Roughnecks

by James J. Patterson

  But those things can also seem so random, so rare. Before long they only serve to accent the loneliness. Without that something, something that fits, a form of spiritual starvation sets in. Whose world is this anyway? Zak slammed a palm against the steering wheel. He pictured Jesse in a world in which no iron towers pierced the horizon and saw a frail, quiet, lame old man with a giant heart wearily pulling a long train of experience that stretched backwards into a distance that was only discernible in the movements and disturbances of the here and now. Was it fair to Jesse not to be allowed permission to stop the train? Was it fair for the train to insist he keep pulling?

  No. It was all wrong.

  Zak thought about Jon’s world, shaping a life out of the bang and bustle of the oil patch, in spite of everything.

  He thought of Marty’s world. Standing alone atop the iron tower holding the slender threads of Cynthia’s sanity in his crude, powerful, and yet unpredictable hands.

  The fire that drove Zak onward in the direction of Watford City slowly burned out. The Jeep slowed to a crawl.

  A question came creeping up on him like the unexpected betrayal of a friend. When his right tires nudged the gravel shoulder, he pulled over. He thought about turning back. There were, after all, immediate problems that needed solving. With another paycheck or two he could latch onto someone down in Watford. Hell, he could say fuck it right now and continue on to Watford and if he fell into something down there, well so be it. Why go back at all? Over is over. Through is through. If the others weren’t concerned about keeping it together, why the hell should he? And shouldn’t that tell him something?

  He got out of the Jeep and leaned against the right fender. He wished he had a cigarette. The wind that whipped his face stung his eyes. Jon had Mary Ellen. Marty had Cynthia. Jesse had whatever demons possessed him. In the distance, dozens of miles off, a lone dull brown butte jutted up giving the horizon an uneven, jagged edge. In the giant sky, a single wisp of cloud looked like a smear of white paint on a pale blue canvas. And Zachary Harper had to face the facts.

  There is no my world. He was moving between worlds. So it made sense that he found himself standing here, in the middle of nowhere, between not only the separate worlds of his fellows but amidst a constellation of worlds, each one nascent and unformed, each one needing only the seed of his intentions to alight for a world to congeal around him and make him, or claim him as its own. He had been resisting such a commitment lest he be swallowed up too soon, opting for the ephemeral over the telluric, to buy time, to gain experience, understanding, and the kind of self-knowledge these others seemed born with. How handicapped and insufficient was he? He had always relied on his instincts regarding when to move and with how much force, but he realized now he was not without his doubts. Those doubts were getting loud, impatient, and angry. Every time they paraded his insecurities out into the open for him to face in the cold aloneness of this place, his shame pushed them back into the dark corners where he felt they belonged.

  The prairie does strange things to a man’s mind. It calls upon him to fill this space with his own true self, and he would just have to wait and see what kind of creature that was. One thing he was coming to realize, however, was that someone not at peace with that self ought to take care how much time he or she spends alone with it.

  He sighed and looked in both directions down the long empty highway. He took a piss, then hurried on in the direction of Watford City.

  AS HE PASSED THE OLD Watford Cemetery northeast of town, as he passed the makeshift buildings of the various drilling companies and support businesses that lined the highway at the outskirts, as he rumbled and rolled past pickups loaded with crews some of whom nodded their heads when they saw him, as other Jeep drivers gave him the wave of friendly recognition from the oncoming lane, his spirits brightened. This is familiar. This place recognizes me. God, it felt good to be back.

  Watford was rockin’.

  Pickups, Broncos, and rugged four-wheels of every stripe jammed Main Street. It was midafternoon and all the bars were full. Not only the Sagebrush and the City Bar where the roughnecks hung out, but also Duffy’s and Bitchin’ Bob’s across the street, where the local boys who did not care to mingle with the newcomers had retreated to, were overflowing as well. Every shop was filled with oilmen and locals. It was startling how the pace had picked up in just a few weeks. The contrast with peaceful little Scobey was remarkable. Watford, itself only five blocks long, seemed huge. On the south side of town the City Park had been turned into a trailer park that had the look of a small town all by itself. Dozens of trailers jammed in, practically touching one another. The busy pace that had marked the town before had by now ratcheted up a couple of notches to a full-blown frenzy. The excitement was breathable, electric, visible.

  Zak pulled up in front of the City Bar and hesitated. There were no parking spaces and as he looked up and down the street, he realized he was directly across from the Watford City Post Office. Remembering that Calico had said he should check from time to time in case he needed to get in touch, Zak decided to park around the corner and have a look-see.

  With so many roughnecks of no fixed address in town, the little old lady at the counter directed Zak to two large plastic bales in the back room marked General Delivery and told him he could go fish for himself. Neatly piled up in alphabetical order, he found the bundle marked H and right there on top he found two letters addressed to Zachary Harper, General Delivery, Watford City, North Dakota, 58854.

  One was from Calico and the other from Jacqueline Loraine.

  He had to think for a minute to place the name. He skipped, giggled, and danced out to the Jeep where he could read in private. Light on his feet he detoured into the pharmacy next door where he without a trace of conscience bought himself a pack of cigs. He tore it open like a starving man with a loaf of bread. Once in the Jeep, he tore open Jackie’s letter the same way.

  “A message in a bottle,” she called it. He laughed. He lit up. She knew he was bound for Watford City, he had told her that much, and reason had it that he would at some point check his mail. Amazing. The letter was postmarked a month earlier but still, after reading just one line, he held the pages to his nose on the off chance that some of her might still linger there. He was sure it did. She was already sick of school, sick of her studies, sick of the boys who chased her around campus. She was sick of her lame-ass professors, well, that wasn’t true, some of them were nice, anyway, the point was that if he wanted he could make the trek east to see her some weekend, that is, if he wasn’t dead. But come to think of it, he couldn’t be any deader than her social life in Morris, Minnesota, so even if he was dead, he should come see her anyway. Or maybe they could meet in the middle for a couple of days? In the bottom of the envelope he found two kernels of corn. One had a happy face drawn on it, the other sad.

  The whole town was crawling with life. Supertramp was blaring on somebody’s car stereo as they rocked down the street. He read the letter two or three times more and could feel his old self waking up, shaking off the horrors of the past weeks, especially of the past few days, as the blood flowed back into his vital organs.

  Calico’s letter was short and to the point. There was a guy named Lou Crawford, Crawdad to his friends, heading for Watford at Calico’s recommendation. Lou was in a bit of a jam and needed some safe space and a place to work for a while till he could sort out his problems. He ought to make a good hand and he promised to behave himself. If Zak could find something for him it would be greatly appreciated. Zak could leave word for Lou at the PDQ Club in Arnegard. As far as school went he’d damn near twisted off several times, but figured he hadn’t killed anybody yet so he might as well stick with it. One thing was sure though, them books were harder than any iron he’d ever seen. The first week there he hired someone to teach him how to study. He claimed it saved his life.

  “I’ve taken some worm bites, but I’ll be al
l right!” was how he closed, which made Zak smile from ear to ear.

  Zak was ready for a drink. Instead of walking across to the City Bar as planned, he fired up the Jeep, turned right down Main and, as he passed a bunch of roughnecks coming the other way, he leaned out the window and screamed, “Yaaaaahoooo!” to which they answered with war whoops, hollers, and epithets of their own with a few choice horn blasts thrown in! Daylights must be just getting off, he thought. Before leaving town Zak jerked the wheel in the direction of Blackie’s place, cruised by the house, but there were no signs of life. Damn. He scribbled a quick note saying he was in town looking for hands and stuck it in the door. He then turned right again off Main on the road to Arnegard. He passed the McKenzie Inn—No Vacancy—the Burger Ranch, and the Captain’s Table, all of which he’d never noticed before, all jammed with roughnecks, chowing and boozing and raising hell.

  Twenty miles or so down the road was Arnegard. There was no sign, and he didn’t need one to tell him to turn right off the highway and cruise down the wide dead-end thoroughfare that led past several establishments and houses to a grain elevator at the end of the street. The PDQ Club, near the end of the boulevard on the left, had the look and feel of an old-fashioned cowboy saloon. It too was jammed. He created a parking space at the end of a row of pickups parked like horses tied to a railing. He hurried up the wooden ramp leading to the bar, his boots making a classic movie Western sound of leather on wood. Cowboys with barrel chests, thick necks, leathery faces with brilliant eyes and tall ten-gallon hats, farmers, rednecks, and roughnecks were three deep at the bar which was tended by the prettiest girl he had seen since hitting the Dakotas. She was average height with long blonde hair in a ponytail at the side of her head, wearing very tight blue jeans and a cowboy shirt tied in a knot at her belly button. This she wore over a halter top that did little more than push her very large bust up and out, creating what had to be the most spectacular cleavage within hundreds of miles. Zak plucked a five-dollar bill from the wad in his pocket and wormed his way to the bar. When at last he had her attention, he ordered a bottle of Miller High Life. She leaned forward reaching into the cooler, displaying those fabulous breasts with gusto and then standing took an opener which hung around her neck on a leather cord, popped the top, and slammed the bottle down on the bar, causing a foamy ejaculation rising at the top. “Ooops!” she giggled with a smile that was all dimples, “I think it likes me!” she said and swiping off the foam with a finger, stuck her finger in her mouth and gave Zachary Harper a wink that nearly knocked him off his feet. She ripped the bill from his grip and was gone.

  “Holy shit!” Zak gasped.

  “Best bar in town,” said a guy sittin’ on the stool next to him.

  “I can see why,” Zak agreed.

  “Of course, it’s the only bar in town,” said his neighbor, deadpan, following the barkeep as she dashed to and fro.

  Zak was thinking that if he didn’t get laid right away he was going to have to break something. He looked around the bar and wondered if all these guys really thought they had a chance with her. Sure they did. It was the only thing keeping the peace. While he had this fella’s attention, he figured he’d get down to business. “I know a rig that needs hands. Anyone around here lookin’ for work?”

  “Sure,” the fella perked up, “where at?”

  “Up in Scobey.”

  “Where?”

  “Just over in Montana.”

  “Ferget it,” the guy went back to studying the bartender.

  When she returned with his change, Zak threw a dollar on the bar and asked, “You wouldn’t have heard of a fella named Lou Crawford would ya?”

  She stopped and struck a classic let-me-think-about-it pose, a hand on one hip, her eyes dancing up to the ceiling. She held the pose for about one-hundredth of a second, long enough to get four more at the bar to fall in love with her. “Nope! But my mom might. She’s in the dining room,” and she was off again twisting at the waist as she went, turning heads like at a tennis match.

  Zak shook his head and he exhaled softly. The guy next to him was laughing quietly, his shoulders rocking under a leather vest, crows feet stretching all the way into his greasy hair.

  Zak stepped away from the bar and his space was instantly filled by a fella who was downing his beer hurriedly so he could have the excuse to order another.

  In the dining room, a line of people were at the salad bar, and older waitresses in black uniforms with white blouses were hurrying about with plates of steaks, potatoes, and watery vegetables. A handsome woman in her early fifties wearing a purple Old West gown that ballooned at the hips and reached all the way to the tops of her lace-up boots, with big satin roses in her reddish gray hair tied at the back, stepped in front of him and said with a smile, “Welcome to the PDQ Club, would you like some dinner?”

  By the size of her bust and her very congenial manner this just had to be Mom. When Zak explained his mission, she was delighted to hear it.

  “So you’re the infamous Zak! I’m Lottie McCutcheon. What’s taken you so long to find us? Yeah, that fella’s been comin’ in here all week. We were wondering if he hadn’t made you up!” She laughed and gave Zak a pad and marker and suggested he leave his friend a note where he could be reached and pin it to the bulletin board in the hallway between bar and restaurant.

  CRAWDAD! Go to Scobey Montana! There’s a job for you on Bomac 34. Ask for it at the Pioneer Hotel, Zak wrote. He also included the toolpusher’s phone number. As Zak was leaving, Mom called out. “Zak! There’s a band here seven nights a week. Come back and have some fun!”

  “I will!”

  FROM THERE HE CONTINUED BACK to Watford and cruised about the little neighborhoods on either side of Main. On the western side of town, just a block or two from the police station and the courthouse, he passed a small gray house and there in the drive was Jesse’s trailer.

  Although the house was dark and Jesse’s Merc was nowhere to be seen, someone was home. How did he know? He mulled this over as he walked to the door. Much the same way he had known there was no one home at Blackie’s. He pushed the doorbell and, hearing nothing, he knocked three times.

  “All right!” a voice spat from the other side of the door. It was a young male voice. Definitely irritated. Like some spoiled kid who has been told to turn off the TV and do his homework. Zak waited for the door to open. The voice spat out again, more irritated than before. “Well, what do you want?”

  “Is Jesse around?”

  Zak could hear hushed anxious voices; Jesse clearly wasn’t here. Zak wanted to leave.

  “What?”

  “Look, my name is Zak, I’m a friend of Jesse’s. Is he in? Could you open the door a second?”

  There was more hushed conversation and then the door cracked open. A man in his early twenties with dark unkempt hair and a bad complexion stared out at him. He had Jesse’s bushy black eyebrows, and a sullen unhappy look. Lenny, Zak thought. “Look, I’ve been workin’ with Jesse up north, and we were all a bit worried…” Zak was interrupted by a voice that barked at the young man from behind the door.

  “Open the fuckin’ door, and let’s get a look at the son of a bitch!”

  The young man made a face, as if to say to Zak Now look what you’ve done, and pulled the door open.

  Zak stepped inside.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, it was the smell that assailed him first. Dirty laundry, old kitchen garbage, and urine. Cat urine, then human urine. The only light was that which forced itself through a shade on the living room window and a TV that flickered but with the sound turned off.

  She sat in a wheelchair. Stringy black and gray hair clung to her pale face and fell over her soiled nightgown. She motioned with her head to the young man, who interpreted the command and dutifully, if grudgingly, moved around behind her and pushed her chair up close to where Zak was standing. Her bla
ck eyes considered him through a mocking sneer. Her teeth badly needed tending. Her body was inert though her head and neck held such a posture of excitement and loathing that Zak took a step backward and immediately tried to formulate an excuse to leave.

  “No no, you get back here,” she said. Her voice was wet and raspy, her wind strained. In spite of her afflictions, she spoke soothingly, as though coaxing some poor starving dog closer, so she could feed it poison. “Come, come here, that’s right.” He had to lean close to hear her and that proximity was truly unpleasant. “That’s better. Let me look at you. Good. It’s not every day I get to see a real, live, walking, talking piece of shit. Welcome.”

  “Ma’am,” Zak was a bit more than startled, he straightened. “Look, I didn’t mean to bother you, I think I’d better…”

  “Sure you did,” she said in a voice dripping with false empathy, a tone that she slipped in and out of with such dizzying weirdness it was chilling. “Since when did any of you pricks give a rat’s ass about bothering anyone? Hmm? Any time of the day, or night? No no, no. You stay where you are, and you listen here. Jesse’s finally got hisself a real fuckin’ job, for the first time in his life, what’s left ofit, poor dear, and neither you or any of yer prick-a-lute friends are gonna come around to fuck it up. Hear?”

  “We were just concerned, that’s all, I…”

  “We? Who’s we?” She craned her head left and right to see if maybe there were some others just outside. “Oh, you must have brought a turd in yer pocket. Hmm? Now, was it you was concerned? Well, fuck you! The only concern, any of you arseholes have is where yer next piece of tail and yer next drunk is comin’ from! Huh? Now isn’t that right? Of course it is. Where was yer goddamned concern when Jesse was out whorin’ and boozin’ and callin’ it work, all them years, while I was raisin’ a fuckin’ kid and tryin’ to scrape by on the table scraps he sent home, what he hadn’t already drunk up? Huh? Answer me that, now. Concerned. Please kiss my ass. Concerned. You probably got a little girlie stashed away somewhere’s yerself, an’ yer no more concerned about her than you are some stupid, half-lame old man. Hmmm? Fuck you. Please?”