LA’s Hottest Job : Occupations: Firefighters do more than put out fires. A routine day for two crews is also filled with false alarms and little emergencies.

Up in the Antelope Valley, the day dawns hot but humid, the kind of summer day firefighters like. Before 8 a.m., Scott Graham is at the wheel of his white Jeep--the one with the PARADOK license plates--headed for Station 111 in Saugus.

At the firehouse, there will be housekeeping chores. This day is hose day. Great loops of fire hose drying on the tower must be rolled and stored. The kitchen floor and cabinets must be scrubbed.

In a few hours, the other firefighters will want lunch. And Graham is the cook today.

On another hot, sticky day, at Station 66 in South-Central Los Angeles, Rick Paiz and the other firefighters report for morning lineup. Seated at long kitchen tables, they hear Capt. Steven Ventura’s announcements--about new coveralls, about an upcoming swap meet and a retirement dinner.

A voice crackles over the PA system. Fire. Within minutes, firefighters have pulled on their “turnouts”--75 pounds of fire-resistant gear--and are speeding to the scene, a vacant house on South Harvard Boulevard. Riding high on the rear of truck 66 is Paiz, the tiller man.

In Southern California, late summer and fall are fire season, when parched brush land and careless campers or crazed arsonists can combine disastrously. For firefighters--the 2,700 men and women who wear the badge of the city and the 2,200 who are uniformed members of the county Fire Department--brush fires are just another hazard of the job.

Routinely, they deal with danger and tragedy. Drownings and shootings. Heart attacks and overdoses. Structural fires and traffic accidents.

They are a fraternity, men and women who share a unique life style, a commitment that is extraordinary and traditions that die hard. To a large extent, they do it for love, not money. Entry-level pay is above $30,000 a year; journeyman firefighters earn more than $40,000, captains $60,000-plus. And firefighters can double their pay working overtime.

Rick Paiz, 33, is a firefighter assigned to Station 66 on Slauson Avenue in the heart of Los Angeles. Scott Graham, 32, is a county firefighter-paramedic, based at Station 111 in rural Saugus. Here’s a day in the life of each.

Early on a Saturday at Station 111, Capt. Harry Thy, who has 21 years with the department, looks out the window to the dry hills of the Antelope Valley and muses about the chances of another blaze like the Bouquet Canyon fire that blackened 1,000 acres a week before. “That guy likes to start fires on Saturdays,” he says.

So far this year, the 111 crew--a regular complement per shift of six firefighters, an engine, a paramedic squad car and a patrol car, plus an engine and three men temporarily assigned while a new fire station is being built--has responded to 1,700 calls, only 20% of them fires.

Most are traffic accidents and medical emergencies. Some are tragic, some bizarre. There are limits. “We don’t generally do cats in trees,” Thy says, asking, “Have you ever seen a cat skeleton in a tree?”

He is saying, “It’s been a tough week” for the men of 111. Two traffic fatalities. And two dead children--a toddler who ingested diaper rash medication and a little girl whose skull was crushed by a falling fireplace mantle.

“Those are the hardest ones, especially for those of us who have small children,” says Dave Enriquez, who at 25 is the “baby” of this crew.

It is 10 o’clock and already Graham fields questions about lunch. He has decided on pasta salad. This younger generation of firefighters is more health-conscious. Besides, he says, a heavy meal is not always compatible with 911 calls.

En route to the supermarket, a motorist flags him down to report a “really bad accident.” He radios the station, then speeds to the scene, where a maroon Dodge Omni has jumped the divider and collided with a white Nissan Sentra.

“Hi, anybody hurt?” he asks the Omni’s driver, a stout woman in shorts. “Well, I’ve got a terrible headache,” she says.

In the Sentra’s front seat, the other driver, a Latino man, appears dazed. He insists he’s unhurt. Graham shrugs. “They always say they have no problem because they’re not quite legal.” He is worried about the way the man looks; still, he can’t force him to go to a hospital.

The paramedics take over. Graham heads for the grocery, where there’s a special on mahi-mahi filets. That will be dinner, along with fresh broccoli and rice. Sometimes shopping is cut short by an alarm; he’ll just ask a clerk to “stick it all in the freezer” until he gets back.

Graham has seven years with the department, 3 1/2 of them at Station 111, which handles 100 square miles. Previously, he was a civilian ambulance paramedic. Eventually, he hopes to “promote,” which means moving to another station, gaining new experience. But for now, he’s “having too much fun” at 111.

Up here, they talk about Los Angeles as “down below,” where violence and drugs are rampant, where the only doctor many people know is the Fire Department. In the Antelope Valley, people still look out for neighbors and know what their kids do.

But up here, long, open stretches of road and drinking drivers are a lethal combination. Firefighters figure the odds of encountering a drinking driver on the highway: 1-in-4 at midnight; 1-in-3 at 1 a.m.; 1-in-2 at 2 a.m.

This day, Graham stops by the ICU at Henry Mayo Memorial Newhall Hospital to see a man he brought to the emergency room early the day before: Drunk driver, 22. Hit a telephone pole. No seat belt. Thrown from vehicle.

If he lives, the man will be a vegetable. Cases like this would make anyone ask who chooses to be a firefighter. It’s a question Thy asks himself: “What kind of person likes to go into a burning building, or dip his arms into blood and body parts up to his elbows?” But he knows the answer: “Maybe we never grew up. It provides excitement in our lives.”

Firefighters have seen it all, yet it still gets to them. Graham will never forget “the guy who drove his car up one of these canyons, poured gasoline on it, set the car on fire and got in.” The man, horribly burned, kept screaming, “Why did you stop me?” He died the next day.

And there was “the hardest run I ever had,” Graham’s first time having to tell a family that their son had just been killed in his overturned pickup.

Graham, tall and slender with tinted glasses, styled gray hair and mustache, is a PR man’s dream firefighter. He has been married for six years to Cindy, his former dental hygienist. They have three sons. Off-duty, he is a Pop Warner Football coach. His idea of a vacation is fishing with other firefighter families.

He is a department cheerleader: “I love the job, much as I complain about dragging hoses up hills.” He still shudders when remembering a high school job in a windowless room in a North Hollywood factory: “I went absolutely bonkers. I promised myself I would never, ever, ever work indoors again.”

But Graham, sooner or later, will “go below” to Los Angeles to learn more about structural fires, to promote to engineer and “eventually, down the road, become a captain.”

This life can be hours of monotony punctuated by moments of stress. A firefighter’s basic day at the office is 24 hours, with catnaps in the dorm between alarms.

Firefighters sleep “like there’s a baby in the house,” says John Harm, who figures he has “homesteaded” at 111. He came to the station in 1973 and plans to stay until he retires in seven years with 30 years.

Because firefighters may work 72 hours straight--trading time with a buddy or volunteering for overtime (at time and a half)--the station is a second home, the crew a second family. In their 11-day labor cycles, they average 96 hours work; typically it’s 24 hours on, 24 off, 48 hours on, 48 off, 24 hours on, 96 hours off.

For the men of 111 (there are no women there now), the heart of this second home is a multipurpose room with six slightly tattered brown tweed lounger chairs, a giant-screen TV the men bought themselves, a long dining table and a homey kitchen with microwave and dishwasher.

Cooking is shared and rotated. Washing dishes is another matter. After meals, playing cards come out.

“We’re not looking for a winner,” engineer Robert Sklar explains. “We’re looking for a loser”--the guy who washes the dishes.

The dealer calls the game, which may be named for a fire captain shot by his wife or for a firefighter who lost his thumb when a fire hose got wrapped around it. For firefighters, black humor is a coping mechanism.

In the games, bidding is brisk for the extra hand--25 cents, 50 cents. Thy counts the money in the can--$120. It buys little luxuries for the station. The basics--condiments, cable TV, newspaper subscriptions--are paid for with house dues, $1.50 a day, $1.75 on overtime. Breakfast and dinner are $3 each.

This is an atypically quiet afternoon, time for reading and playing cards. About 5 o’clock, Graham lights the barbecue.

But before dinner, there’s one false alarm vehicle accident; one call to aid a 42-year-old severe asthmatic in Saugus.

The other crew, Engine 73, returns from a rescue call. A boy, 4, with a cigarette lighter had set his baby sister’s playpen on fire.

The scream of sirens causes suburbanites to rush to their front doors to gawk. Kids, flushed with excitement, ask, “Is there a fire?!” They are disappointed to learn that someone has fainted, that there has been a fender-bender.

But this is the stuff of firefighters’ days.

Back at the station, 9 p.m. The dinner dishes are done. Harm dashes to the 7-Eleven to get a list of winning Lotto numbers. He recalls the prank, now legend, pulled on one firefighter, a setup in which his friends recorded “winning” numbers on an answering machine at his station, then bought him a ticket with the numbers. Convinced he was an instant millionaire, he told his captain what he could do with the job.

The man is still a firefighter.

It is quiet, very quiet. The men joke about staying up until 11 to please the “run gods,” who may then grant them an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

About 1:30, two hours after everyone turns in, the dong-ding for 111 sounds--a fire on the logjammer ride at Six Flags Magic Mountain. But the call is canceled before the rig leaves the station.

The next call comes in close to 4 a.m. In a small apartment strewn with toys and dirty dishes, a very pregnant woman is in distress, chest pain. She thought it was heartburn--she had spaghetti for dinner--but Maalox only made it worse. An ambulance takes her to emergency; the firefighters return to the station. Later, the woman will be sent home.

At 4:15 a.m., over the PA comes a rescue call. A woman, 22, complaining of abdominal pain. “When did this come on?” Graham asks her. The day before, she tells him. The flu, probably. He manages to remain sympathetic.

Around 6:30 a.m., a new day begins. The coffee pot is on. A new shift reports. But Graham stays 24 hours more.

At lineup, the new captain tells firefighters that AZT may be made available to firefighter-paramedics at high risk through accidental exposure to AIDS. The disease “is a concern,” as is hepatitis, Graham says later. He wears latex gloves and other protective gear but doesn’t dwell on danger. “You’re either going to get it or you won’t. You do what you can.”

As the bacon and pancakes are about to be served, there is a rescue call: a woman, 34, who thinks she may have had a stroke--”My whole left side is fuzzy.” Graham takes her left hand and tells her, “Squeeze real tight, kiddo . . . nothing to be scared about, everything’s working fine.” Still, he has detected a slight weakness in one leg. The squad follows an ambulance to the hospital.

Before brunch, there will be two more rescues, an assist on a 4-year-old burn victim who will be airlifted from Castaic Lake by Fire Department helicopter. Then it’s the televised Dodgers-Pirates game and funny car races until 3 p.m. when the squad responds to a Magic Mountain call on a woman in line who has passed out because of the oppressive heat.

At day’s end, Graham shakes his head. “In two years,” he says, “I haven’t worked a day on the engine when we haven’t had a brush fire.” He attributes it to his visitors, ride-alongs observing his shift. Always happens with ride-alongs, he says.

“Down below,” at Station 66, they’re talking about a recent shoot-out--two men driving side-by-side down the street, firing at each other.

They’re talking, too, about the man who drove a car through the door of their garage on July 3, coming to a stop about an inch from a fire engine.

Capt. Steve Ventura, on duty that day, recalls: “I heard the gunshots and I heard someone scream, ‘My buddy’s been shot.’ ” As he watched, the passenger in a passing car spotted a fire station, and, grabbing the wheel from the wounded driver, steered for the station. Unfortunately, he had no brake control.

The five square miles covered by Station 66 is rife with violence, poverty and urban blight. Firefighter Tom Scyphers, who’s spent seven years at this station, says, “We’ve seen the ugliest rapes, the ugliest shootings, people with their heads blown off. You squeeze in a fire now and then, too.”

Rick Paiz is one of 12 firefighters working this 24-hour shift. A firefighter for 11 years, he has spent 10 years at Station 66, by choice. He likes a busy house. “You hate to talk about someone’s misfortune as something good for yourself,” he says, but when there are fires “you feel like you’re earning your pay.”

This morning, he won’t have to wait long to earn it. Soon after 10, he is on the roof of a house where a fire appears to have started in the attic. He helps chop a hole for ventilation, stripping dry shingles that are like kindling, searching for hot spots beneath.

The house, vacant for eight years, was purchased recently and was in escrow. The new owner, summoned to the scene, looks on in shock. Her beautiful hardwood floors are flooded--”The only thing I didn’t have to fix.”

The flames doused, the firefighters, dripping with perspiration, relax for a moment. “I’ll buy you a drink,” one tells another. Both take a paper cup of water.

It was a typical house fire, says Ventura, “Ten minutes of firefighting, an hour of cleanup.”

By 11:30, they are back at the station. At noon, Rick Ramirez, today’s firefighter-cook, is on the PA. “Come and get it!” There are cheeseburgers, canned peaches in the can, cottage cheese in the carton, tortilla chips in the bag. No time here for formalities.

Over lunch, Capt. Lee Weber talks about drug labs in the area served by Station 66. “I’ve found five-gallon cans of used ether in an alley in back of somebody’s house,” an ingredient for making PCP, Weber says, adding, “They also use cyanide. That’s what they use in the gas chamber.”

Lethal gases are only one concern. Weber recalls a recent house fire when firefighters found a man inside, still asleep. “The guy was scared and pulled a gun from beneath his pillow.”

Weber is a former construction worker, who at 41 has 13 years in the department. “About a month ago, I went on a skateboard-by shooting,” Weber says. “ We’ve had bicycle-by shootings.”

But possibly the biggest hazard firefighters face is driving to the scene. “Especially now,” Weber says. “People are driving with their air conditioning on and the stereo up. They don’t hear us.”

Weber, who is married to a teacher, says, “It takes a very special person to be married to a firefighter. . . . Dad’s gone. Mom may say, ‘You wait till Dad comes home.’ Well, Dad may not come home till the next morning and Dad may be real cranky because he had to get up in the middle of the night.”

He adds, “There are a lot of single firemen.”

Paiz was recently married, to Laura, who “works normal hours,” he says. “It was tough at first. She was scared at night. Hopefully, she’ll get used to it.”

He is happy at Station 66 but knows, “Now that I’m getting older, it’s time to move on.” He hopes to make captain. Above that, he says, “It gets political. I don’t see myself doing that. But then, when I started this job, I didn’t see myself being anything but a firefighter. I was having too much fun.”

Paiz figures he’s in it for the duration, 30 years. It’s a dangerous job; he loves it.

When he describes big fires he has fought, the first that comes to mind is a Ralphs market in the San Fernando Valley, where the roof caved in. He recalls it as “a big red wave turned upside down on top of your head.”

Sometimes, inside a fire, Paiz says, “You start to get claustrophobic. You talk to yourself, saying ‘Calm down, don’t breathe too heavy.’ ”

Being a firefighter is not always the TV drama-type dream. “I’ve never run into a burning building and pulled somebody out,” Paiz says. “I have gone into a burning house where there were still people inside. Usually, they were already dead.”

Paiz’s home away from home, Station 66, is new, a replacement for the 61-year-old Florence Avenue facility that was condemned because it was not earthquake-proof. Central air conditioning is one new perk; bedrooms in place of a single dorm are another. But the jury is still out on that one; some firefighters miss the togetherness.

Since the early-morning fire, things have been monotonously quiet at Station 66. At 6:30, Rick Ramirez, today’s cook, announces over the PA, “OK, the moment you’ve all been dreading. Dinner!” It is Mexican stew, with frijoles, rice and tortillas.

Just as everyone digs in, the engine company gets a call. Mop-up help is needed at a Griffith Park brush fire; soon after, in South-Central, the truck--Paiz’s detail--handles an accident, a Suzuki motorcycle and car collision.

Back at the station, there is dinner to be finished, and a surfing competition on TV. Then, while it is still daylight, Ventura takes the truck company to a site at 64th Street and West Boulevard, a condemned property where there have been several recent arson fires. Then, the crew responds to a house in Inglewood where hot wires have been blown down.

Last Friday, firefighters helped put out a blaze at the 2nd A. M. E. Church Church on Hoover and 55th streets. This day, they return to inspect the church where there are fire-fighting lessons to be learned. In the vestibule, a huge chandelier lies on the tile floor. It fell on a firefighter during the blaze; luckily, it struck his compressed air tank.

Today and tonight, there will be no more fires. Since the mid-’70s, fires have been fewer. Some attribute that to smoke detectors, to education, to an influx of ethnic groups who do not call firefighters because they think they will have to pay and are embarrassed to seek help.

The engine crew, which includes one woman, Mary Kay Intyre, a policewoman turned firefighter, returns before midnight from Griffith Park.

Paiz and the others, all but the paramedics, get an uninterrupted night’s sleep, a rarity at Station 66.

It never fails, Ventura says, when there are ride-alongs.