Even with a job, struggles don't end

Connecticut Post Staff
Updated: 03/27/2009 05:52:13 PM EDT

Michael Candela, like all Bridgeport firefighters and like most of the rest of us, did not get a bonus last year.

The Employee Retention Program of the Bridgeport Fire Department, like those of most enterprises, consists of getting a fair salary -- well, some might argue that -- for work performed.

So here's what Michael Candela was doing the other day to earn his salary:

A typical Bridgeport triple-decker house is burning at 1042 Iranistan Ave., which is on the West Side of the city.

It is burning pretty good, flames in every shade of orange and tangerine pouring out of two third-floor windows. Alternating with the rolls of flame are bursts of filthy gray smoke as water hits the flames from hoses moving through the house.

The 49-year-old Candela, in full turnout gear and carrying a heavy-duty, carbide-tipped chainsaw, climbs a ladder up to the pitched roof above those windows.

He fires up the chainsaw and begins the task of "outside ventilation."

This means cutting a hole in the roof to let some of scalding, suffocating heat of the fire out so the guys inside can do their job.

If the guys inside are fighting through the belly of the beast, Candela is riding it, astride its back.

For a minute here and a minute there, as the smoke thickens, Candela is not even visible.

Only the insistent drone of the chainsaw testifies that he is still up there.

Apparatus is now parked all over the street: Ladder 5, Engine 3, Ladder 10, Rescue 5.

One of Candela's jobs in the four-person Ladder 5 crew is driver. The crew consists of an officer, a driver and two firefighters.

His other job is the above-described task with the pedestrian title "outside ventilation," which can vary from case to case.

A few hours after this particular fire, cleaning up back at fire headquarters at 30 Congress St., Candela spoke of his craft.

"First of all," he said, "and I can't emphasize this enough, The guys on the hose line?" he says, "They're the ones taking the beating."

As driver, "I'm the chauffeur. My job is to get the rig to the fire and position it," he said. "Set it up," he said, "and make a hole."

So on a day when the hole needs to be made way, way up on the roof of a burning building, well, it's just part of the job.

"Well, I don't mind heights," he said.

Of course, these days it's good to have a job.

Plenty of people are losing them, through no fault of their own.

If you have one -- unless, of course, you have one of those jobs in which you get a bonus regardless of whether you succeed or fail -- it's good to keep your nose to the grindstone.

One nose-to-the-grindstone person I see every day is Susan Tyler, whose turf is the corner of State Street and Lafayette Boulevard in downtown Bridgeport.

She'll remind you a little of Sam Kinison, both in stature and in vocal projection, when she bawls "PAPER!! GET YER PAPER!!"; but she's one hard-working cookie.

Since last October, often seven days a week, she's prowled that intersection hawking the Connecticut Post.

All winter, in brutal cold, sleet, snow, knuckles raw, she worked that corner.

On a good week, she makes around $300.

She's saving her money so she can get a rent she's got her eye on on East Main Street. Living in the car is not all that great.

Susan's glad to have the work.

"I was scuffling, you know? Looking for work. I did some temp jobs, but they sort of looked down at me? So I saw a girl doing the papers and I asked her about it and she said, 'Well, it pays my rent.'"

She's 56. She knows trouble. Troubles of the past, troubles of the present, like Ray LaMontagne might say, they can dog your soul.

But Susan Tyler is a person determined to look to the future.

This week, in fact, she's scheduled to start going to school, with the help of the ConnecticutWorks program of the state Department of Labor, to learn about computers.

"I want to get that education," she said the other day, the lime stripes of her reflective vest glowing in the first warm morning of the spring.

She was still bundled, though, layer upon layer of fleece, which soon she'll be able to shed.

She recalled that glorious day in October when she got a job.

"I went and bought myself breakfast, she said.

She looked up, flashed a grin, and said, "I felt like a princess."

Michael J. Daly is managing editor of the Connecticut Post. You can reach him at 203-330-6394 or by e-mail at mdaly@ctpost.com.