Roughnecks

by James J. Patterson

  “Good t’go, eh?” the guy said as he leaped nimbly into the passenger seat, stowing his gear in the back with one easy flip. He reeked of beer, sweat, and cigs. He was slender and strong and agile with powerful shoulders and a tiny waist. He had beach-boy blond hair that jutted out in all directions from under his hard hat, which he wore cocked jauntily to one side. Mischievous blue eyes, a pug nose red with drink and sun, and a blazing blond mustache over a catch-me-if-you-can-come-and-get-me smile. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before another roughneck come by!” he laughed. “Good t’go, eh?” he asked again with a blink and a nod as though he really was anxious to hear Zak’s answer, he asked again, “Good t’go?”

  “You bet,” Zak replied with more amusement than gusto.

  “Wanna beer?” asked the hitchhiker, ripping one from its plastic holder and handing it over before putting the six-pack down on the floor between his legs and taking a long hardy pull on his own.

  “Oil field trash, eh? No better people in the world!” the man said through a boozy self-satisfied gasp. “You see a roughneck hikin’ down the road, you know what t’do. ’Cause yer good t’go! No one else’ll stop for’m that’s fer sure, huh? Whatcher name partner?”

  “Zak, Zak Harper,” and they shook hands using the new world hand clasp.

  “My name’s Skidder, Skidder MacIntyre. Friends call me Skiddy.”

  “Well, where ya headin’, Skiddy?”

  “I don’t know, out Highway 5 here a ways. I was kinda hopin’ you’d know where that location is. Aren’t you headin’ out there?”

  “Well, if I were this, would be the wrong direction. I’m southeast of town. I don’t know of any other…” but as he was saying this, convinced that his passenger was fucked-up or crazy, or both, a procession of gin trucks turned west with them along with a water hauler or two, and it dawned on him that there was, indeed, another rig setting up in the Scobey area. This was big news.

  “Nope. I’m sure it’s out this way. I’m trying to catch up with a buddy of mine, Archer Hansom. You know Arch?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Well, he and I just twisted off from them crazy cunts down at Freeburn, back outside of Watford. You worked for them yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well think twice about it before ya do. Them cheap bastards’ll work ya blind then cheat ya out’ve yer bottom-hole. I got it out of’m one way or another though,” he winked. “So who’re you hired out with?”

  “An outfit called Bomac.”

  “Bomac, don’t know them.”

  “They’re good.”

  “Well, this here one’s called Blackhawk. Been with them yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I have, they’re all right. The toolpusher on this one’s dumber’n a stump though. Jeezy-shit you wouldn’t believe the crap we get away with. Ol’ Arch is gonna go drillin’ for us. Always saves me a spot on his crew. Arch is a good driller, knows how to fuck the dog like nobody I’ve ever seen, except myself of course. He’s a mite rammy though, know what I mean?”

  “Not exactly,” Zak couldn’t help but laugh. There was something of the put-on to everything this character had to say, and yet it wasn’t like he was mocking or disrespectful. Welcome to my funhouse, he seemed to be saying, as though once Zak was hip to his perspective he could see the world for what it was, an amusement park of happy terrors.

  Skiddy scrutinized Zak briefly and whatever question mark had suddenly appeared over Skiddy’s head just as suddenly disappeared. “Well, ol’ Arch is crazier’n a cunt at that brake handle,” Skiddy laughed, “he gets a bit carried away when he’s on a roll trippin’ pipe so he’s got this bad habit of yankin’ that pipe out of the hole too fast and crown’n out.”

  “I’ve never seen anybody crown out,” Zak admitted.

  “You’ll know it when ya do! And no one does it with more style than Archer Hansom. This last time I could just tell when we pulled away our slips and that ol’ pipe just came flyin’ out of the hole, I thought to myself, oh shit, here we go! There’s just no fuckin’ way he’s gonna get ’er stopped before that kelly reaches the top and when he does that whole friggin’ shebang is gonna come down right on our heads! So I just heaved them slips and took a flyin’ leap over the railin’s and landed twenty feet below right on top of that shale-shaker! Good thing I was about half piss drunk or I might’ve hurt myself! Sure enough though that kelly hit that crown so fuckin’ hard you’d uh thought the whole damn rig was comin’ down! As it was, that kelly hit the floor right where we’d been standin’! Bang! Same thing happened down in Wyoming last spring. Nearly shit-killed all of us! I was good and drunk that time too, thank God,” and Skidder let out a laugh that rippled and rolled and swayed with the Jeep as they bounded over a rise, “’cause when I seen that big thing comin’ loose I dove down the beaver slide and just rolled and rolled, din’t even get a bruise. So Zak, that’s what you got to say from now on, when you’ve just about had enough of their bullshit, eh? You just look ’em in the eye an’ say, ‘Feelin’ a bit rammy tonight boys, yep, I’m feelin’ a mite rammy, think I’ll head ’em into town,’ and that’ll be good for about a two-day drunk, eh? Good t’go?” And Skiddy took a long, loud, wet drink, snorting and gurgling before pitching the empty can out the open door.

  “Good t’go!” Zak fell in with the program and raised his beer in salutation.

  “Good t’go!” Skidder laughed and popped another beer. “Anyway, I need to hook up with Arch, I know he’ll be drillin’ up here and if I get there soon enough, he’ll put me in the derrick where I won’t be any trouble. Nobody’s comin’ up there to give ya any shit either, know what I mean? I can hide beers up there, I can hide ’em in the mud shacks, too, but not unless I’m derrickhand,” which reminded him of something unpleasant. His eyes stared straight ahead. “I got me into a bit of a fix back there in Watford.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m waitin’ on a case of universal joints for my pickup. It’s eighteen years old, runs like a top but the universal joint keeps goin’ out so I just up and ordered a case of ’em. Gonna take a couple of weeks so I thought I’d hike up here and make some dough. I’ll work anywhere, I don’t care. Derricks used to bother me until I learned not to look up. Once I learned not to look up I pretty much had ’er down, know what I mean?” And his little pun restored his good humor and he chugged some more beer, finishing with a loud gasp.

  “I think I do, but I always thought the trick with heights was not to look down.”

  “Maybe. But derrickhand’s gotta look down shit! I guess the idea is to not be too aware of the horizon, fucks with your equilibrium. But shit, you can sneak a few beers up there and while everyone down on the floor is standin’ around tryin’ to figure out what to do next you can suck one into ya. Hey, Zak, wanta smoke some pot?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good t’go, eh?” he pulled out a bag and started rolling a number. “I worked down in Wyoming all summer and grew this behind the rig. There was this bluff and a bunch a pine trees in behind the rig and back behind those pines was a perfect patch of sunlight. That’s moose country down there boy. You worked down there yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “You will. It’s nice down there. Prettier’n here, that’s for sure.” And Skidder paused briefly from sprinkling the dried leafy marijuana into his rolling paper to take a quick look out the open door at the fast-moving countryside to verify its barrenness. “It’s perfect for poachin’ down there. Deer, rabbit, all kinds of stuff.” He licked the edges of the rolling paper. “You gotta watch out for the moose though. Holy shit are they ever mean. You don’t ever want to get one pissed off. If you’re ever growin’ any reefer down there you got to be careful. They’ll come and eat your pot plants sure as hell. Just love the stuff. So what ya do is you put some human hair on the plants. Y’know, just pluck it out of your hairbrush.
They won’t come near it then. So we used to fuck the dog and sneak in behind those trees, suck back some beers, and watch that pot grow. Jesus Christ those plants were this tall in no time. You gotta watch out for the male ones though. One male plant in with a bunch a females and everything turns to seed.

  “So the thing to do is work your way down to Wyoming in the fall, save up some dough, and then roll on down to Steamboat, over in Colorado, for the winter months. Just lie low. You can stay drunk all the time! Before the season gets going, you can find a bartender or somebody to let you share their expenses on a room. Ask around. Then you can get to know some of the women that come up from Denver and from out West to go skiing. That’s just great, huh? You’re sitting there at the bar next to some sweet-smelling city girl wearing her new store-bought goin’-to-the-country outfit and sooner or later she can’t help askin’ what it is you do and you look her right in the eye and say ‘I’m a roughneck,’” and Skidder threw an extra sneer into his delivery for authenticity, method acting, Zak believed, “and they don’t know from roughneckin,’ they just think you’re the wildest, craziest, fuckin’ outlaw they’ve ever seen—just what they came out here to get a taste of. Oh fuck it’s a good time and it beats the shit out of roughneckin’ in these parts in January and February.” Skidder had a shudder just thinking about it.

  “So then, what brings you up this way? Shouldn’t you be headin’ in the other direction?” Zak was doing some quick calculations to see what kind of money Skidder might be talking to make it all possible. Dividing how much he thought it was by how many weeks he would need to earn it.

  “Well Zak, like I was sayin’ before I got sidetracked, I was startin’ t’get a little too well known down there. We was mixin’ it up down at Fort Peck, the Sioux Reserve. Whoa shit,” Skidder shook his head like he had just been hit in the face by a bucket of cold water. “And I thought I could drink! You don’t wanna get caught fuckin’ around with those bad boys, no sir-ee. I had to spend my last few paychecks gettin’ some of my buddies from Tiger out of the slammer. Those Tiger rigs they’re comin’ out with these days are good though—big. Whoa shit!” Skiddy hollered again. “Nothing like the old-fashioned Tinkertoys they got runnin’ out here in the boonies.

  “So I fucked off up to Williston. I gotta put a new tranny in a buddy’s Monte Carlo. That’s another story. I owe a few guys back in Gillette. So by the time I get all that shit squared away I guess winter’ll be here and I’ll be fucked. I might be able to make it out to Steamboat before the season ends. It’s good to get in there early though, it can be tough finding a cheap place to stay once the skiing season gets under way.” Skidder mulled over his prospects for a frustrating moment and then, figuring what the hell, shrugged, and turned his attention to more immediate matters.

  “Say, Arch is a hell of a guy. If he’s still puttin’ our crew together maybe you should jump ship and come along with us. It’d be a helluva note. I’ll teach ya how to fuck the dog, Zak. I mean, no one can look busier while accomplishing absolutely nothing than yours truly. There’s definitely a trick to it, and if anybody gives you any shit you just hit the ground runnin’, smilin’ all the while sayin’ ‘I hears ya!’ just like them giving ya shit was doin’ ya the biggest goddamned favor of your whole life. ‘I hears ya!’” Skiddy said it again with a big broad smile, like he had cracked the secret code for living in the twenty-first century and was giving Zak a full demonstration. He then smiled the most shit-eating grin he could muster, struck a pose while raising his beer in the air, and said again, “I hears ya!”

  “I hears ya!” answered Zachary Harper.

  “I’m happy as a clam and don’t give a damn!” yelled Skidder MacIntyre. He threw out a fist and a grimy thumb jutted up in the air, “Good t’go eh?”

  “Good t’go!” Zachary Harper hollered back and the two roughnecks laughed and chugged their beers as the Jeep swerved and rumbled and bounced and frolicked down Highway 5, heading west from Scobey, Montana, bound for Blackhawk number seven.

  The nipple-up process which Zak had recently experienced on Bomac 34 was just getting under way there at Blackhawk number seven and as he wheeled the Jeep, at Skiddy’s direction, over to a cluster of pickups and motorcycles which had gathered off to one side of the central hubbub, Skidder waved and jeered and held his beer out the window like it was the official emblem of his berserker breed, the last of whom he represented with all the pride and good intentions the gods had chosen him for. When he wasn’t flaunting his beer can he was giving people the finger, whether he knew them or not, and reeling with laughter as he did so, as if the mere recognition of a gin truck driver, or one of the guys in a car full of roughnecks, was a cause to be celebrated. They smiled and waved, or laughed and shook their heads. Skidder hopped out of the Jeep before Zak brought it to a halt.

  Archer Hansom leaned against a rusted-out Chevy four-door with several other roughnecks gathered around him. He was tall and bony, had a serious face with a wiry goatee, like a roughneck musketeer, and straight black hair tied in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back over what was obviously a hand-made leather motorcycle jacket, worn, torn, and pockmarked, that clung to his frame like a second skin.

  When Skidder tumbled from Zak’s Jeep, Archer stepped quickly forward, ripped the unopened beers dangling from Skidder’s right hand, and tossed them into Archer’s car window in a motion so smooth and swift no one hardly even noticed. Skidder, flaunting his attitude, stood back and chugged his remaining beer, putting the can to his lips and tilting his head all the way back in a classic pose, before backhanding the empty can into the window after the others.

  Archer shook his head, looked down, and spat.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever been run off a location before we even started to work, Skiddy,” Archer scolded.

  “It’d be a first,” someone else agreed.

  Archer had a full crew dressed and ready to go now that MacIntyre had arrived, and they were just sitting on orders. It was several minutes before they got around to noticing Zak and, after a brief introduction, Archer tried to be helpful.

  “I think all the crews are set, Zak, but you can go talk to Charlie over there, I’m sure someone can use ya while we’re settin’ up.”

  Zak explained that he was already throwing chain down on Bomac 34. As he spoke it occurred to him that it was the first time he ever heard himself described as chainhand to a group of strange roughnecks, and he tried to act like it was nothing.

  “Yeah? Who’s yer driller?” One of the men wanted to know.

  “Jesse Lancaster.”

  “Shit, I know him,” someone else said, “never seen ’im sober. Like Skidder here,” and he kicked some dirt over Skiddy’s boots.

  “Must be one hell of a driller,” Skiddy spoke up in mock seriousness.

  “He is.”

  “He’d have t’be as long as he’s been around,” the man smiled. Everyone knew that some loyalties are not to be trifled with. No hard feelings.

  There was some detailed discussion as to the exact whereabouts of that Bomac rig, and it was decided that sooner or later they’d all be runnin’ into one another in town. Before Zak took his leave he explained that they were a shorthanded crew and if some latecomers happened along it would sure be appreciated if they’d send them Bomac’s way.

  “Will do,” said Archer Hansom.

  “See? If we get run off here we can roll on down to Bomac and pick up their empty tower there. So gimme one of them beers!” laughed Skidder MacIntyre.

  BACK AT BOMAC 34 THE fact that a second drilling rig had moved into the area was old news. George Cleaver had already paid them a visit, as had Andy Parker and Rory, but they hadn’t a hand to spare.

  There was one consolation. At the end of two weeks those paychecks looked pretty good. Especially on Jesse’s shorthanded crew. But it was still seen as sort of a miracle that when George at last pulled up on loca
tion he wasn’t lynched immediately. George just greeted the angry mob with a scratch of his head. The days off had done him a world of good.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised at you boys,” he said feigning simple paternal bewilderment, “I thought you’d wrap old Vernon around your little fingers and run this rig yourselves!”

  When it was argued that their schedules had been altered in such a way as to give them no days off, George looked at them like they were all crazy. He simply put them on twelve-hour shifts until relief arrived; that way no one would have to work sixteen hours to get a day off. Compared to what they had been going through, twelve hours on and twenty-four hours off with things running smooth would be a piece of cake. Next problem?

  “Shit, George!” Rory was saying. “You’re damn lucky one of these crews didn’t sack ’em up!”

  But George just wrinkled his brow as though this remark made him angry.

  “What the hell for? I thought you boys would love to have someone like old Vernon to kick around for two weeks the way I’ve been workin’ your asses off around here.” And by God, the way he said it, it was somehow indisputable, and not a man among them, including Smoke Denton, didn’t walk away unable to explain what all the fuss had been about after all. But deep down, there were some who felt that George had abandoned them in their hour of need; they resented it and would never trust him as completely as they had before.