Roughnecks

by James J. Patterson

  Late that night, as OK was stepping over Archer, Skidder, and Jon, either stretched out on the floor or huddled in a ball under a blanket, snoring peacefully, Zak head him chortle as he passed Zak on his bench, “How’s that new security system of ours workin’ out?”

  Zak joined him out in the fresh cold night air, and as they emptied their bladders in tandem streams, they looked up into the night, and it started to snow.

  XVIII

  By dawn the next day roughnecks were poking their heads out of RVs, pickups, windows, and doors. The ones who hadn’t thought or cared about the arrival of winter cared now and got busy. Although the snowfall had been light, the temperature was dropping steadily, as it would a little more each day for the foreseeable future.

  Zak and OK motored over to Williston for heavy-duty winter work clothes, Carhartt thermals, the works. Zak got himself a pair of black heavily oiled waterproof, steel-toed logging boots, the kind with the cowboy boot heel for a little extra height and traction.

  That evening Marty found Zak at the City Bar. Zak was just settling in for the evening after a hearty meal at the Burger Ranch, when Marty came in and joined him. He was all business.

  “Jon’s gone back up to Scobey to see Barry Ellen, and I neet a chainhand right dow!”

  Blackie, he said, was out drilling for a Challenger rig an hour southwest of town, and was going to be shorthanded for at least one night starting tonight.

  “He wants me to go drillin’,” Marty fussed behind the wheel as they hurried south.

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “Imb not sure, sometink about sumb dumb wormb driller stalling de number one engine, den fuckin’ up n stalling number two!”

  “Fuck!”

  “D’whole fookin’ rig’s shut down, lights are out, sez it’s quiet like a ghost rig out dere. Dey’re worried about de damn hole cavin’ in, de whole works!” Then after a moment of deep thought he said, “De mud might gel…”

  Zak wondered how it was possible.

  “Dat company hand got so pissed he run dat toolpusher right off and pulled Blackie off dat brake handle and said, ‘Yer pushin’ tools!’ So Blackie banged on my door after he run off that wormb driller and he sez, Marty, you’re drillin’ and we gotta go now! So I sez, well lemme have my own freakin’ chainhand at least, and he sez who and I sez Jon, but fuck! Jon’s not here, so I sez Zak an he sez okay!”

  When they arrived at that Challenger rig, there were a lot of roughnecks and other hands milling about down on the ground and sure enough, things were just as quiet as can be. It was spooky—with the sun almost down and no lights on—anyone who knew what that rig should have looked and sounded like would have had a shiver, like a devil’s fingernail running up their spine. But just as Zak and Marty were running for the stairs they heard a roar of thunder, the entire rig shuddered, and the number one giant Universal engine up on the floor sprang to life!

  The two men dashed up the stairs and stopped halfway when an ear-piercing shriek and a long metallic wail told them the light plant was starting up too, and the big bright lights in the tower aiming down at the floor and others around the rig suddenly came on.

  From all over the rig and the surrounding location there arose a human cheer!

  Marty and Zak landed in the top doghouse where several roughnecks were watching the doings out on the floor and trying their best to stay out of the way.

  Blackie and a couple of motormen were pulling open that number two Universal; another man, the company hand, was standing and pointing at this and that, handing tools to one or the other, and screaming to be heard.

  Marty pulled Frank Kramer’s crescent wrench marked “Bomac 34” from his back pocket and waved it at the driller as he muscled through the gang of guys at the door. And when he saw Marty, Blackie signaled him to come right out onto the floor.

  Zak and the other boys watched as Blackie put Marty at the brake handle and gave him some quick instructions regarding some signals they were going to use. Marty nodded yes, understanding all. Then Blackie returned to that number two Universal.

  “How much throttle?” someone yelled.

  “How much choke?”

  Blackie and the others were banging and cursing, and signaled to Marty who hit that throttle, then the brake, and that rig shuddered again. After a few encouraging attempts, they got that bastard jump-started with a mighty roar.

  Blackie then relieved Marty and pointed—You, and you, and you, off the floor! Then—you, you, and you, out onto the floor! The men being called into action took their stations, and Zak realized it was chainhand’s call too, and he took his place without hesitation.

  The big compressors hissed, and that rotary table turned, and the pipe in the hole began circulating, nice and slow, a little rough at first, but within a few minutes she was turning smoothly, almost like nothing had ever happened.

  When Blackie was certain they were in the clear, with fresh mud flowing, he motioned to Marty, who stepped right in and the driller stepped away, and Marty smiled as his foot rested on the throttle and his strong right arm grabbed that brake handle. Zak realized that this was going to be a moment that small ape, that derrickhand from Jesse Lancaster’s crew, his friend, would remember. He looked like such a natural at that brake handle too, it was kind of beautiful. And Zachary Harper was grateful for the joy of being witness to Marty’s first tower as a driller.

  The rest of that tower and all of the next Marty and Zak went about their business. Blackie’s motorman and worm were strong, efficient, and a pleasure to work with. All those years in the derrick with Jesse Lancaster down below at the brake handle had given Marty that same silky feel with brake and throttle, and that pipe moved swiftly and glided to a stop so smoothly the boys could really pick up the pace making those connections. Between connections, and to familiarize themselves with the rig and its crew, Zak followed Marty down to the hopper. Marty declared the mud operation up to snuff. Marty checked on motorman’s motors, making sure there wasn’t any damage from the power shutdown that might have gone undetected before. At seven a.m., relief arrived and had to be brought up to date on what had happened in the intervening towers. Blackie took Marty and Zak aside and let them know that this could go on another week if they wanted the work. They said sure.

  On their way back to Watford that morning in the Bronco, Marty was in a mood to remember.

  “I was motorman, ob course, before I went up in de derrick. Der’s somb good motormen out dere today, we were a liddle bit good and a whole lot lucky!” When Zak asked Marty if he was going to miss being up in the derrick, Marty said, well yeah, but one never knows, he thought he’d be back up there one way or another from time to time at least. But to be honest, he had always wanted to drill, he knew he was ready. Then Zak mentioned how nimble Marty appeared when ascending or climbing down that tower, and Marty gave a wry smile Zak hadn’t seen before.

  “Dat was de acksident,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “I was a kidt,” Marty explained in that strange accent no one could place. “Ya, I hat jist turned sixt-teen. My daddy got me a job at a sawmill, loggin’, out West. Ob course he wouldn’t buy me no boots. I had ta wait till payday to get’m, so I wore only my Chucks. So sure enuf, on my second day I wanted to show ebbrybody how strong I was, tossin dem giant logs about. But I drobbed a giant one on bote my feet. I didn’t say nuttin’ but I broke bote my big toes. Anyways, so I went and hid, I tucked each broke toe under my udder toes, den tied dem Chucks on real tite. Hat to walk on de sides ob my feet dat way I do. So dey just healed up dat way, bin dere ebber since!”

  “Good Christ, Marty!”

  “Ya, but what could I do? My fadder woulda kilt me for losing work as soon as I started. Woulda said I did it on purpose, woulda throwd me out. Boy dem doggys hert, boy, cried myself to sleep many a night at that ol’ loggin camp, for a year or two dat’s for sure
.”

  “Marty!” Zak scolded.

  “Ya ya, I know, Cyn says I should go get’m broke and put right. But, well, fuck! Fix one and hobble around for six months, then fix de udder one’n hobble about some more? I nebber told anyone about doze toes, but Cyn, it’s a kinda secret.”

  “It’s safe with me,” Zak promised, but for the rest of the ride back it was all he could think about, staring at Marty’s boots, turned in a bit, and he shuddered.

  OF COURSE ONE WEEK TURNED into two, then an open engagement. No one was sure when those Tiger rigs were going to show up and some, like Jon, wondered if they would at all. Jon was now commuting every few days from up in Scobey, and Blackie eventually hired him out with another crew on Challenger as well. Some nights Jon stayed with Marty and Cynthia, other nights he spent on the floor in Big Red.

  Every day Zak would wander over to Freddy’s trailer, but there were no signs of life. Every day it snowed a little more and every day it got colder.

  ONE MORNING ZAK HAD JUST stepped quietly out of the cramped tubelike shower on the Airstream, pulled on his long johns, and was about to hit the rack, when there was a polite little rapping at the Airstream’s door. He eased it open, and there was Lottie McCutcheon, wearing her Sunday best.

  “The chamber meets this morning, Zak. Hurry and get dressed so you can get a good seat!” Zak found a clean white cotton button-down shirt, wrinkled to beat hell, in the bottom of his duffel bag, and clean jeans and boots, splashed on a little Lilac Vegetal, let the sleeping dogs lie there in the trailer, and they were on their way.

  The Burger Ranch was open early and the lot outside was filling up. Inside, the well-scrubbed, fresh-faced Best of Watford City were loading up on free coffee and cakes, stacks of bacon and egg sandwiches, and a big bowl of canned fruit.

  Zak looked around the room and took a standing spot along a far wall near an exit, but close enough to hear and see what was going on. Several other rancher types lined up alongside him so they could duck out early and quietly if they wanted to.

  Checking out the crowd, Zak recognized many faces he had seen about town and was able to identify local bankers and real estate folks, shop owners, farm supply and hardware dealers, a doctor and dentist type, a couple of dozen very solid citizens, probably the ranch and landowners currently hosting wildcat drilling operations, all looking for information. Scattered about these were several of the very disgruntled.

  The atmosphere was loud and tense. Many were meeting and greeting cordially as always, but their pleasantries were drowned out by the hubbub and commotion throughout the room as everyone got their coffee and breakfast and took their places, moving chairs, tossing coats, settling in. One grizzled farmer inching his way to a seat in the middle of the room was calling people out, pointing at them and cursing. Others just shouted out agenda items. Sitting along a makeshift row facing into the room with a portable podium with a microphone and built-in speaker were the chamber officials, Lottie among them, and the morning’s guest speakers.

  The secretary read the minutes from the last meeting. The treasurer reminded everyone that their dues were overdue, which got a group chortle and a couple of So whats from the crowd.

  “Where’s Partridge?” the grizzled farmer in the middle of the room called out. There was a grumbling from those who thought he was rude and out of order as well as from those who wanted an answer to his question.

  “Mayor Partridge was kind enough to let himself be our guest two meetings ago, but he is not obliged to come to chamber meetings, Mr. Kryder,” Lottie broke in.

  “I want to know if these oil people are using up all our water?” a deep voice called out from in the back.

  “Now Bill, we have our schedule for the meeting right here,” Lottie scolded and held up a sheet of paper that everyone had on their chair when they came in. Few had studied it.

  “We’ll get to water, Bill, but that’s more of an issue for the legislative council, and as you know, those meetings are open to the public, so please, let’s stay on course here,” one of the panel said calmingly.

  It was Lottie who took the podium first.

  “First we’ll hear from Cecil Pumphrey. Cecil is from the Salisbury Trucking Group, a proud North Dakota company by the way, and Cecil is also a member of the Greater McKenzie County Chamber of Commerce. He has degrees in geology, works closely with wildcat companies, and has worked with the North Dakota Geological Survey to keep track of doings in the Williston Basin at large, but more importantly, Cecil helps us anticipate changes in the patch before they happen. Thanks for getting up early and joining us this morning, Cecil,” she said and sat down.

  There was polite applause.

  “Thanks Lottie, hi everyone. I’ve been going around, when I can, to some of the local chambers, because I know a lot of you don’t like having your lives disrupted the way we have lately, and I know others of you are happy to have the oil boom back in a way we haven’t seen since the late sixties.

  “We’re in the position we’re in because the good people over at OPEC raised the price of oil, and also because of the Red Wing Creek discovery.

  “As you know, when OPEC raised the price of oil, risk capital that had gotten all cozy collecting interest in savings accounts suddenly wanted a sniff at that higher oil price. That plus the fact that when oil was too cheap, there was a big decline in production at about the same time that oil consumption was really taking off. So here we are, a few years after the latest finds at Little Knife and Mondak, the price of oil is still going up, consumption is still on the rise, and so, consequently, there’s an exploratory drilling boom going on that will necessitate a prolonged developmental period after that.”

  “So the fuckin’ Ah-rabs did us a favor!” someone shouted, and everyone laughed hard.

  The hubbub increased.

  A member of the panel raised a hand.

  “Yes Adam?” Lottie encouraged the man to get up and take the podium.

  “Who is that guy?” Zak asked the man next to him.

  “I think he’s from the mayor’s office, name is Nossiter. He’s the number-cruncher guy everybody has to go through to get their leases submitted and approved.”

  “I was just going to say,” Nossiter was tall, severe, and utterly humorless. He was a tenuous public speaker. “That the upside here is that with an exploratory boom going on, there’s also a lease rush under way.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know!” someone called out, and everyone laughed. From there, Nossiter began to fumble through his notes. He mentioned that in 1970 there were less than three hundred thousand dollars in lease bonuses handed out, compared to last year when the number had skyrocketed to twenty million; this year was closer to thirty million dollars.

  Somebody called out that no one had come to him wanting to lease his land. Someone else told that guy to shut up.

  Cecil Pumphrey added to Nossiter’s stats. “There’s between a hundred and twenty to two hundred rigs in the area now, and if the Canadians are serious about nationalizing their oil industry, we’ll inherit another couple hundred rigs from up there.”

  “They ain’t waitin’!” Kryder called out. “They’re leavin’ now before the government takes’m!”

  “I doubt that’ll really happen,” Cecil Pumphrey answered, but nobody heard him.

  Pumphrey and Nossiter then began to have a cordial conversation, comparing notes out loud for everyone’s benefit. Amoco was nearing completion of a ten-inch, forty-thousand-barrel-a-day pipeline from Billings Nose to its main line, while Koch Industries was doing the same with a natural gas pipeline. All in all, by the end of next year North Dakota should be putting out forty million barrels. The state’s usage this year was projected to be in the twenty- to twenty-five-million-barrel range. By the end of next year North Dakota, at full capacity, would be contributing one percent of the nation’s needs, or enough oil to run
the entire country—for four days.

  Zak decided to duck out for a smoke.

  “They done in there yet? I want one of those bacon and egg sandwiches before they’re all gone,” a middle-aged gentleman in clean jeans and a suede jacket over a checkered shirt asked Zak, as he motioned with a cigarette that he’d like a light. Zak hit him up. He blew out the smoke and looked back toward the Burger Ranch side door where loud garbled conversation could be heard, then a roar of laughter, then a round of applause. “These meetings used to be civilized, no speakers really, free food, everybody would just schmooze and bitch about business. Now they’re like mayor’s council meetings, same folks, yakking and squawking the same old shit.”

  “Zak Harper,” the roughneck introduced himself.

  “Scott Becker.” They shook hands. “I’m on the Planning Commission and a half-dozen other boards. You must be the roughneck Lottie was telling us about. The City Park guy?”

  “Lottie mentioned me?”

  “Don’t be so surprised. Lottie’s turned the Hospitality Committee she chairs into her own personal marching society. You know, like in the French or Russian Revolution when some guy who’s only in charge of hockey pucks ends up runnin’ the whole show?”

  “Hockey pucks?”

  “She started out in charge of coffee and donuts and floral arrangements and now she’s chair of meetings, organizing committee functions, keeping everybody focused. She can get more done over a couple of sodas, two ounces of whiskey, and a handful of bar nuts than any three in there. But the City Park has us all scratching our heads. What’d you have in mind?”

  “Well I’m not sure, but at least during this next stretch it sure might be nice to get the power turned on over there.”

  “Yeah, you know there’s a city ordinance says you can’t stay more than three nights consecutive in the City Park. Of course, that was when the only people passing through were the odd motorcycle gangs and what have you. We’ve changed it to three weeks. But that won’t hold up either. Clearly we’ve got nowhere to put you guys. We’ve tried to get the drilling companies to put up a camp outside of town, but they don’t wanna spend the money, and the ranchers don’t want any part of it. Plus there’s just too many different drilling outfits comin’ in and outta here, each with its own troubles, for any of that to come together. You fellas sure seem to be makin’ the best of it, no matter what we do. Maybe we could get the power turned on for ya. Think you could pass the hat over there and see what kind of donation those boys could make to Parks and Recreation? Trash pickup alone is already a problem.”