He had an almost serene composure, as though nothing that could happen at the next instant would surprise him in the least. As though this hell-raising son of a bitch had emerged at the other end of his scuffling days miraculously unhurt, indeed, better for it, master of his own fate, to the point where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing, knows what he wants. Perfectly content to close one chapter and begin the next. Unlike Blackie or Jesse, who would go down roughneckin’. The Man From Halliburton stood there on the back of that truck with his big hands resting on his hips watching Jon attach cable to a boom line that ran up through the derrick from the drawworks on the floor, around a shiv, and then back down again. “Halliburton also has a cement subsidiary that, I believe, is the largest manufacturer and supplier in the world. That’s what they tell me anyway. After I’ve done with this I wouldn’t mind jumpin’ over to that side of the company. Hell, it’d be something different.” For The Man From Halliburton all things were possible. Tomorrow wasn’t such a mystery.
Just then Jon called down to the two men there on the truck and tossed his line over the side. On their end was six feet of chain and a hook. The boys up top wrapped the chain once or twice around the end of a pipe, inserted the hook through the chain, then let it swing overboard while Marty, at the brake handle, let ’er down. Once the pipe had sunk below floor level, the critical part of the operation rested with Jon as it was then his job to monitor the progress of the pipe and relay that information to Marty. The idling diesel motors made verbal communication impossible, so Jon used hand signals as to whether Marty should hold it, raise it, lower it, squeeze it, set ’er down, or just go easy.
Down on the truck that Halliburton man had a firm hold on the line Jon had tossed down to him and was thus able to guide the pipe toward him and Zak as it made its perilous descent down the thirty feet from the floor to the truck. Once there, they leveraged it into position using its own weight to guide it into the proper spot among the other pipes there on the truck. One after another. Things went smoothly until that last pipe was on its way down. When it was still several feet above their heads and descending rapidly, Marty misread Jon’s signal to go easy and thought he meant to let ’er down. Zak saw the line above the pipe go slack and he reacted instantly, pushing off the pipe as it came crashing down, flinging himself completely off the truck as far as he could to get clear. He was tumbling through midair not knowing if the pipe was following right behind him, going to fall on him anyway, or if at that very instant that Halliburton man was taking the full impact of it back up on that flatbed.
Zak hit the ground with a ferocious thump and rolled and rolled until he was under the catwalk with the clanging of falling pipe resounding horribly in his ears. When things had settled down and he knew he was all right, he jumped to his feet and saw The Man From Halliburton sprawled across the pipes on the truck. The pipe that had come loose was leaning against the truck with its free end jammed deep into the earth just inches from where Zak had hit the ground and rolled.
That Halliburton man got up slowly. He was dazed but okay. That pipe had hit the truck right in front of him and when Zak had pushed off he had done likewise hoping to influence its fall away from himself and his roughneck helper, accomplishing this within inches of disaster. Zak, ignorant of what had caused the accident, thought there might be casualties up on the floor and so dashed up the stairs expecting to see that the boom line had snapped, that the drawworks had stalled—carnage, bloodshed, anything. He found Jon, Marty, and Freddy standing there looking stupidly from one to another with pale expressions of embarrassment and relief on their faces. Zachary Harper looked from one to the other and his stomach churned and his knees got weak and a horrible warm clammy sweat suddenly flushed up under his clothes. He felt light-headed and thought he was going to puke. Just then The Man From Halliburton tapped him on the shoulder and, with a motion of his head, ordered Zak back down the stairs.
Oddly, his voice was calm. “Hey you sons of bitches. You damned near killed us. We’ll lay down this pipe. We’re not in any big fucking hurry.”
He shook his head with disgust and after a ridiculous silence followed Zak back down the stairs. It took them several minutes to dig the fallen pipe out of the ground. Up on the truck the pipes that had rolled when all hell broke loose needed to be rearranged. Zak helped him finish loading up and he was gone.
Nobody really had very much to say as they cleaned up the floor and hosed it down. Jesse then excused them for a bite to eat. It was the first break they had taken all day and the tower was nearly over.
Zak fetched his groceries from the back of Jon’s car. He was shaken and a bit dazed. Jon quietly took his things and retired to the bottom doghouse, leaving Zak outside to eat alone. Awash in the glaring light of the high-intensity lamps on tower, Zak sat on the hood of the Olds and quickly made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Already, the events of earlier that day seemed like they had occurred months ago. To a different person even. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t even know if he should think. Everyone had said they were sorry. There was nothing more to be done. The fact that, at this moment, he or that Halliburton man could be writhing in agony, maimed, or dead, didn’t seem important. He wasn’t. They weren’t. And that was that.
He bit hungrily into his sandwich and looked up at the tall shimmering tower. The constant screaming idle of the engines assailed his ears. That thing really is a beast, he thought. A dangerous, caterwauling, demanding, grotesque, mindless thing. And in a perverse moment of schizophrenic glee, with hard iron side by side the fragile humans who worked its cold hard machinery, he thought it all so beautiful. That he wasn’t dead or injured: beautiful. That those hideous things could just as easily have occurred and didn’t; that, even if they had, this thing would still be standing there, under these same stars, making this same hideous noise; that he or someone else would have been the only thing missing or changed: beautiful. Beautiful by nature of the simple terrifying clarity of it all. He felt as though he had inadvertently slipped through a hole in his consciousness and was able to perceive, in glimpses, a world, a universe, much much larger than himself, with him in it, or without him.
A chill wracked his spine. Doubts crept back. Two close calls in as many days. The simple law of averages told him that if this shit kept up, sooner or later something hideous and irrevocable was going to happen. Yesterday’s mishap with the tongs was the result of his own inexperience. Fine. He could work to better himself. But today’s episode was so much broader in scope that all his perceptions were changed, brought into a new, compelling focus. Whether it was his mental error or that of another made no difference. They were all in deadly peril. Blackie had told him story after story. O’Mally had armed him with a code for survival. Vic had warned him against heartless indifference. But that iron told the ugly, undeniable, beautiful truth. It flew at him from thirty feet above his head. Its ferocious jaws swung around and snapped inches from his heart. Heart? Experience? Marty and Jon held those in abundance and still their efforts were wanting. So what’s the answer? Zachary Harper felt that if he didn’t find it fast his trip to the oil patch would be short lived. “Always be aware.” Always.
I’m a dead man, thought Zachary Harper. Then he laughed—a mean little disgusted harumph.
It was a mild night. The sun, which had thrown a reddish-orange hue upon a thick layer of strato-cumulous clouds reaching halfway to the naked horizon, was now gone, leaving the stars to peep through in spots as through an old diaphanous blanket which had survived the years but not without sacrifice to the hungry moths of summer. Zachary Harper drank from the jug of laundromat tap water and continued his musings, his eyes fixed upon the tower. Again, he had the disorienting sense of a past self, receding, ever more distant, like some old bell buoy that bobs suspended, its broken, eldritch toll marking the end of land astern. From that past, words that had always lacked definition or relevance suddenly came unstuck and floa
ted in the forward hull of his consciousness. On the forbidden planet of his previous incarnation the word “Trust” had been demoted to a mere utilitarian device, a fiduciary expedient. To risk job and reputation on something as intangible as “Faith” was the trademark of a fool, a harbinger of failure. And “Confidence” was never fully assured until someone’s gonads were placed as collateral in hand, ready for squeezing.
Here, these ephemeral concepts were to be basic elements of survival. Tangible, as visible as the tools and iron pieces that fit together in this puzzling cold construction. And God, it felt good. But trusting in the faith that Jon and Marty were pros who knew what they were doing was simply not going to get it. If he were detached, even for a moment, as he had let himself be during his brief interview with The Man From Halliburton, and blindly allowed others to shoulder their moment-to-moment responsibilities without being attuned to their every move, then he truly was at the mercy of fate. And fate doesn’t give a shit. Fate is waiting to touch you with its brutal heavy hand, or to caress you with the benevolent gifts and the rewards of life. Here he was not risking mere professional ruin, which, at one time, had eclipsed even his fear of death, but he was putting at risk his time on this earth, and above all, his chance to pose and answer questions, basic questions that we all tend to avoid, tell ourselves are pointless. Who am I, why am I here, what is to be done?
Marty emerged from the top doghouse where he and Jesse had been having a chat over a bite to eat and, after a brief stop in the bottom doghouse to shake Jon loose, the two roughnecks ambled over to where Zak was gulping down the last of his sandwiches. There was a problem with the number one pump and it was up to them to investigate. Before they could get it checked out, relief arrived and the tower was over.
JON, MARTY, FREDDY, AND ZAK changed clothes in the bottom doghouse. Jon and Freddy wanted Marty to follow them into town for a drink but Marty thought he’d wait and see what Cynthia felt like doing. They’d either see him in town or they wouldn’t. When Marty had gone and the others were ready to push on, Freddy laid a chubby palm on Zak’s shoulder. “Look, Zak, you’re more’n welcome to share our room tonight if you want.”
No hard feelings. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, at least you’ll be able to get a shower,” Jon added, passing the peace pipe. Drenched in mud, grease, and sweat at the end of those eight hours, it was unbearable to think that he wasn’t going to get a shower right away. Jon then turned a friendly growl on Freddy, “And this worthless bag of shit still owes us for working shorthanded yesterday,” and threatened to smack him on the arm again. This time Freddy hopped back and put up his dukes, laughing nervously. Jon moved in like he was going to take a poke at him but at the last second relented and just walked past him toward his Oldsmobile. Freddy flinched anyway.
Freddy Fifer tried to follow Jon and Zak back to town but the way Jon was driving Mario Andretti would have had trouble keeping up. Looking back from time to time to check Freddy’s progress, it looked for all the world to Zak as if Freddy had gotten off the tricky dirt path and was just driving aimlessly over the open fields, feeling his way. His headlights would disappear and reappear on the distant horizon, and Zak settled down and trusted that God or somebody would intervene and help steer the poor bugger back to the main road. Jon certainly wasn’t going to.
Back at the Pioneer, Jon and Zak had already ordered their drinks at the bar and claimed a booth when they heard the heavy metallic lobby door slam as Fifer entered, neglecting to stay with the big door long enough to ease it shut. “Goddamn thing,” he muttered in embarrassment. An old-timer looked up irritably from the lobby couch where he sat watching an ancient black-and-white television set. Fifer couldn’t tell whether the old man disliked being interrupted from his show, or if he disliked being interrupted by the dirty, smelling likes of one Freddy Fifer. These roughnecks did have a rather disquieting look and attitude about them. But what of it? They were paying guests, they had a right.
Freddy flashed a big muddy “Hi fellas!” type grin at his two buddies and squeezed himself, all noise and bustle, into the booth next to Jon. Zak laughed as they grabbed their drinks to keep them from spilling. Jon threw Freddy a hopeless look and waited for Freddy to get comfortable before speaking.
“Now, fat boy, get your ass up and get yourself a drink. What, do you expect Mary Ellen to drop everything and walk all the way over here just to wait on you?” And with a sideways wink at Zak, “While you’re at it, you can pay for these here. Hell, you may as well make it another round.” Freddy obliged immediately, disattaching himself from the booth with as much ruckus as he had sitting down.
“Don’t worry fellas, tonight the drinks are on me!” he announced happily as he headed for the bar. This was the part of roughneckin’ Freddy liked best.
“Look,” Jon directed Zak’s attention to the seat of Freddy’s sagging blue jeans as he shuffled away. Jon shook his head pitifully.
The Pioneer Hotel bar was a dark and cozy little space with entrances both from the street and the hotel lobby. There was a jukebox, a shuffleboard, and in behind the tables and booths, a pool table. Four men were seated at the bar, locals, all of them over the age of sixty. Two wore cowboy hats and boots. One wore work pants and a work shirt. The other had dressed for the occasion in an aqua-blue polyester jacket. A couple of other fellas from that Bomac daylights crew were at the far end of the bar, one of whom was the wild-looking derrickhand Zak had spotted the day before.
Now a fella doesn’t ask too many questions about a man’s past, but when Freddy arrived back at the booth and had got himself settled he couldn’t see anything wrong with striking up a conversation about the present.
“So, tell me Zak, how do you like roughneckin’ so far?”
“It’s too early to say. I’ll tell you one thing I do know, you guys earn your money!” All three of them laughed and Zak looked from one to the other and leaned forward in a confidential manner. “Speaking of earning money, this being broke isn’t any goddamned joke either. How often do we get paid?”
“Every other Friday,” Freddy piped up before Jon could answer. “We got paid last Friday night so we won’t get paid again till the Friday after next.”
Zak’s face fell. It was only Sunday night! How was he going to get by for two weeks without a dime? He had food to last awhile but gas for the Jeep was looming in the near future as a major problem.
Freddy dug into his pockets. Zak and Jon watched as a mound of Freddy’s worldly possessions began to form there on the table. Fifties, tens, hundreds, ones, fives piled up, popping out of every pocket, along with a Swiss Army knife, strips of paper, receipts, backs of match packs, coins danced and fell to the floor or twirled madly, lint. A handkerchief, no, it was a pair of underwear. A quick scolding from Jon and the underwear disappeared. With this pile in front of him, he then proceeded to pluck out the debris. Phone numbers got stuffed into a shirt pocket. Change was scooped off the table into a chubby palm. Then he began to separate the bills. Jon watched this procedure incredulously as Freddy put the hundreds and fifties in one stack, flattened them out, and then did the same with the tens, fives, and ones. About nine hundred dollars. He counted through the hundreds and fifties and placed them in his left pocket, the rest he jammed into his right. When he was done a fifty remained. He pushed it over to Zak.
“Now goddamnit Zak, a man’s got to have at least a hundred bucks on him these days or he can’t survive,” Freddy tapped a fat finger on the bill. “Isn’t that right, Jonny boy?”
Jon’s eyebrows shot up as he looked from the bill to Freddy Fifer. “You’re not only fat, slow, and ugly, you’re a dumb son of a bitch who can’t count. Give the man another fifty bucks!” But Jon was already reaching for his wallet where, in neat, crisp, brand-new bills he found a fifty and laid it atop the one Freddy had left for Zachary Harper. Freddy was doubtless carrying everything he owned, Jon probably had an account somewhere.
> “Look, are you guys sure you can spare it?” Zak stammered self-consciously. “It’s a long time till payday and…”
“Shit, catch us in a couple of weeks,” Freddy waved him off. He was feeling expansive and ready to dispense a little philosophy while this mood of brotherhood and benevolence lingered. “Y’know, I figure that with a car and a thousand bucks a guy can pretty well start his life all over again, anywhere, anytime, anyhow. Some gas, some whiskey, keep the outfit in shape, get to the next rig or the next job, whatever it might be. Everything a guy needs to get out of one jam and into another!” He and Zak laughed, Jon shook his head.
“Christ, Zak,” Jon had heard enough. “Isn’t it great to know somebody’s got it figured out?”
“No, seriously,” Freddy pleaded. “Simplicity, is what I mean. As long as a fella can keep his life simple, you know, without tying up whatever resources he has in a lot of unnecessary shit, he can stay mobile, I think mobility is key.”
“Here’s to simplicity and mobility!” Zak offered a toast.
Jon was then reminded of another reason for giving Freddy shit. “Say, fat boy, where were you tonight when we were trying to fix that pump?” He threw an elbow into Freddy’s lard-covered ribs for emphasis.
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