', women love him, and for some odd reason, he gets hurt a lot. I mean really hurt, too. Can't begin to tell you how many times he's been in the hospital, near death. But the rest of the guys are always 'there' for him, and he always pulls through. Almost always, anyway."

"Well, except for the good-lookin' part and the part about women loving him, it does sound sorta like you," Chet agreed. "Cap's always saying you need to learn to keep your helmet on."

"Hey! I am good-lookin' and women do love me. I have to tell you, though, I'm a lot more responsible than he is -- seems he's got a whole flock of illegitimate kids runnin' around. But, that's not the part that bothers me so much. No, well, it does bother me that people mess around with the characterizations like that, like they never even took the time to read the descriptions that were settled on in the first place. But, what really irritates me is that people write about things and it's obvious they haven't even tried to get them right."

Roy was starting to get lunch ready, while listening to the conversation at the table. He hoped they didn't mind having tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Boring and unimaginative. Sort of like most of those stories.

"Well, Johnny, it is fiction, after all. People can make things up if they want. I think that's why they call it fiction."

"That's not the point, Roy. Sure, if they wanted to say these guys were firefighters in some fictional place they made up like... like Coffeeville, Kansas...."

"Hey, Coffeyville is a real place," Marco interjected.

Johnny's hands flew in the air in frustration. "Okay, look. Let's just say they made up a place. That would be one thing. But, that's not what they've done. They're using Southern California and Los Angeles County. Real places. Most of them don't know the difference between the County and the City, but I suppose that's beside the point. The bottom line is that you wouldn't know it's Southern California or LA by the way they describe things."

"What's the big deal?" Roy asked, wondering if that was supposed to his line. Where was Stoker, anyway?

"The big deal is... the big deal is that these people... they wouldn't like it if I wrote a story about Billings, Montana and described it like it was a... a tropical island resort, would they? Well, maybe they would, but I doubt it. I mean, that's about as far from the truth as you can get. It's just that it wouldn't take much to go to the library and pick up a book or two and find out what things are like in any city of the country, would it? But, no. People write about where we live like it was some city in the Midwest. Or the South. Or Timbuktu, for that matter. Anywhere but here. And that's not right. No wonder people come to LA, and are surprised to find out it's not at all like these people describe it."

Johnny was on a roll now.

"You guys should read some of these stories. One person wrote that it takes two days to get to Nevada and this guy camped in the woods along the way, when it's only four hours away. There's one stupid tree between LA and Vegas and everything else is sagebrush and cactus. They're all constantly writing about 'the woods.' Have you ever seen woods around here? I've never seen woods around here. All we've got in the hills is scrub brush and more scrub brush. It's... it's overgrown vegetation. Man, there's even one story in here that says there's a swamp in those woods. A swamp? Do woods even have swamps? Where the heck would a swamp come from? They think we imported it from Florida or Louisiana or somethin'? Must be where they think all that humidity comes from, too. Last I heard, most of Southern California was nothing more than well-irrigated, reclaimed, semi-arid desert land."

The other guys were shaking their heads in disbelief. Woods? Swamps?

"That's still not all. It gets better," Johnny continued. "Some of them have that the station is in Carson City, if you can believe that."

"Um... isn't Carson City in Nevada?" Chet asked, a little uncertain of his geography.

"It is," answered Roy. "Maybe that would explain why they think there's mountains full of pine trees right out our back door, instead of a parking lot and a freeway. Maybe they're confusing us with the Cartwrights and the Ponderosa Ranch." Or is that Virginia City? Damn it, now he was confused!

"That reminds me!" Johnny jumped right back in. "The one they always refer to as the dark-haired paramedic... he owns a ranch... a ranch, mind you -- and right around the corner from here from the sounds of it... with acres and acres of land, and he has horses that he rides in the mountains all the time. Like a lowly fireman/paramedic could afford all that on a civil service salary. I guess maybe he gets all that money by being a paramedic instructor." Johnny snickered when that one came to mind. "The nurses who really do the training for the County program wouldn't like to find out that the public thinks we paramedics do classroom teaching."

Marco laughed at the thought any one of them could afford a ranch. Most firefighters were lucky to be able to afford a small house at their current salary.

"All I can say is he'd better be careful, or he might be investigated for taking bribe money to look the other way when he does inspections," he teased.

"Ain't that the truth? I suppose maybe he could afford some horse property on an acre or two if he saves every penny he earns for five or six years. But a ranch? Where would people get an idea like that? The only ones who own ranches anywhere even remotely nearby are Hollywood types and lawyers and doctors. They say he got a deal because the house was in bad shape. Don't they know it's the land that costs money out here, not the house? Another thing. This guy has a barn. A real barn. Now, if that isn't the dumbest thing I ever heard. Oh, and basements. They think houses in the middle of earthquake country have basements. How hard would that be to check out?"

Johnny repeated it once again with amazement in his voice,as he looked over at the dog sleeping on the couch."Basements and barns. This isn't Kansas, is it Henry?" Henry just yawned and rolled over. Johnny's rants never did impress him much. But then, nothing ever impressed Henry much.

"Okay, Johnny." Roy tried to calm him down. "So people don't take the time to pull out a simple map or check out a book from the library. Maybe it's too much effort to try to get it right, and maybe they don't even care. Maybe they just write this stuff for fun and it doesn't bother them that they're completely ignorant of the facts. So what?" Roy asked, as he started getting plates and bowls out of the cupboard.

"So what? So what? I'll tell you so what." Johnny was feeling a bit defensive and put-out that Roy didn't seem to think it was important. It _was_ important. "If people are gonna write about a real place, then they should get it right. I mean how hard is it to pick up the phone or write and ask someone who lives here for information, or to look in a book? And if they don't wanna do it, then they shouldn't write about it. It's as simple as that."

"I think you're making a mountain out of a mole-hill." Marco said. "Can we use these boxes? I don't want to eat lunch on top of all these papers."

"Yeah... no... just wait a minute, will ya? I'm not done yet. Wait 'til you hear the rest. These people write about firemen walking into burning buildings with oxygen tanks on their backs, and imply that it lasts for hours."

That raised a few eyebrows around the room. "I thought that would get your attention." Johnny looked pleased with himself for bringing that up.

"You mean people don't know that pressurized oxygen expands and explodes when it gets overheated?" Chet looked stunned. He thought everyone knew that.

"Apparently not. I guess they don't know there's a difference between compressed air and oxygen. And, they obviously have no idea what size tank it would take for the air to last for much longer than twenty minutes. We'd be carrying around 500 pounds instead of 50." Johnny smiled as he thought about it some more. "If we survived the oxygen tank explosion, we'd be out on workman's comp with back strain for sure."

The guys figured a visit to the local fire station would have given people the right information, and wondered why these "writers" didn't at least do that much research. They might have found it informative and fun, too. Maybe they would have learned to show a little more respect for the details.

And, Johnny still wasn't done. "You haven't heard the best part yet. Victims in these stories regularly have broken femurs, but don't bleed, they're unconscious for hours, but don't have any complications from it. The firemen break legs and ribs and have skull fractures, and are back on the job in six weeks. They come out of brain surgery and wake up right away and have long, coherent conversations. With the people who are 'there' for them, of course. I gotta figure that one out some day. Probably take me about thirty years to do it, though."

"Well, Johnny, I agree with you that it's unfortunate that people take such liberties, then go around calling themselves writers. Makes me wonder about the future of literature if people don't think getting the details right are important to good writing." Roy was contemplating asking if any of this really mattered in the overall scheme of things, but Johnny started in again, and answered his unspoken question as though he could read his mind.

"Good writing? Besides not knowing -- or caring -- anything about geography, or firefighting, or medical stuff, a lot of these folks don't know the difference between your and you're, and whose and who's. Spelling and grammar aren't the slightest bit important either. We all make mistakes... even I do. Sometimes. But I at least care, and try not to make them. They say, 'Mistakes... so what? It's just for fun.' I wonder if their kids come home with an 'F' on their report cards, and accept it when they say, 'But, Mom, it's just for fun.' Lord, I'd hate to see what kids coming out of high school are going to be like in the next few years if the _adults_ don't set an example, or think things like that matter. I guess these people don't see the connection."

Roy nodded his head, but had lunch just about ready, and was tiring of the conversation. He was thinking about taking his kids to catch fireflies over the weekend. Of course, they'd probably have to go all the way to Kansas to do it, since they didn't exist in California, or anywhere else on the west coast. He made a mental note to check first to make sure they even had them in Kansas before they left. He wondered if Johnny would want to come along and be dropped off in Montana on the way. Shoot, that was another map he'd have to check.

"Hey, Junior, you think we could put this stuff away for a while now?"

Johnny's head whipped up. "What did you call me?"

"Uh... sorry. I have to confess, I read a few too many of those stories, and I guess I got carried away. It won't happen again."

"Yeah, well, make sure it doesn't. You know I HATE being called Junior. And, don't go gettin' any other dumb ideas either. Like thinkin' you're the only one who ever drives the squad, or that I'm always late to work, or that Chet plays better pranks than I do, or that I always fall to my knees or hang my head in shame and sob."

As they packed the papers back into the boxes they came in, Marco asked, "How many people you suppose read these stories anyway?"

"I dunno. I'd guess not many. I mean, who would want to read something that's badly written, that has characters you can barely recognize, that has the facts all wrong, and that basically never has much of a plot or a point?"

"I guess some people like to read stuff like that." Chet tossed the last few on top of the box. "Are they all that bad?"

"Yes. No." Johnny shook his head sadly. "Well, the majority are. But there were a few good ones in there. A few people seem to take the time to get it right, and tell a decent story, and seem to care about their writing. But those stories seem to be the exception, not the rule."

"Too bad, don't ya think?" Chet said thoughtfully. "It could be a great idea. You know what would be an even better idea? To make a television show about us. Yeah... our names flashing on the screen every week. I can see it now. Chester B. Kelly, LA County Firefighter Extraordinaire. Of course, they'd have a hard time finding just the right actor to play me. Someone handsome and tall, smart and all that. Let's see...."

"Forget it, Chet. It'll never happen." Johnny said sarcastically. "It's one thing for people to write about guys like us, but who would ever want to watch a TV show about a bunch of boring firemen? Maybe if we were make-believe cops like those guys on Adam-12...."

"Wait. You mean those guys aren't real cops? I could have sworn you said you guys met them once or twice at Rampart." Chet was beginning to wonder if Gage had been pulling his leg about that.

Just then, Roy announced it was lunch and they all sat down and ate.

The End

Or is it? Where were Captain Stanley and Mike Stoker? Do you care?

Smog was the number one health hazard in the greater Los Angeles area in the 1970s.

Thanks to the whole gang for the "expert" beta read. Saves time in looking up facts for ourselves. It's reassuring to know if one of us in the circle is wrong, we're all wrong.

Disclaimer: I just used the guys to make a point, and to answer a certain person's challenge -- "if you want to be a critic, try writing your own story." So I did, and here it is. Now that I've written one thing, I can claim to be both a writer and a critic.

RETURN