The Runaway

by Mike Walsh

  “What’cha need kid?”

  Michael handed up his half buck onto the wooden counter he was sitting behind and said, “Bed and bath, please.”

  J. R. just gazed at the boy and finally, “Polite little shit, huh?”

  And after another pause, “OK kid, here’s number 37. Back in the middle by the baths. If you’re gonna work in the morning, you better take that bath tonight. They call out at the crack of dawn. Dip yourself in the soapy tub and scrub, and into the rinse after. Don’t worry about the water, we change it every day. You want a blow-job, there’s a couple of broads out the back in that old trailer. It’s an extra buck.”

  “No thanks, sir, I don’t think I’ll be taking to that.”

  “Oh, not only polite but a moral little shit too, huh. You want, the church is up on High Street, get’cha a little prayin’ in.”

  “Oh, it’s not that, sir. I just don’t have the buck.”

  After bathing, Michael scooped up his clothes and found bunk number 37. J. R. had given him a grubby wooden coin the size of a half-dollar with a hint of a number on it. Another one was twined to the metal bar on the bunk. He noticed every other one was vacant. He hoped it would not fill in tonight.

  “You here for the pipe off-loading, kid?” The bunk behind him. He turned and saw a young, wiry man, smoking, sitting in the middle of his bunk. Looking in that direction, Michael saw a sign wired to the tin sidewall. “If your caught stealing, we hold your head under the bath water until you repent. J. R. Critchen, Psalm .44.45.”

  “Name’s Tommy, what’s yours, kid?”

  “Michael. Got another smoke?”

  Tommy came over and shook out a Lucky. Michael took it and lit it off Tommy’s. “So what’s the scoop on this work I been hearing about?” Tommy lit up another Lucky off the butt, ground the butt into the tar floor.

  “Oil fields. Pick you up at dawn, work your ass off till dark and dump you back here. Pay you every day, in cash. They pick this spot ‘cause most of the roustabouts bunk here. Big load of pipe coming in every day and they’re grabbing all hands to unload. You ever swing pipe?”

  Michael had no idea what Tommy was talking about but he thought a day’s work would be good. “No, but I can learn fast. How much they pay?”

  Tommy blew smoke rings, “Buck an hour, less a buck kickback to the picker. He’s the guy comes pick up the workers in the morning. If he only needs less what is hanging out, he picks by the guys he knows won’t stiff him, or the guys that pay up front. When they need all hands, he takes his chances. Stiff him though, and he won’t forget. Tells the other field pickers and you got to move on. Just be out front at dawn and stick close to me. I’ll get you on.”

  Michael slept like a log and was shook awake by Tommy in the morning. He said there’d be coffee on the job so they should get going.

  They milled around out front with a couple dozen other guys. Apparently a lot stayed over to work all night. Tommy said if you didn’t need a ride back or worked all night you could ride in with the picker. You worked as long as you wanted or could but get paid the same straight time. Once you check out, though, you had to take your chances on getting picked again. Michael expressed concern about the work and Tommy explained that for the past week, most of the roustabouts, general grunt workers, were needed to off-load pipe. Two guys would be on the truck slinging the cables around the pipe, front and back. One guy on the ground at each end would guide the pipe to the designated location, called swingers. They had to hang on to the pipe, because loose pipe can’t be stopped and is dangerous.

  Sure enough, just as Tommy had said, they were picked and given a pin to put on their shirt. That told the picker at pay time, you were his buck. They drove a couple miles out of town, packed in the back of a sided flat bed, to a huge wired in compound. There were two large arched openings, one for in, the other for out, large enough for the big eighteen wheelers. They were dumped off just inside and lined up to check in. Time, name and color of your eyes. Michael guessed that was so no one could take your name and get your pay.

  “Pretty stupid idea,” Michael remarked to Tommy. “If I’m going to steal a name, I think I’d pick out someone with blue eyes.”

  Tommy thought that was funny, but said it was just something that carried forward. They used to keep it secret that they wrote down the color of your eyes, and after a few years, everyone caught on, but they still keep doing it, only now they ask.

  After checking in and given a “spot,” a truck area to work, they went to a glove barrel and picked out a pair of gloves that fit. Tommy knew the foreman and made sure Michael was with the team of four to a spot. There was another foreman standing by the loaded truck waiting for them. Several yards back was a tall crane, its hook hanging over the truck. The crane was close to an oil rig and there were a bunch of steel sawhorse-type things spread around.

  Tommy explained that one crane lifted the pipe off the truck horizontally and set it on the stands. Another crane would lift it vertically and set it in the hole. Michael would be on the ground guiding the pipe because he had not been on the truck before. The foreman barked them into place and Michael watched the crane lift the pipe gently up a little and down the sides of the other pipes so it could not swing. When it was low enough to reach, it was leaning against the side of the truck. A man on each end would then hold on tight and guide it to the stands, setting it down, and the crane would swing back for another.

  Michael and Tommy were getting into place, the other two more experienced guys climbing onto the truck, when a loud scream pierced the early morning. “LOOSE PIPE! LOOSE PIPE!!”

  More warnings from all over now. The pipe, over by the next rig, let go by one of the swingers, the other couldn’t hold on, the crane operator switching gears to ground the pipe, but not in time. A roustabout turning about, caught by the end of the pipe face high, the pipe taking the upper half of his face right off, the man not a sound from him, staggering back, hands to face, falling backwards now, everyone stunned and finally running to help. Michael watched the scene stone-faced, turned towards the field entrance, and peeled off his gloves. He tossed the gloves in the barrel and walked out to the highway.

  • • •

  He caught a ride right away that took him back through Big Springs about ten miles. The rancher, a nice old guy, apologized for dumping him in the middle of nowhere, but he had to go left to his place twenty more miles out into the desert. At least there was an old rundown gas station by the side of the road. A cold drink of water looked pretty good Michael thought, as he licked his dry lips.

  The sun was scorching hot, burning up the road, raising ripples of heat disappearing in a fog. He sat under the only tree that could be seen in any direction. Only the black asphalt road broke the desert scrub and occasional half-dead cactus. Starving for food and drink, he’d be damned if he’d eat the two cigars in his pocket, the only possible edible items for miles, except for the scattering of bugs, also looking for nourishment. It was too hot and dry to sweat, having lost all that while walking the last, what – twenty miles?

  How far can you see to the horizon? Someone once said seven miles. So how can you tell out here, everything’s the same. Had to be over seven miles he walked, anyway. Otherwise he’d see the run-down gas station he’d last had a drink of water at. He guessed now he should have taken the glass jug of water the old man offered him. Just didn’t want to carry it. Have a ride shortly and wouldn’t need it.

  All day and not a single car or truck came by. This is the real shits. He wasn’t sorry he was out there, not by any means. He knew the odds were in his favor and more as each hour passed. Let’s face it, this road was put in here for someone to use.

  His thoughts wandered to Washington Avenue and his father in his orange sweater crossing the street in front of the house and walking toward Broad Street. He knew he might never see him again. His mother had thrown him out again, maybe for the last time. He didn’t think she was wrong and probably thought this was the w
ay it always was. He was only seven or so and was used to his father not being around. And when he was, well, things were just not that good. And there were good times, just not when he was around.

  He kicked the dirt with his heel making a small trench. It was mostly dust. There was a noise coming from the direction he had come, but he didn’t hear it yet. His head was fogging and light, sort of like when you have a fever. Maybe he had a fever. He lifted his head off his chest and felt his forehead. Warm but not feverish. What was that noise? Must be a mirage. No, a mirage is something you see. He started to get up and felt the dizziness come. Steadying himself with his arm on the gnarly bark of the old mesquite, he hobbled up and balanced himself.

  It was a truck. A beautiful truck. He’ll stop, too. He knew he would stop. He better stop. You better stop, you rotten bastard. No, sorry, that’s no way to talk to an angel of a truck. Oh, look at the nice green truck, getting closer, he could see the man behind the wheel. Get up on the road, stupid. He can’t see you from here. Slowing down as he waved, definitely going to stop. It was the old man from the gas station. Pushed the passenger door open and handing out that glass jug of water. “I told you to take this, kid. No cars come by for hours, I figure you need this.”

  Back at the gas station, the old man told him to stay there till traffic picked up and he got a ride. Seemed like a good idea, now, and he sat on the rickety bench and gabbed with the old man. Well, listened was more like it.

  An empty pipe truck finally came along and stopped on Michael’s wave. The driver got out and sat with the old guy, taking a drink from a jug handed him. They seemed to know each other.

  “Where you going, boy?” he asked Michael. Michael hated that “boy” bit.

  “Name’s Michael. Where you going?”

  “John, and I’m just going to Midland. Gonna have a hot meal, get laid, get a good night’s sleep, and then home to the wife and kids. Ha, ha, ha.” The old guy chuckled also.

  Michael thought that was funny too and liked this guy.

  “Midland. Well, I guess I’m going to Midland.”

  Chapter 10 – Midland, Texas

  This is as far as I go, kid. Watch your step gettin’ down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “John,” he corrected.

  “Yeah, thanks, John. And thanks for the tip on Wilma’s.”

  “Just head over there, the south side of the square. You can’t miss it.”

  Wilma’s Cafeteria, the biggest sign in Midland, lit up like Christmas. Michael stood, and just looked for awhile, then stepped off the curb and headed across the square.

  There was an island of sorts in the middle, with grass and trees and benches, a round gazebo in the middle. The streets went squarely around this homey park. But all this could not hide the garish sign Wilma had erected. “Wilma’s Cafeteria, home cookin’ for the trucker and the oilman.” Michael loved it. It had lights all around it, just like New York.

  He walked across the grass, and stood on the sidewalk looking in through the large expanse of glass covered with more signage, ham and eggs, grits and biscuits with gravy 29 cents and the like. Michael hitched up his nerve—he was always tentative when he didn’t know what to expect—and pushed the large glass door open.

  He could see from outside that the place was well lit, but inside, a guy needed sunglasses. There were big long tube lights covering the whole ceiling. The place was pretty full, even for two in the morning. All truckers and oilmen, it looked like. There was a hum of conversation but nothing noisy like you would expect from this crowd. There was a lot of activity though, waitresses swishing between tables, dropping off food and picking up plates.

  Michael walked slowly to the center of the back where two long food counters were covered in glass with steaming potatoes, meats and vegetables. Right in the middle sat an obviously Wilma behind a cash register. She looked like if she stood up she could not reach the counter. Michael thought she reminded him of his grandmother. Short dark hair and a pleasant chubby face. He thought he better come up with something catchy to say before she can say “Can I help you?”

  “Excuse me ma’am, but do you work 24 hours a day?” and a little smile, just a little. That got a nice grin from Wilma and her shoulders dropped a little and she softened a little more.

  “Well aren’t you the Mickey Rooney, boy. No, I work nights ‘cause it’s the busiest and my best customers come in at night and they want to see me here. You stay up all night yourself, boy? It’s after 2:00 a.m.”

  “No ma’am, I been traveling, and this truck driver gave me a ride into town and told me to look you up, you might have some work for me, washing dishes or something.”

  “And what would this truck drivers name be, boy?”

  “John, ma’am, insisted I call him John, not sir.”

  “OK, I know John. He’ll be in later for breakfast. How old are you, boy? You have a social security card? I can’t work you and not withhold. Too exposed here. Too many people come in and ask about my new help, just nosy, you know.”

  “No ma’am, I don’t have a card. I just turned sixteen.” Michael was hoping the age was right for that card thing, whatever it was. He thought sixteen was alright to work, like back home.

  “Where you staying, boy? You have a place to bunk down?”

  “No, ma’am, like I said, I just got to town.”

  “OK, let’s get you something to eat and I’ll take you over to the boarding house.”

  Michael stuffed out on meat loaf, mashed potatoes and a carrot pea thing until he felt he was going to blow up. Wilma took him across the square and down a side street to a large three-story building with a wraparound porch. It was old but painted up real nice. They went up the steps and up to the second floor and into an unlocked room.

  “We don’t lock our doors around here, because we all trust one another. You got that, boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s Michael, ma’am.”

  “Yes, well Michael, you do three things around here and you’ll get along. You work hard, you don’t steal and you don’t butt into other people’s business. You got that, too?”

  “Yes ma’am, sounds good to me.”

  “OK, now this is Wally Simpson’s room. He works nights at the bank. Bank guard over there. Gets in about 8:15. Now you’ll be long gone by then, ‘cause you’ll work the 6 to 4 shift. You’ll get 50 cents an hour and your meals. I’ll take 50 cents a day off for the room. You don’t come back to the room before four, ‘cause Wally sleeps in. After that, he’s usually gone to the drinkin’ bar and won’t be back. Just don’t touch any of his stuff, such as it is.

  “Now tomorrow you go to the Post Office, I’ll show you where it is, and you order up a social security card. It’ll take about two weeks, but you can work on the receipt. The bath’s down the hall, clean up and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. I leave at eight o’clock. You can start the six shift starting Friday.”

  “Yes, ma’am, goodnight ma’am.”

  “It’s Wilma, from now on, OK? Wilma.”

  “Yes ma’am, er, Wilma, ma’am, er, Wilma.”

  Michael set his mental alarm clock and was up, bathed and out of there before he had to meet this Wally guy. Bank guard, probably the suspicious type. He went to the Post Office and waited for it to open at seven. He walked out with his receipt for a social security card that would allow him to work anywhere. He decided to make himself seventeen this time. What the hell, he had passed for eighteen. When he got to Wilma’s, she was counting the money.

  “Need some help?”

  No comment, just a hard look. OK, no more wise guy.

  “Can someone show me what to do, Wilma? I got a lot of experience, so there won’t be much to show me.”

  “Good morning, Michael, nice to see you on time. You have that receipt from the post Office?”

  Michael handed it over and was sent in to the kitchen to see Sid. Sid did the salads, desserts and helped short order and had a tough time keeping up with the
dishes. He showed Michael how the trolley dishwasher worked and Michael did not bother to tell him he worked one like this many times. They like to see that you catch on fast.

  Michael worked the next two weeks without incident. He met, and got along fine with Wally, both agreeing on a schedule. Wilma liked him because he worked hard without a lot of supervision, even though he ate like a train load of cattle. The waitresses slipped him a few bucks when they tallied up their tips. He was always out there pulling their plates and cleaning up stuff they used to do. Sid liked him because he stayed out of the way.