Killing Time
Page 9
have the receipt showing that the rent is paid for two months. We can take our sweet time in stripping whatever is worth selling.
"We were so lucky that he needed someone to talk to while you changed his tire. Everything he told you was spot on. Just as he said, no one in this dumpy ass town knew him well or was close to him, so he won't be missed for quite a while. He was the easiest scam we've ever had. The moment he saw my naked ass he rolled over and was eating out of my hand. Nah! He played games staring at me, but never really touched me. He bought the entire story hook, line and sinker. What a gullible preppie asshole."
I detected a tear flowing across my nose, but couldn't reach it. The last thing on Earth I saw looking across the bloody floor was Tina Shaw's beautiful ass in the opening of the doorway as she left me dying on the floor.
The End
Me? Handsome!
The wind was roaring at an increased sustained level. It created ghostly screeches as it blew through the legs of the normally unmanned installation (NUI), best known as a 'toadstool' platform, located three miles directly south of Lafayette, Louisiana in the vast waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Gaston Chaisson was paying no mind to the wind as he was absorbed in doing his frequent routine maintenance inside the covered tin hut. He was diligently servicing the umbilical cable that was attached to a satellite platform that operated in conjunction with Gulflexa, a deep-well permanent platform owned and operated by Gulf Flexible Annex. Gaston was a member of the maintenance crew on the Gulflexa mother platform. He uses a medium-sized ten man crew boat to travel between the mother platform, its satellite and the toadstool that he was servicing. His crew boat was tethered to one of the steel legs of the toadstool, secured with a cable that was locked to an O ring on the leg. He opened the door of the small tin hut cable cover to discover the wind had increased considerably from the time he climbed up the ladder to the tin shack. He listened closely to the screeching as it whistled loudly under him. He frowned, knowing his decent to the heavily rocking boat was going to be a nail biter. Following company rules, before he moved, he latched the safety hooks of his leather tool belt to the pipes at each side of the ladder, took a deep breath and began the climb down.
He stopped on the last rung, actually a small steel landing where he could stand and board the boat. He stood, still attached to the pipes, fighting the wind and now the icy cold whitecaps blowing over his legs on the small platform as he stared at the taut, straining tether. The boat was being pulled backwards and was brutally rocking over the waves the wind created. He was wondering if he had the strength to pull the boat close enough to the ladder to safely board the boat once his safety hooks were removed from the pipes. He was facing one of those life and death iffy situations one occasionally faces. He looked down and saw that his gloves were now wet, the leather slick, and when he pulled on the boat tether, his grip kept sliding away. The question now became: should he violate company policy and try it with his bare hands. He shook his head and said to himself: Gaston, you're not a loony Cajun like some of your friends. That tether cable will rip your bare hands apart and hurt you more than the company disciplinary action if it found out.
He grasped the sides of the ladder, put his hands on the upper rung and climbed back to the larger platform. It was hard to stand without support. He wrapped one arm around one of the stand pipes and surveyed the skies around him. He saw no breaks in the clouds that would give him hope. He returned to the tin hut, took his mobile short-wave radio and called the mother platform. He reported his decision and the chief of maintenance congratulated him on making a sound analysis of his situation. Gaston would spend the night inside the hut, safe from the elements, but destined to be hungry. He had left his lunch pail on the crew boat.
He had difficulty sleeping because when the rain started, the noise on the tin hut was worse than baseball-sized hail on a car in the middle of June. Even ear sound protectors wouldn't have been any help it was so loud and consistent. Nearing four that morning, the rain had subsided; Gaston peeked out the door and realized that the wind had eased also. He flipped the switch on his flashlight, left the hut and attached himself to the ladder. At the bottom, he easily pulled the boat close enough to safely step aboard. He started the engine and backed away from the legs. He put it in forward, opened his lunch pail and instantly devoured the contents, including two bananas. The coffee was no longer hot, but yet warm enough to fight off the early morning chill of the mist hanging low over the calmer Gulf waters. In forty minutes, Gaston was in his bed on the mother platform, pleased that the adversity he challenged didn't leave him in worse shape than it did.
One week later, Gaston stepped into his boat, secured his suitcase, and left to service the satellite platform. When his servicing job was complete, it was time for Gaston's rotation, hence the suitcase. Gaston worked a schedule of six weeks on, six weeks off. His crew boat would be turned over to Jules Babineaux, his rotation partner His service job took less than an hour, so he was back in the boat with the destination of Blanche Bay and through the bay to Franklin where he would turn the boat over to Babineaux. Gaston was age forty-three, never married, well below average in looks, but a hard worker that lived alone in the old, run-down family home in Jeanerette. He never saw the need to spend his earnings to live elsewhere because he was there only part of the year. He told his sisters, both who lived in Lafayette, if his job ever changed, he would tear down the old house and build a new one under the moss-hung trees. They thought his idea was a good one under the circumstances. Argument settled.
If Gaston had any vices they were limited and unknown to his associates and sisters. However, the one habit he was known to have was his love for alcohol, always bourbon. Never on the rigs, only when he was ashore. He usually spent very little time at his home in Jeanerette. He could most often be found haunting the Cafe La Boue Bug in Beaux Bridge where many of his friends lived nearby. He would sit with them and let off the built-up steam of the rigs when they were ashore. His attempts to connect with women were an abject failure. The lowliest of the lowly rejected Gaston, calling him Frankenstein without the makeup. Even the desperate, seedy whores on Bourbon Street in New Orleans accepted him with anguish and trepidation, fearing that he was a monster ready to crush them. Many were surprised by his demeanor and afterwards, most called him a true gentleman, a great lay, a man who showed them respect, was never rough or rude, and left them with generous tips. They would welcome him back if he was in town and looking for a good time and he always was at some point when he was ashore.
The Saturday before the end of his six week home stand found him in Breaux Bridge with one of his fellow company employees, but Eloi Prevost worked a different rig. They were in the Cafe La Boue Bug where a casino was attached to a large truck stop service station. Gaston had his familiar bourbon and branch in his ham-sized hand when the door opened and two women truckers looked around, one pointed, and they headed for the ladies locker room. Gaston watched them go by his table, turned his head and watched the tight fitting jeans covering their butts go around the corner. Gaston's friend slapped his hand and said, "Chaisson, get your eyes back in your head and listen to what I was saying." Gaston smiled at him and said, "I had a better subject for my attention. When you start to look like the ass on the one in the blue Moosehead tee then you'll have my undivided attention, Prevost. Continue your story."
The two women came out, went to the bar and ordered. While their sub sandwiches were being prepared, they brought their beers to a table across the aisle from Gaston and Eloi. They pulled the chairs toward the back of the table so that they could watch the slot machine feeders with an unimpeded direct view. Prevost, a married man, ignored the truckers, but Gaston still had his eye on blue tee shirt and could see her in his line of vision. He became aware of her glancing at him between sips of her beer. Their food was delivered along with a fresh beer and Gaston, never staring, was fully aware of every bite that blue tee took from the sandwich. When their plates were empty, blue tee opened a truck
er's wallet, removed a bill, went to the jukebox, inserted the bill and punched two numbers. Gaston knew the songs were a half-dollar each so he knew she fed it a dollar. The first song, a lively Cajun zydeco favorite, began playing. Blue tee turned and danced her way back to the table, took a sip of beer and danced her way to Gaston's side, leaned over to his ear and whispered, "I know you've been watching me. If you're interested, dance with me."
Gaston smiled, pushed his chair back, pulled her to his lap and whispered, "I certainly am interested, my name is Gaston. What do I call you?"
"Andy. It's really Andrea but since I drive a big rig, everyone thought Andy would be more appropriate. So, call me Andy, Gaston. Let's dance handsome."
He led her to the floor and they danced to the Cajun songs she had selected. When the music ended, he held her hand and went to the bar, ordered her another beer, one for her friend, one for Eloi and another bourbon of his own. He touched his bourbon glass to her beer bottle and softly said, "Andy, no one ever called me handsome. Thank you for being the first." She laughed, hugged him