by John Sayles
Tolliver hasn’t managed to screw anything up too badly when Will gets back to the main road and shuts himself into the car. Bearer of bad tidings is his least favorite aspect of the job.
“Francine Gatlin please– you’d better call her out of her classroom. Yes it is, but try not to alarm her.”
The Colonel told him that in combat a wing commander had to write to the family of every flyer who got killed, and how in a hot war like Vietnam there were some who suffered nervous breakdowns.
“Francine? Will Crowder here. I’m over at the well Tuck’s been working on? I’m so sorry, but I got some awful bad news for you.”
Jewelle is walking back from the Albertsons with a sack of groceries when she sees him sitting outside her apartment on the hood of his car. She has her street gear on, exercise pants and a hooded sweatshirt, no makeup, what she thinks of as the pole-dancer protection program. He looks at her with moony eyes.
“Oh no,” she says, stopping short. “You can’t do this. You’ll get me fired.”
It isn’t true, of course, she’d have to strangle a customer or three before Vic would even consider letting her go, but it’s a line the sane ones usually respond to. He looks shaken up, like there’s been a death in the family or he’s about to propose marriage to her.
“We had a blowout at the rig,” he says. “Guys have been killed.”
The groceries weigh a ton but she keeps them out in front of her. This one, Tuck, has been a steady payer and pretty much of a gentleman, but when they snap you got to walk careful.
“You were there?”
“I should have been. I got caught in traffic and was late. They were all burned.”
“That’s awful, honey,” she says, sidestepping very casually toward the door, keys already in her hand like always, “but it sounds to me like you just dodged a bullet. Somebody up there is looking out for you.”
Most of the drillers’ stories are either bad boss or near-death-and-dismemberment tales, drawled through a curtain of Jack Daniels as the club is ready to close. They’ve never made her want to trade jobs with a roughneck.
“It makes you think, something like this,” says Tuck. “About your life. About the decisions you make.”
Oh Lord, he is gonna propose, she thinks, and backs up the three steps and tries to get the key started in the slot behind her back. “What you want to do,” she says, as kindly older-sister as she can muster, “is go home and take a long shower and then just lie down. You’re in shock, honey, and you need to just chill till your head clears.”
Nobody at the club would ever give out her address, so he must have followed her here at some point, spent who knows how many nights parked outside, running the heater in his pickup and fantasies through his head. No matter how you play it, the job sticks to you.
“I just drove on past the fire and ended up here,” he says.
Comes a time when you’ve got to cut bait and paddle on, no matter how much income you leave behind. “Well that’s just a wrong turn, darlin,” says Jewelle, feeling the lock click open behind her. “You ain’t thinking straight.”
Tuck is halfway home when he hears the sirens again and he realizes where they’ll take them, dead or alive, and that he should be there. That whatever this is, the part he’s been playing in it isn’t over yet. They aren’t friends, really, despite the long tours on the rig and some serious bar time together, they’re more like-what– brothers in arms? He turns for the hospital, brake linings complaining like they do whenever he hangs a left. Kirk at the dealership was bragging how he couldn’t get pickups in fast enough, wrecks or not. Better to sell it now, he thinks, than put any money into maintenance.
Francine is in the lobby out front arguing with the implacable emergency room gorgon when Cindy Liu comes down and says to buzz her in. Cindy has something blue and official on, not like the nurses at the clinic, whose uniforms make you think they tend to pre-school children.
“There’s three in intensive care, none of them is Tuck,” Cindy tells her in the elevator. “But we have a body.”
“Oh God.”
“I don’t think it’s him either, but there’s no telling.”
“He was wearing–”
“No clothes left. We’ll need dental records.”
“Oh God.”
“Tuck goes to–?”
“Goldschmidt.”
“We’ll send over to his office.” Cindy walks her into the cafeteria, sits her down and brings her some hot tea. “What I heard, they’re still out at the site, searching the area.”
“I don’t even know how many men were at that well.”
“You just sit here, and when I get any more information I’ll tell you right away. I’ll call Goldschmidt for the X-rays.”
Francine sits and watches herself from a place a little above and behind, watches herself watching the other family members and staff scattered around the cafeteria. She was here earlier in the year, one of her former students dying of leukemia, and she had been struck by how nothing else– race, gender, class, age– separated people more than the Land of the Well and the Land of the Sick. As sad as she felt seeing Quentin that day, the whole while she kept thinking, ‘This is not my tragedy.’
And now it is.
“Tucker Gatlin. I work with these guys.”
“You’re welcome to wait here, Mr. Gatlin,” drones the woman in the booth, looking at something on her PalmPilot or whatever they’re called now, Francine has one, “but the doctors are obviously engaged at the moment. When any information becomes public, you will have access to it.”
“They’re my friends.”
“I understand. Would you take a seat, please?”
When he turns there is a young guy in a suit who he doesn’t recognize blocking his way.
“Tucker Gatlin?”
“That’s right.”
“You were at 327.”
“I was late. Traffic.”
“So you didn’t witness the incident.”
The man is steering him away from the admission desk by the arm.
“I saw the– you know, I was close, so I heard the explosion, saw the fire, but they blocked off the access road before I got there.”
The young guy nods like this is the last piece of a puzzle. “Okay, Gatlin,” he says, “you’re going to be debriefed about the condition of the well, asked your opinion of things. People from OSHA will be here within the hour. I need you to seriously consider one thing– do you desire to have a future in oil and gas recovery?”
He is thinking no, no I don’t, when the elevator behind the glass door opens and Francine comes out into the lobby. He pulls away from the young guy in the suit. When Francine sees him she begins to weep, her body shaking, and he crosses to hold onto her. This may be it, he thinks. This may be the day his real life begins.
BULLETINS FROM THE BLACK STUFF
Though the going gets tough, the stuff keeps flowing.
This month saw a record of 36,100,722 barrels of oil produced from the Bakken and Three Rivers formations, though an atmosphere of caution has taken hold as several of the new rigs, over a hundred started just in April, have ceased drilling or been stacked till the numbers improve. What’s going on out there?
We’re back on the rollercoaster with crude, the benchmarks dropping from June’s $105 per barrel to a shaky $59, lowest in years.
Meanwhile, US average gas prices have declined $1.44 per gallon (39%) since reaching a respectable $3.70 in August. The current $2.51 at the pump is the lowest since way back in ’09.
The hardest thing to explain is the glaringly evident which everybody has decided not to see. – Ayn Rand
THE SHERIFF IS PUTTING the notice up on the door when Vic arrives.
“What’s this?”
“You’re shut down.”
“I cleared up that liquor thing.”
“This is zoning. They don’t want you here anymore.”
Vic points over toward Teasers–
“Already posted.”
Vic reads the notice, short and sweet. It was a terrific run, the most he’s ever cleared, even if he never fell in love with the town. Or it with him.
“If I find a place outside city limits?”
Crowder considers for a moment, shakes his head. “With the present county supervisors, forget it. One’s Church of God, two are up for election this cycle.”
“And you’re not going to bat for me, are you?”
The sheriff smiles. “Honestly, it might be better to have a bullshit-magnet or two downtown instead of the trouble being spread all around, but this isn’t Las Vegas.”
“So we’re done Saturday night.”
“You’re done now. Closed is closed.”
Vic goes inside and harvests his couple of cash stashes. A few of the items might be salable on eBay, the lighting is all rental, and he’ll pack his lucky disco ball for the road. In the Old West the first saloons at any bonanza site were in tents, only growing wooden walls if the ore held out. He’s got the books spread out on the bar counter when Scorch pokes his head in from the side, letting himself in.
“That on the door for real?”
“Afraid so.”
Scorch nods, steps in to stare at Vic’s pile of greenbacks.
“Gittin out while the gittin’s good.”
“Yeah. What I owe you?”
“Four hundred.”
Vic separates the bills from the stack, hands them to Scorch. “Know where you’re heading?”
“Away,” says the bouncer, and leaves. Vic hears his motorcycle, a new acquisition, roar to life and trail off past the train station.
He’s never actually been run out of town before. When the Katrina cleanup slowed down in New Orleans it was time to move on, and sometimes it’s been competition, too many clubs, too many girls offering it to the same pool of pussy hounds. In Michigan there was an offer of partnership from some wise guys he didn’t want anything to do with, but they were happy to take the club off his hands for a reasonable bump, and tossed one of their clueless nephews the keys to the kingdom. The laws changed on him in a couple other spots, less contact, more enforcement, and he chose to move on. It is a gypsy trade. Shirleen, when they were still married and partners, would put on Connie Francis belting “Where the Boys Are” once a night and peel while she lip-synched to it. ‘Our theme song,’ she called it.
There is a rattle at the rear door, which he’s neglected to unlock. He’ll have to start calling the girls, the bar staff, everybody.
It’s Jewelle, not due back on stage till Friday, in her schlubby street outfit.
“Hey, stranger. How’s Lake Tahoe?”
“The usual suspects. What’s with the traffic? There’s like space between the sixteen-wheelers.”
“Bunch of the rigs are shutting down half-drilled.”
“They make a mistake about what’s down there?”
Vic shrugs. “Orders from headquarters. Had a bunch of guys coming in before their two weeks off, been told to go home and not to come back.”
Jewelle looks worried. “But you’ve still got customers?”
“Nope. Shut us down as of an hour ago. Yellow Earth just developed moral compunctions.”
“Shut down?”
“Next door too.”
She looks around the club, always sobering under the ugly lights. “Where does that leave me?”
Vic slips the rest of the cash into the zipper compartment under his jacket, closes the ledger. Plenty of time for that now.
“Up Shit Mountain,” he says, “without a backpack.”
THE MOTHER ACTS LIKE they’re all in a conspiracy together. Blonde and scrawny, with a tattoo that says ELVIS in script on the back of her right hand.
“He texts me,” she says. “Even when he’d be down in Mexico, I’d hear from him once, maybe twice a week.”
“I can understand why you’re concerned.” Harleigh has moved his chair out from behind his desk, the mother sitting across from him with their knees almost touching, the daughter and Marjorie Looks for Water, who is hosting them on the reservation, standing behind. “You been in contact with our chief of–”
“We just came from there. He showed me all the reports– who’s been killed or arrested in the state.”
“We have excellent relations with the surrounding counties.”
“But none of that tells me where Wayne Lee is.”
I’m not hiding him under my desk, lady. If your kid doesn’t want to communicate with you, it’s none of my–
“I met your son a couple times,” says Harleigh. “A very– personable young man.”
“Your partner.”
“Brent? Former partner.”
“They said at the garage he’s away. They didn’t know how long.”
“I don’t really keep track of Mr.–”
“They said there was a fight.”
“Blows were struck?”
He’s heard this from Danny Two Strike, heard it from a couple of the drivers, but it didn’t sound so different from any of the other times Brent lit into an employee.
“They had a yelling argument. Screaming argument.”
“The oil business, Ma’am, has a bit of the Wild West to it. Lots of men without women, competing with each other for economic survival. Tempers flare up.”
“I want to search his house.”
And take a look at his books for me while you’re at it.
“You’ll have to get a court order for that, be accompanied by law enforcement.”
“You can’t just okay it?”
“Mr. Stiles’s house is not on reservation property. Even if it was–”
“But the garage is.”
“Absolutely.” Though the partnership is dissolved, Brent still has a lease on Harleigh’s garage, good through the end of the year.
“That was the last place he was seen alive.”
He thinks of Alice Looks for Water, Marjorie’s mom, whose boy Jimmy went to Vietnam and didn’t come back, flying that black MIA-POW flag for the next thirty years and still convinced he’s Out There, alive somewhere.
“What you might try,” and here he locks eyes with Marjorie for a moment, who is a responsible person even if she spends too much time making friends on the internet and wants to play girl detective, “is to speak with Brent’s wife. Her name is Bunny, and she knew– knows– your son too, and might be able to clear a few things up.”
The mother, not expecting this, just stares at him.
“My secretary can give you the phone number. And take some of these.”
He hands her a half-dozen of the printouts.
“That’s a letter of introduction from me, requesting that folks cooperate with you, answer questions, whatever, and the other is a rough map of the reservation with both the man camps– those are residences for visiting workers– and the well sites marked on it. I have to warn you,” he says, indicating the world outside his window, “that we’re talking about four thousand square miles.”
The mother nods, mollified if not satisfied, and stands up. From what little time he spent with Wayne Lee he could tell he was the daredevil type, always up for an adventure. Odds are he’s shacked up in a motel room over in Montana, telling lies to some pretty lady he met.
“What do you think happened?” asks the mother. There is something so past-tense about it, like she knows the answer and is just testing him, that it gives Harleigh a bit of a chill.
“What I think, what I hope,” says Harleigh, “is that your boy has just got distracted by something, forgot about calling his momma.”
The mother leaves without thank you or goodbye, Marjorie giving him a little wave as she steps out last. He pops his cell phone out, speed-dials Rick McAllen as Doris appears in the doorway.
“Hey buddy, what’s shakin? Listen, I been fielding some complaints, and this is embarrassing, but it’s about something on my land.”
“Is that right,” says Rick flatly on the othe
r end. In fact most of the complaints he’s been fielding have to do with Rick handing people his emergency phone number. Like he’s not being paid a bundle to catch a little flak.
“Yeah, kind of slipped past me. Somebody’s been dumping those oil socks– you know, the filters–”
“The ones that pick up all the radium.”
“Right, right, it can build up in there. Well there’s a bunch of them been dumped out behind my grazing property, and I just got word we might be having another camera outfit–”
“I just had the Bismarck people put me on the grill for a half hour. KNDX.”
“Well this is a national outfit, Attack of the Frack Monster kind of stuff.”
“So I guess you’d like me to send a crew to pick them up.” Ricky is a sulker. And always the voice of doom– this thing spilled, that thing’s in violation, another doesn’t have its permits yet, they’re burning methane off in the air, like anybody but the eco-freaks and the soreheads think you can make an omelet without busting a few eggs.
“Yes, Ricky, since you’re Mr. EPA around here, I would like that, and today would be a good time. Yesterday would have been better, but I just got the word on this.”
“I’ll send some fellas over.” Grudgingly though, like it’s a big favor and not his job. And fucking Brent, who contracted to haul the fucking things to the hazardous waste site, had better fucking stay missing.
“Good, good, you do that– countin on you, buddy.”
Doris, hearing all this, is wearing her bearer-of-bad-tidings look. Harleigh terminates the call.
“Tell me.”
“A gentleman from the FBI?” she says. “For you?”
THE VOLUNTEERS HAVE COME through. Everywhere they drive there are flyers tacked up, in the man camp lobbies, on the corkboards in the drill site trailers, in every bar in Yellow Earth and its environs, at the Pool-N-Pong and the lobby of the new recreation center, at the diners and fast food places.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?