Point
I Want To Be A Fireman
When I grow up, I want to be big and strong and brave and put out fires. I want to ride in a big red truck and wear a raincoat and a red hat. I want to be a fireman!
Firemen are the best people because they put out fires. The fires burn down buildings, but the firemen come in trucks and put out the fires with water from hoses and from fire hydrants. They go in the burning houses if people are inside and can’t get out. Even if the buildings are on fire! And they get everybody out so they don’t get hurt. Because firemen are very brave and like to help people by stopping the fires from burning all the houses down. And rescuing the people, too.
I already have a book about firemen and about fire trucks, too.
When I get big I’m going to be a fireman. I am. I will live in the big firehouse with the other firemen, and so will Mrs. Kitty, and I will shine up the trucks—the Pumper Truck and the Hooking Ladder Truck, and I will shine them all shiny.
And if there is a fire I will slide down the big pole. I’ll slide right down—zooom! Also, I will slide down all the time even if there is not a fire. And I will play with the spotted dog, and so will my kitty. Her name is Mrs. Kitty!
Mrs. Kitty was up in a tree that time, you know? And she was scared to come down? And the fireman came and got her down, you know? With a ladder! And they gave me a fireman badge and it says “Fireman” on it, and they said I was an honorary fireman girl! Just like them. And so Mrs. Kitty wants to be a fireman now ’cause she got saved and I want to be a fireman, too. But because I already am a fireman. A honorary one. But I will be one for real, too, someday, but first I have to grow up.
Fireman
Counterpoint
I Want To Be A Seven-Year-Old-Girl
I enjoy being a fireman. It’s a rewarding job, putting out fires and helping people in need. Besides, it’s a very tangible way of helping the community. People respect you when you’re a fireman.
But despite the fact that lugging heavy hoses, smashing through burning walls with a fire axe, and carrying victims across your shoulders can be quite fulfilling, it’s also a big responsibility. It’s tough being a big strong man day in and day out. I guess that’s why I so often find myself daydreaming about being an adorable, precious little seven-year-old girl.
Being seven, now, that would be the life. I would wear a pretty little yellow jumper while I skipped rope, and I’d know all the words to jump-rope rhymes like, “Cinderella Dressed In Yellow.” I could even pretend I was Cinderella in my pretty little yellow jumper. Not that I’d have just the one jumper, mind you; I’d have dozens, in many different colors, and lots of beautiful sun-dresses, and lots of adorable, lacy, frilly white socks to wear with my buckle-shoes. I would have a lot of outfits, and they’d all be much more comfortable than this 30-pound raincoat.
I would have one very special pink flowery pinafore that I would only wear to teatime with Pooh and Paddington and Raggedy Ann. I would wear this dress with a sweet little bonnet with ribbons, and my hair would be long and fine and done up in bows. I would be a pretty little girl, very prim and proper and delicate—not some big, burly ox who can barely get his finger through the cup-handle without breaking the cup half the time. I would always stick my pinky out while I sipped from my cup. There would be biscuits and little white cakes, as well, and I would throw a simply delightful afternoon tea party.
I would be the very best little girl in the world, and the grownups would buy me lollipops and treats and generally spoil me. I would say, “Please” and “Thank you” and “If you please, ma’am,” and the grownups would protect me and keep me safe, and no one would ever expect me to get out of bed at four in the morning and lug some damn hippie out of the raging apartment fire he started with his grow lights.
I would not be lazy, though. I would go around with my miniature feather duster, wearing that cute blue frock I have way in the back of my closet, and I’d keep everything spic-and-span. The firemen would tousle my hair and say I was a good little girl, and they’d play hide-and-seek with me and tuck me in at night and sing me lullabies. They’d hardly ever have to spank me until my little bottom turned pink.
I would be such a good girl, I would be able to stay little forever and ever. I’d never have to grow up and get big and clumsy and ugly and hairy and hate my smelly body. I would be cute and dainty forever, like all little girls should.
