Roughnecks

by James J. Patterson

“No shit,” his dad said with a mirthful quizzical twinkle in his eye, like it was so unusual for him to do anything for his son. Those little sarcasms aside, Zak could tell they were very close, almost brotherly. “If worse comes to worse you can drag ’er back and ride out the winter here. I was hopin’ to have that old Buick ready for you too, but she’s not there yet. Give me another coupla weeks. You got a hitch on the back of that outfit of yours, Zak? If not, there’s one lyin’ around here somewheres.”

  An hour later they were on the road, pulling a 1957 Airstream Flying Cloud, fire engine red, up Highway 79, headed north. At Castle Rock they turned on 168, then north again on Highway 85. By the time they reached Buffalo, South Dakota, they were hungry and needed gas.

  One intersection of whitewashed buildings didn’t show much promise. OK volunteered to fill the gas tank and Zak hit the small grocery and convenience store and grabbed some bread, a big jar of pepper jelly, and a fat pack of baloney, ketchup, mustard, and more peanut butter.

  The clerk, a local pimple-faced boy, gave Zak an odd look, then seemed to figure out the reason for his customer’s eccentricity.

  “Oh, you here to find some bones?” he asked as he placed the items in a paper sack.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Dinosaur bones. The country around here is chock full of’m. T-Rex’s especially, you know, the big mean ones. They tell me there’s only one other place in the world where you can find’m.”

  “No, I had no idea.”

  “Oh, I thought you were part of the team across the street.” He pointed to another whitewashed building with a mirrored glass door. There was no sign, nothing. “Go knock on the door. It’s okay, they don’t mind. They’ve got’m just lying on the floor, giant claws, and teeth, and leg bones, hip bones, ribs, a jawbone you could practically walk in and out of. They’ve got buckets and trays full of the stuff. It’s super cool. Apparently you can’t swing a dead cat in these parts without finding some.”

  Zak emerged into the sunlight with his goodies and was two steps toward the white nondescript building across the way when a giant paw landed on his shoulder.

  “Change of plans dude,” OK was a little breathless. “Just got off the phone with Archer, seems his chainhand beat the shit out of Crawdad. Everyone’s twisted off. We’re all supposed to regroup back in Watford. Archer, some guy named Marty, and Blackie are forming crews for some new Tiger rigs comin’ in. If Tiger Mike is movin’ in, you can bet there’ll be plenty of work and roughnecks crawling all over the place!”

  They jumped back in the Jeep, and they were Watford City bound.

  “So much for the Archer Hansom plan, eh?” Zak said as they motored north.

  “Probably wouldn’t’ve worked anyway,” OK was keeping an eye on Zak’s driving because he had a tendency to jerk the wheel this way and that once he was passionate about whatever he was saying. They both had to yell to be heard over the Jeep’s mighty roar, the tape deck, and the wind rattling through the ragtop. “But on the other hand, if the plan was a basic reshuffling of crews, well, this accomplishes that for sure.”

  Zak was keeping an eye on that big heavy Airstream but, as far as he was concerned, they were gliding along just fine as long as they took it slow and easy.

  “Besides, bringing everybody down to Watford and getting on with Tiger Mike is a step up as I see it. I hear those rigs out here in this country are gettin’ a little age on’m.”

  “Dinosaurs.”

  “Yeah.”

  On the way up to Watford, Zak instructed OK in the fine art of making baloney and pepper jelly sandwiches, with a dash of ketchup. And goddamn if OK didn’t think they were “Splendiferous!”

  All the way up to town they discussed and debated every combination of crew they could come up with, like hockey coaches arguing forward line combinations, and the endless possibilities thereof.

  They talked about the Airstream, how practical it was going to be once Watford was overbooked and winter set in hard.

  “It’s big enough for two, that’s for sure,” OK thought out loud. “Having an extra hand taking care of things might be a good idea, we’ll both be workin’ our asses off. Why don’t we just make a deal right now to share it: care and maintenance, keepin’ it stocked and warm. At least until we twist off, or kill each other. I mean the way you say you’ve been livin’, this oughta seem like the Waldorf Astoria.”

  “Yeah,” Zak was pensive. “Everyone’s been warnin’ me to get my name on a place soon. And I’ve been meanin’ to, but I didn’t want to tie myself to owing anybody any money for any length of time, or to being up in Scobey. Now it seems that was a good choice.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to bunk with me.”

  “Well thanks, thanks a ton, I appreciate it, I really do,” and Zak’s look of surprise and gratitude was sincere. Their handshake sealed the deal.

  “And honestly,” OK chortled, like he had just outfoxed the fox, for some reason. “As soon as Arch and the rest see me in this thing, they’ll set upon me like a blizzard of rabid dogs. Seriously, I’ll have five of them shitbags livin’ in here in no time, and there’ll be no way of gettin’ rid of them. And that’s the hideous evil truth.”

  “The hideous evil truth!” Zak fired up a cig. “We’ll need to beef up security first thing. If it’s half the madhouse up there in Watford that I think it is, we’ll definitely need to lock up tight.”

  They hooted and hollered at the extra oil patch traffic that was already in evidence as they got closer and closer to town. Indeed, it seemed like a lot of guys had the same idea, hauling their own living quarters with them. One thing was certain, everybody was gassed up and ready to get ’er!

  Zak pulled into the City Park which was already more than half-filled to capacity with RVs, trailers, and vehicles of all kinds modified to be lived in.

  “Over here,” OK pointed to an open area around a big square concrete patch. Zak pulled up and they hopped out. “This is where water and electrical comes into the park. There’s probably another like it over there somewhere. Anyway, stay close to this and perhaps we can figure out how to get it all turned on.”

  They unhitched the Airstream in a spot they assumed would form a lane, perhaps a main thoroughfare, should that many vehicles arrive soon after, and Zak suggested they get some dinner. He had just the spot in mind.

  The PDQ Club over in Arnegard was packed. Rows of pickups, bikes, hot rods, and shitboxes galore lined both sides of the street out front.

  “Zak! You made it back! How lovely to see you again, and who is this?”

  Lottie McCutcheon, the pretty barkeep’s mother Zak had met on his previous visit, greeted them at the door wearing an Old West hoop skirt, a very busty lace-up top, and a beehive hairdo wig with flowing reddish blonde curls tumbling in ringlets around her neck. Her makeup was outrageous.

  Zak introduced her to OK and she looped her arm through his and ushered them in as though they had been best friends and customers for many many years. And OK looked at Zak with quizzical eyes that very nearly said Help me! as they entered the joint.

  To the left was the bar, three deep with customers. There were booths and small tables as well, all filled with roughnecks, farmhands, local gals out for dinner, with a loud hubbub and cigarette smoke. In the back, the band was setting up for later.

  A “Make Love Not War” poster was in a prominent position over the bar alongside a framed and glassed poster of three people standing at a men’s room urinal; the person in the middle was a foxy gal wearing a miniskirt, cowboy hat, and boots. Another large sign read “Subsidy Hell! It’s Our Money!”

  To the right was the dining room. That was filled to capacity as well.

  “I’ll put you boys down for a table, it’ll only be a few minutes, and what can I get you to drink?” Lottie led them to the bar.

  They gave her their order and followed her to t
he waitress station where the bouncy little blonde bartender came right over. “Hey Zak!” she called out as she handed over their drinks and she had a big warm smile for OK as well. Lottie drifted off to other duties, and Zak and OK sipped their beers, watching the bartender do her thing.

  “Boy, that’s nothin’ but trouble,” OK said with a happy growl only Zak could hear. “I bet nobody’s gettin’ close to that.”

  Suddenly a gust of hot wet beer breath hit Zak in the back of his head.

  “If you fuck her I’ll kill you!” A squeaky grizzled whisper assailed his ear.

  Zak turned to see Skidder’s beaming face bearing down on him grinning ear to ear.

  “And if you don’t fuck her, I’ll never speak to you again!”

  They laughed, slapped hands, and gripped each other’s fists, and bumped shoulders in a powerful embrace.

  Zak introduced OK and the three of them fell in to chatting while watching the bartender bend way over to scoop some ice, then stretch up on tippy-toes for the glasses which were just a little too high over her head.

  Over steak and fries, Skidder gave them the lowdown.

  “Crawdaddy ‘borrowed’ somethin’ from Arch’s chainhand, Johnny Bailey, and ol’ Johnny decided to put the boot to’m! Christ he was givin’ it to’m somethin’ awful, but holy smokes, just when it looked like he was finished, ol’ Smoke Denton shows up and he wanted some of Crawdaddy too! Crawdaddy came to life then boy, and they really went at it—for about fifteen seconds—him and Denton, but old Denton just shot out his boot and fuckin’ kicked that sombitch right upside his face. He was out cold standing up! Hearin’ nothin’ but the fuckin’ birdies singin’! Oh fuck, so he’s lyin’ there all passed out and they says, this won’t do, so they turned on the hoses and gave it to’m good! He was up’n outta there in a flash! Or in a splash, eh?”

  “Were you there?”

  “Fuck no, but I heard the story so many times already I may as wella bin! Anyway, them crazy cunts all shook hands here in Watford yesterday. Crawdaddy’s still gonna be on one of the new crews with yooz all, so fuck a duck, eh?” Skidder raised his beer, “Good t’go?”

  “Good t’go!” they clinked bottles.

  “You never know in the oil field,” OK shook his head.

  Zak and OK stayed for the band, who played a bunch of Waylon & Willie covers, some country swing for the older folks, and some outlaw country for the younger ones. OK and Skidder danced with some of the gals at the club, and Zak talked shop with some of the good ol’ boys at the bar.

  At one point Zak was telling Lottie about the newly acquired Airstream and how great it was going to be having a roof over their heads with winter coming on. She suggested he join her at their next chamber of commerce meeting and ask the mayor about getting the City Park’s power and water turned on. All right, thought Zachary Harper, now we’re getting somewhere! He also wondered about getting the town’s medical preparedness a makeover too, if that was even possible.

  Later that night the two roughnecks made it back to Watford and crashed in the Airstream. They fell asleep in their sleeping bags, making plans to customize the beast the next day.

  They woke early to the sound of loud hard banging on the Airstream’s door.

  “Fuckin’ open up!” they heard Skidder yell.

  When Zak unlatched the door, Skidder’s furry blond head poked inside.

  “Which one of you is Ricky and which one is Lucy?” he hollered into the trailer. “We seen the Jeep!” He had Archer Hansom in tow and within minutes they were off to the Sagebrush, all, that is, except for Skidder, who said he had some other place to be.

  When Archer and Zak stepped into the bar, there they all were. Crews from Bomac up in Scobey, as well as a couple of dozen other early birds from down in Deerfield who had been working on those Cardinal rigs, and a few more grizzled fellas who could only have come from over in Gillette, sniffing the air in anticipation of Tiger Mike moving into the area.

  As soon as they were in the door, Zak saw arms waving from a table in the back and there with a couple of other fellas were Marty and Jon.

  Zak shook hands with everyone, giving Jon and Marty each a strong arm yank toward himself in a kind of smashing-into-each-other gesture of brotherhood. He introduced OK, and within minutes Wellman fit right in.

  “You weren’t gettin’ rid of us that easy,” Jon laughed as they sat down.

  “We thought you twisted off!” Marty lied. “Beer for breggfast?” He poured from a pitcher of Old Milwaukee into an empty ten-ounce glass and handed it to Zak.

  Blackie had been working with Tiger down in Gillette for just a couple of months, and when he heard the company was moving soon into the Watford City area he twisted off and sacked’m up. He beat it for home, bringing several hand-picked men with him. Then he quietly spread the word to the better hands he knew that it would be first come, first served for the choicest spots on the newest rigs. Blackie’s crew would be made up of hands from Gillette but had also hired out Smoke Denton from Rory’s crew to throw chain.

  Archer and his chainhand, Johnny Bailey, had picked up Samson, or Ogre, the giant derrickhand from Rory’s crew as well as Billy Knott, motorman, and Rory’s worm, old man Frye, as well. What had happened to Rory was anyone’s guess.

  Marty’s crew was already set. Jon would be motors, Zak chain, OK in derricks, and a new guy, Tommy Tomlinson, working worm’s corner.

  “So, everybody says these new Tiger rigs are sharp, but I can tell you first hand, the ones he had down in Colorado were junk,” Tommy said as he delivered a fresh pitcher of beer. “I mean, I’ve heard what out-of-date iron horses those Bomac and Republic rigs can be. Shit, some of them rigs are so much work just to keep’m drillin’, months can go by with out’m gettin’ properly scrubbed. So now they’re not just huge trouble to work on, but they’re filthy dangerous too.”

  Overhearing this, Blackie joined in.

  “Oh no no, these new ones are state-of-the-art triples, still three pipes to a stand. Much bigger than we’ve seen around here, that’s for sure. Vic Earlman, you all know Vic, well he and some other drillers got hired out to go down to Louisiana and consult with them puttin’ these ones together. The notion being that the men who’re gonna work on’m ought to have a hand in buildin’ ’m. That’s pretty smart.”

  “Smart? That’s unusual,” someone said.

  “Unheard of,” Jon agreed.

  In the middle of all this, the Parker Bothers walked in. Crawdad was with them. The left side of his face was purple and swollen up to beat hell.

  WHEN ZAK AND OK MADE it back to the Airstream everyone had already taken to calling Big Red, they found quite a surprise waiting for them.

  Parked alongside the trailer was a late-model navy blue Chevy Suburban, and Lottie McCutcheon and her daughter Julie were unloading things.

  “We just thought you boys could use a feminine touch, seeing as how you appear to be moving in for the season,” Lottie smiled, holding a gaggle of cooking implements in one hand and a stack of dish towels in the other. Pretty Julie was all smiles, wearing a pink down vest, tight red jeans, and workboots, her hair down on one side and pinned back on the other.

  Without the beehive wig and the hoop skirt, Lottie looked much smaller and younger than Zak remembered. They had brought a bunch of plates, bowls, cutlery, towels, and cleaning products from the PDQ Club.

  “Stuff we replaced a while ago and hadn’t gotten rid of yet,” they explained. Before long there were curtains up, fresh sheets and heavy blankets, pillows in pillowcases all in place, and the four of them were sitting down to a roast chicken dinner with peas, mashed potatoes, gravy, and white wine. Not long after that, the place was cleaned up, dishes stacked in their appropriate cabinets, etc., then both women kissed both men sweetly on the lips and left, promising to return soon.

  “What just happened?” OK Wellm
an asked Zachary Harper.

  “I’m not sure,” answered Zachary Harper. “But I hope it happens again.”

  It never did.

  THAT EVENING, MARTY’S CREW MET at the City Bar and Zak got the story of the great Crawdaddy Smackdown several more times. Most versions were pretty much in agreement with Skidder’s regarding the facts, but somehow, depending on the teller, each rendering was funnier than the last.

  “So, this Tiger Mike everybody talks about…” Zak said, opening the floor to anyone with the particulars. The new guy, Tommy, started in.

  “He’s a rich guy big shot, really flamboyant. He dresses up in these crazy suits, drives big expensive cars, always has a buncha broads on his arm. Will fire ya for spittin’ on the sidewalk, or lookin’ at’m sideways, or wearing orange or some such shit. But he ain’t cheap, passes the dough around pretty good, pays better’n anybody else out here.”

  Jon, on the other hand, had been doing his homework.

  “Tiger Mike was a cab driver. No kidding. He married an heiress, a newspaper heiress maybe. These new rigs he’s got cost about four million apiece. And they’re big. Triples, like Blackie said. How far can they go down, Marty, twelve, fourteen thousand feet?”

  “If they can git down twelb-fourteen, you can bet ol’ Blackie can take’m down fifteen ’r twenty.”

  “Christ, that’s almost three miles,” Jon sighed. “And them rigs are new? Never nippled up before? So we’re the guinea pigs.”

  “Guinea pigs?” Zak asked.

  “It’s new iron,” Jon scratched his chin. “Well we’re the ones who’re gonna have to make all those pieces fit together.”

  When all this was going to happen was a matter of great conjecture and concern, as there were other wildcatters moving into the area as well, and holding out for a spot on Tiger that might or might not happen could cause them to miss a good job with one of those outfits. Everyone promised to keep their ears to the rail, their noses in the wind, and to give a shout when there was news. The boys bought a case of beer and followed OK and Zak back to Big Red for a nightcap.