Inside the fire station, chatter begins to fill the room. Through the garage, past the fire engine, truck, and ambulance—or “the box” as they call it—the fire fighters are awake enough now to talk and laugh. The group began their day at eight in the morning with bowls of oatmeal and warm mugs of coffee. Some stand in the kitchen while others sit at the large circular dinner table, and some of the younger members lounge on the leather couches. For the next twenty-four hours all of their meals, conversations, and goals will be shared, and, for yet another day, they will be like family.

This is the life of the San Francisco firefighters at Station 19, directly behind the Stonestown Galleria mall. It is a place where camaraderie shines because everyone is required to eat, sleep, and live at the station. Many have made it their second home, and, like any good one, the house is full of unique personalities. They all consider one another to be family. As is expected, they bicker and tease each other, but they also pull each other through tragic times. “It’s like your family with little brothers and sisters,” says Lieutenant Edward Ghilardi. “And I’m the father,” he adds with a slight chuckle.

Ghilardi’s greying handle-bar mustache is the only hair on his head, and at six-foot-three he packs a husky two-hundred and forty pounds. He is in a playful mood this surprisingly sunny Friday morning and is trying to make his housemates laugh at every opportunity that arises. After spending twenty-two years with the fire department, Ghilardi is considered an “old-timer” and he sees laughter as key to keeping spirits high. His smile disappears when asked what the worst part of his job is. “Death,” he responds soberly. Because seeing death is common to a firefighter, venting with one another is therapeutic and it only reinforces how close they all are. “Talking about [death] and getting it off our chest helps,” says Robert Lopez, who has been an Emergency Medical Technician for eight years. “Holding it in and not saying anything probably could affect you.”

While these conversations are necessary for helping the group cope with tragedy, laughter might be the more powerful tool for eliminating the plague of harrowing memories. While talking and joking in their daily conversations is responsible for most of Station 19’s laughter, fire stations used to be infamous for their elaborate pranks. “I think a lot of the jokes that they played and the humor that they had was just to make it better,” says firefighter Heidi Bergmark, the only woman on duty today at Station 19. Bergmark believes today’s culture has been desensitized to violence, eliminating the need for pranks to boost optimism. “We’re just exposed to so much more growing up than people in my dad’s generation or the generation ahead of that. People just weren’t used to seeing that kind of stuff. Now you see it on TV all the time,” she says.

When the first four women joined the San Francisco Fire Department in 1987, the dynamic of brotherhoods also began to dissolve. “It’s such a different environment now; it’s not like it was twenty-five, thirty years ago,” says Ghilardi. “You know how it is when you get a bunch of guys together and they talk shit about whatever—you know, it could be anything. Now you have to be a bit more careful about what you say.”

Ghilardi first joined the department in 1987 and he has watched it grow from four women to three-hundred and fifty. He says most of the forty-two San Francisco stations now more closely resemble families.

Like any typical family, everyone at Station 19 is expected to keep their bed and living space clean. The common area sits behind the garage near the back of the house and is reminiscent of a souped-up bachelor pad—minus the mess. Next to the room’s front door leading into the garage is a large, high-definition flat-screen television, complete with a digital cable box, a DVD player, and two VCRs. Despite the urge to sit around and watch movies, the worn-out leather couches and recliners are often vacant and the room, along with the station’s kitchen, is kept spotless. Out of the nine people on shift each day, the house appoints a cook to prepare meals. Today the role has landed on Tillerman Stephen Kloster. It is his job to shop for groceries, taking into account anyone with food allergies—such as Ghilardi’s personal kryptonite, shellfish. By noon, the firehouse is still awaiting its first emergency call of the day. As they linger, Kloster’s cooking is producing a hybrid-beef smell, like an old barbeque used for cooking various types of meat. The dripping grease of hamburgers and the light smell of thanksgiving turkey mingle in the air, drawing the housemates toward the kitchen. When the group sees the misshaped “mystery chicken burgers” Kloster has been frying, laughter consumes the room. “Is this an appetizer?” fireman Patrick Grimesey asks jokingly. “I’m gonna need a snack in, like, an hour.” The batches of gray meat are tiny in comparison to a normal burger and take up just half the bun. “They were bigger when I cooked them, I swear,” Kloster responds in defense.

“I guess there was some shrinkage,” Grimesey says, a smile curling up the right side of his lip. The laughter continues, along with more elaborate shrinkage jokes. “Ew! There’s mold on mine!” Lopez shouts emphatically. Beacuse of their discoloration and odd form, the crew is now calling the small mounds of meat “Frankenstein burgers,” and their confidence in the burgers’ edibility is quickly disappearing. However, as they slowly begin nibbling the mini-Frankenstein’s, as if testing for poison, the bites become larger and the chatter subsides. Complete and utter silence, except for the sound of Kloster’s chicken concoctions sliding down the group’s throats, fills the kitchen. “Well, I’m stuffed,” jokes fireman Josh Pereira as he arches his back and places both hands on his belly. “It’s like one of those expensive restaurants where it’s really good but it’s so small. Like, ‘here’s your salad,’” the Engine 19 driver says as he tosses an abandoned shred of lettuce on the center of his plate.

After the table is cleared and the dishes are washed, the group files out toward different parts of the house. Some disappear upstairs to the dorms to catch a nap. Sleeping inside the large, dull room is not a pleasure as nets have been placed over the cots to protect the firefighters from the station’s mosquito problem.

Others workout in the mini-gym tucked in a corner upstairs while a few others go for a jog. While the fire engine is out on a “run,” or emergency call, Kloster is on the black leather couch nearest the TV, fixated on his favorite DVD. He is watching himself shuffle inside a giant lion costume during a videotaping of a traditional Chinese Lion Dance he participates in. It is difficult for an onlooker to figure out what the large colorful costume with oversized eyes is, as Ghilardi proves. “What does all that mean Kloster?” he asks. “All that hopping around?” Kloster remains silent, still locked onto the TV as he studies his art form. “Look he’s so into it he don’t even listen,” pipes Ghilardi. “What is that? That’s like half of a dragon,” he says, referring to the short costume supported by just two people.

“It’s not a dragon, it’s a lion,” Kloster says, breaking his silence.

“What part are you, the ass?” Pereira asks, throwing himself into the conversation. Ghilardi can’t control himself and breaks into a bellowing laugh. The laugh again comes at the expense of poor Kloster, but these are the moments that balance the harder times and heal every stored-away difficult memory. “Yeah, actually I am,” Kloster answers as Ghilardi’s laugh finally grows quiet. The lieutenant then bursts into more laughter, squashing yet another firehouse ghost.