Marchello said plenty of her coworkers—some who were receiving raises—also had citations on their records. In addition, she claimed her citation was unfounded. Scott Morgan was on location with her when the incident happened. “It froze up and [the supervisor] ended up blaming that on Cindy,” recalled Morgan. “I remember looking at him, thinkin’, ‘Cindy was runnin’ the nitrogen pump, how is it her fault that the fluid pump froze when the other guys were supposed to winterize it?’ It wasn’t Cindy’s fault. And I know it wasn’t Cindy’s fault because I saw her runnin’ the nitrogen pump and I was watchin’ the guys work on the other pump. I think they skipped a step and that’s what fucked it up. It was fucking cold and they were trying to get done.”
After the company’s rebuttal, the EEOC declined to take her case, stating it was “unable to conclude that the information obtained establishes violations of the statutes.” If she pleased, she had the right to file a lawsuit under federal law within 90 days of the decision.
On October 5, 2014, just before Marchello was due back at work, she sent in her resignation to C&J. She also contacted a lawyer, Stephen Premo at Halunen Law firm in Minneapolis, and filed a lawsuit. Premo wanted Marchello to detail every time she felt discrimination during her employment at C&J, not just instances she felt she could prove with a paper trail. Marchello had a lot of ammunition. In addition to her claims of unequal pay and being denied for raises and training opportunities, she included the time she overheard her supervisor say “You guys want her to quit? I’ll get her to quit; she won’t be here by Halloween.” And another time he told her she would “suffer a cruel, slow death” at his hands. She included the time she was called a cunt by a male coworker, and nothing was done about it. She included a claim that her first supervisor refused to allow her restroom breaks on location because she wanted to walk to an outhouse instead of pee behind a truck.
“The allegations are pretty shocking,” said Premo. “She was called terrible names. It’s just despicable stuff that has no place in a 21st-century workplace. It’s sad that in this day and age, women are still fighting for pay equality and to be treated fairly and equally in the workplace.”
Premo filed the lawsuit detailing Marchello’s claims with the U.S. District Court of North Dakota on February 20, 2015. This initiated a long fact-finding process to corroborate her claims, with the potential for more plaintiffs to come forward and the possibility of going to trial. “We believe there are other women out there in the North Dakota oil shale that have been discriminated against,” said Premo. “Plaintiffs are important because they can bring change to the workforce and you have a good ol’ boys network that perpetuates discrimination. Our goal is to bring law and order—at least when it comes to employment discrimination—to North Dakota, which appears to have been lacking in it.”
Marchello and her lawyers had a lot of challenges ahead of them, however. In Marchello’s case, a class action suit with multiple plaintiffs was unlikely. Most class action plaintiffs need to have the same employer and face similar working conditions. But as the only female coil field operator for the company in North Dakota, Marchello was essentially on her own. “Finding a defendant that employed enough women to bring a class action suit in North Dakota would be difficult,” said Premo. Without more women coming forward, it was likely Marchello’s case would settle—approximately 98 percent of single-plaintiff civil cases like hers settle in federal court. If a settlement couldn’t be reached, many cases like hers were thrown out by a judge before they went to trial. In addition, some of Marchello’s claims were difficult to prove—in many instances, she had no witnesses or the only witness still worked for the company and therefore might not be forthcoming. But Premo said his law firm was highly selective with the cases it took on and had considered all of these factors before agreeing to represent her. “Cindy’s sworn testimony is evidence and we believe her story,” he said. “It’s just up to us now to prove it.”
Meanwhile, Marchello applied for jobs in Utah and tried to figure out what her life post–oil field would look like. “You know, as scary as it was to come here, it’s scary to walk away from it too,” she said. “Now what am I gonna do? The oil field has ruined my attitude. I would not fit in at the cheese plant. They would fire me. They would—I’m too mouthy. I’m too mouthy.”
40. TOM STAKES
In addition to AA meetings, Tom Stakes returned to church. It had been over two years since he stepped foot in one. Rick Sonstegaard attended a congregation called the Church of God north of town and suggested they go together. I tagged along one Sunday. The church was located past Buffalo Trails campground, one of the first campgrounds to fill up when the boom started. Beyond it was the Eagle Ridge golf course and a new housing development called the Meadows where houses were going for over $400,000. On Sunday mornings in Williston, many local radio stations broadcast church sermons. We listened to one on the drive over as a light snow fell.
The church was a one-room chapel built in 1912. It was part of a historical pioneer village and museum, complete with a preserved 1900s-era home, a schoolhouse, and a general store. The chapel was originally a Swedish Lutheran church located in another town, but it had been moved to Williston in the 1960s. Ever since the boom had begun, the museum’s board of directors had been losing volunteers. Most were retirees living on fixed incomes and were forced to move out of town when rents soared. Not wanting the chapel to fall into disrepair, the board looked for an active congregation to use and maintain the building. That’s when they found Pastor Wayne and his small Church of God congregation.
We walked inside, careful not to slip on the ice on the way in. A pot of steaming coffee was in the lobby, and Stakes filled up a cup, adding two packets of Splenda. We walked down the carpeted aisle, past wooden pews, and slid into a row near the front. There was a pipe organ in the corner, and at the altar was a painting of Jesus, standing in a robe with his arms open, in an ornate white-and-gold frame. Under it were the words “Helig Helig Helig,” which means “Holy Holy Holy” in Swedish. Television screens had been installed in the front of the room, and a small heater pumped out warm air. Only six other people had showed up this morning. Stakes set his Bible, encased in its black satchel, down next to him.
The pastor stood at the front of the room. “Well, good morning!” he said as he looked around. “Good to have you with us this morning!” The pastor appeared to be in his mid-40s, tall and slender with a sharp nose, thinning dark brown hair, and a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache cascading down both sides of his mouth. He wore a slightly-too-big white dress shirt with reading glasses tucked into the breast pocket.
“Father, we come to you this morning, thankful for your presence in our lives!” the pastor yelled. “The blessings that you’ve instilled into our families, God, thank you for giving us this day. This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad!”
The heater in the corner blew hot air directly on us. Stakes wiped sweat from his forehead and took off his jacket.
The pastor asked everyone to stand. The television screens lit up with images of clouds and began playing music. Lyrics popped up on the screen, and the pastor began singing a ballad. “Welcome to this place! Welcome to this bro-ken vessel!” he belted out. The audience sang along softly. When there was a pause in the song, the pastor yelled, “Hallelujah! Lord, thank you! Thank you for your presence this morning!”
After we sang and sat back down, the pastor stood in the center of the aisle and bowed his head. The word REDEMPTION ran across the screen in big white block letters.
“Redemption!” the pastor yelled, jerking his head up. “If it was not for Christ coming, we would be so lost. We only received redemption because of Christ. Because of Him.”
Stakes watched the pastor closely, resting his elbow on top of the pew in front of him.
The pastor continued talking for another 30 minutes, putting boisterous emphasis on certain words and sentences. “He came in flesh, so HE KNOWS about ev
erything that you face in your life,” Pastor Wayne said. “He is JESUS CHRIST! God with us! GOD! WITH! US! He knows about all those temptations that are out there. He knows about all the sin that’s in our lives. He KNOWS the things that you’re going through … because he loves us so much. He says ‘Fear not. FEAR NOT!’”
“Fear not,” Stakes repeated quietly under his breath.
After the service, as we walked back to the car, Stakes said he enjoyed the sermon. “I believe they’re tryin’ to worship in a good way. Of course they have media, a technological approach to the music and the sermon. Hey, a lot of churches do that now. I didn’t know any of those songs, but I tried to sing ’em.” He laughed. “And the old buildings are just a natural setting for it. You can imagine the spirits that walk amongst that church.” He sniffled from the cold. “The things that church has seen through the years.” He planned on returning to the church the next Sunday. Rick Sonstegaard had suggested that Stakes talk to Pastor Wayne about possibly filling in for him one day. The idea of preaching excited Stakes. “I always pray to God,” Stakes said. “I say ‘Lord, You know my life. If You ever want me back in any form of ministry, just open the door and I’ll walk through it.’ The doors were closed for so long. But now I think He’s seein’ an effort on my part to try and straighten my life back out, and He’s startin’ to crack the door open a little bit.”
* * *
On Christmas Day in 2014, I snuck away from my family after we opened presents to call Stakes. He said he was sitting on the couch at the Sonstegaard house, watching television alone. He had recently returned from an AA meeting and seemed in good spirits. Although he still didn’t have a job, he claimed he was staying sober. The previous night, Sonstegaard’s sister had invited him over to her house for a holiday dinner party. The house was packed with about 20 people, and they feasted on lasagna and fruit salad. It was the first holiday dinner Stakes had attended in a long time.
After my visit, Stakes went to a Church of God service one more time, but then Sonstegaard stopped going and Stakes didn’t have a ride. He still attended AA meetings most days, though not as often as before. Today, he said, a man at the AA meeting broke down in tears. The man announced he was miserable and questioned the point of attending AA. “He was just goin’ through a tough time,” Stakes said, “it being the holidays and all.”
Stakes told me he was watching snowflakes flutter down outside the window. It was in the low 20s that day, but the following week, the temperature was forecast to drop into the negatives. His phone buzzed while we were chatting and Stakes said he had to go. He thought it might be his son calling.
* * *
Tom Stakes stayed in North Dakota until the middle of May 2015. Oil prices had hit a low of $43 a barrel in March, and the outlook wasn’t promising. Halliburton had laid off 9,000 workers, or about 10 percent of its global workforce, and reported a $643 million loss in the first quarter of 2015. Schlumberger had laid off 20,000 employees, and Baker Hughes laid off 7,000. North Dakota’s unemployment rate went from 2.7 percent to 3.1 percent.
Earlier that year, just before his sixtieth birthday in late January, Stakes had reconnected with his old boss, Gary Westerman. Westerman hired Stakes again but warned he’d be fired immediately if he started drinking. Stakes kept his promise until his final night in Williston on May 14. He went to the bars to say good-bye to Greg Mackie and Nate Beatty, and they drank until the early morning. Mackie had been indicted for selling drugs and sentenced to a year in jail. He only had a few nights of freedom remaining. He asked a friend to watch over his little yellow school bus while he was locked up.
Westerman and Stakes left North Dakota because Westerman wanted to grow marijuana and sell it to dispensaries in Denver, Colorado, which had legalized the plant in 2012. They planned to do construction projects while they developed the business, but Westerman estimated they could ultimately make $20,000 a month growing and selling weed. “It’s like the new gold rush,” Stakes said.
Before he left, Stakes had saved up about $2,000. He needed to get his driver’s license back to make the trip to Denver, but in order to do so, he had to pay fines, a reinstatement fee, and pay for two alcohol education courses. He also needed to pay for gas and hotels to get to Colorado. He had come to North Dakota with about $20 in his pocket and left with about $1,000. “Livin’ in North Dakota is not for the faint-hearted,” he said. “You come up here expectin’ to be in paradise, and everythin’s gonna be fine, but it’s a tough life.”
“Was it worth it?” I asked.
He paused. “I guess it’s just part of livin’. You make it some places, and some you don’t. Then you just gotta move on and try to find a new life.”
41. WILLISTON
On one of my drives to Williston from California, I took an empty two-lane road after leaving Rock Springs, Wyoming, cut through old mining lands, and eventually came to the town I was looking for: Jeffrey City.
The “city,” if you could call it that, was a cluster of buildings on the side of the highway. I pulled onto an empty street on the outskirts of town. There were no other cars or pedestrians in sight. Along the street was a roped-off gas station, a boarded-up building called Sagebrush Flats Bar, and a phone booth with a broken door and a faded, torn phone book inside. The book was folded open, as if someone had been searching for a number but left in a hurry. I turned down another street and saw a row of long buildings with broken shutters and peeling paint. Decaying steps led to a second-story entrance, and a DANGER: NO TRESPASSING sign was posted out front. I parked my car and walked down what used to be a sidewalk, the cement slabs slowly being swallowed up by prairie grass. Blades crept through the cracks and buckled the cement panels. I walked over to the buildings. They looked like old barracks. I saw another sign: BACHELOR APARTMENT #2. Ah. These were former man camps.
Jeffrey City was once a hub for the uranium mining industry. It was founded during the early 1950s as a company town for the Lost Creek Oil and Uranium Company, and the area boomed during the 1970s as more companies established uranium mines. By 1980, the town had grown to over 4,000 people, with some 1,000 workers employed by the industry. Subdivisions sprang up, new businesses were launched, and the city built a $1.2 million high school gymnasium. But a few years later, as a glut of uranium entered the market and safety concerns rose, the industry went bust. A mass exodus from Jeffrey City soon followed. Within two years, 95 percent of the area’s workforce had left. By 1982, only 1,000 residents remained and, soon, fewer than 100. Today, only a handful of people live here. A sign, JEFFREY CITY: THE BIGGEST BUST OF THEM ALL, by Wyoming’s Department of State Parks and Cultural Resources, told the story of the town: “The vacant streets still whisper of the thousands who once lived and played here,” it read.
As I walked through the overgrown sagebrush, I heard yelling in the distance. It was faint, muffled from the wind. I walked toward the sound and saw a group of men sitting across the highway at a junk shop. One gestured for me to come over. I returned to my car and drove to where they sat. An older man with leathery skin and a potbelly and two men in their late 20s sat on camping chairs and passed a jug of whiskey between them. I exited my car but kept it running in case I needed a quick getaway.
One of the younger guys introduced himself as Bryan. “Whatcha doin’ over there?” he asked.
I told him I was a writer passing through. I wanted to learn more about Jeffrey City.
“You wanna go shoot guns with us?” he asked, slurring his words.
I declined the offer and asked if any of them lived in Jeffrey City. They didn’t, they said. But they lived nearby. They knew only one guy who still lived in town: His name was J.D., and he was Jeffrey City’s sheriff and had been around since the boom days. He was now 88 years old and liked to tell people that he was “just sitting around waiting to die.”
I thanked them and turned to leave.
Behind me I heard Bryan slur: “I hate to see you go, but I like to watch you do it.” The three
of them broke into drunken giggles.
I quickly closed the driver’s door and rolled back onto the highway.
Would this be Williston’s future?
* * *
The story of Williston’s boom is not a new one. During the region’s bountiful oil years, as the rush for oil and money cast a spell and clouded visions, few in the Bakken region seemed to stop and think that they were pumping millions of new barrels into the world’s supply of oil. And when supply spikes and demand stagnates, prices fall. The same thing has happened dozens of times throughout history since oil was discovered in the United States back in 1859. OPEC typically helps regulate fluctuations in the market by holding back production, but this time, feeling threatened by the U.S. oil revival, it sat back and did nothing. OPEC hoped it could cope with dismal oil prices longer than U.S. companies could.
During the boom, oil producers ran into another problem with new fracking and horizontal drilling methods. The wells they drilled were incredibly productive in the beginning—some pumping nearly two thousand barrels a day—but didn’t stay that way for long. Oil production from these fracked wells plummeted after only a year. Most wells would fall to half their peak production level by the end of the first year and decline another 30 to 40 percent by the end of the second year. In late 2012, about 90 new producing wells per month were needed just to maintain production levels. To keep output growing and their investors happy, companies had to drill more wells, faster. The drilling intensity was staggering—the number of wells drilled or fracked in U.S. shale formations in 2011 outpaced the total number of oil and gas wells drilled in the rest of the world (excluding Canada) that year. Sustaining such a pace was difficult.
“The shale oil phenomenon will prove merely temporary,” wrote Leonardo Maugeri, a researcher with Harvard’s Geopolitics of Energy Project, back in June 2013, “a sort of bubble inflated by the very rapid ramp-up of production in the early months … but doomed to bust as soon as the best shale areas have gone.”
The New Wild West Page 30