Lone Rock

by Duane Lindsay

  “Actually, I did know that part.” Adrian replied which earned him the first recognition that Roger actually knew he was present.

  Roger studied him for several moments while the van plowed ahead at ninety He said.” I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “How the guys are going to deal with you.”

  “You want to watch the road?” asked Adrian mildly.

  “What?” He turned, made a tiny adjustment to the wheel.

  “What guys?” Adrian asked.

  “The crew. Kenny’s the fitter, Doug’s the toys, Milt’s the Sparky. They’re kind of hard on new guys.”

  “I see. What will they do? If they don’t like me. I mean?”

  Roger considered. “Eat you for lunch.”

  Lost in that reverie Roger almost missed the exit. He tapped the brakes to disconnect the cruise control, skidded to the right and down off the highway. A left turn, two miles to a railroad crossing complete with cattle guards, a right turn and three miles to a dirt road and seven miles of southward bouncing across deep ruts.

  The gates of the Kelly Ridge Toxic Waste Incinerator had enough security guards to qualify it as a military post. One of them emerged from a warm wooden shack carrying a clipboard.

  “Names?”

  “Roger Detson, Adrian Beck; we’re with Control-logics in Denver. We’re expected.”

  The guard consulted some papers and eventually found their names.

  “Your trailer is over there,” he pointed.” It’s the brown one at the edge of the compound.”

  “I know,” said Roger with some annoyance.” I’ve been here before. Like every day.” His voice expressed his delight at being back. They parked, the car crunching like tin foil on the frozen snow, and ran to the door of the trailer. Roger fumbled with the lock, his breath coming in white clouds.

  “Well,” Roger said bitterly.” We’re home.”

  A telephone and a fax machine sat in one corner and a large red cooler squatted nearby. Thick winter coats and coveralls hung on pegs on the walls, work boots lay discarded on the floor. It looked like a bachelor apartment or college dorm in the Antarctic.

  Roger turned up a thermostat and the sound of forced air filled the room.” There’s no water,” he explained.” We bring our own food. The portable toilet is over there.” He gestured out the window to a tall blue plastic structure, a high tech outhouse.” It’s especially nice to use in the morning when it’s twenty below. You have to scrape the ice off the seat.” He smiled at the idea and Adrian thought about the coffee he’d had that would force him out there sooner than later.

  “I’ll go get my things.” He went back into the cold and brought in his boxes of new winter clothes, hoping they’d be enough to withstand the weather here.

  Finally, unable to wait any longer he told Roger, who was still smiling.” You could have told me about the outhouse part, you know.”

  “When?” Roger asked innocently.” The nearest real toilet is more than sixty miles from here. You probably didn’t need to go then.”

  “I would have made myself go,” Adrian declared. “Damn.” He glared at Roger and went out.

  The outhouse was colder inside than outside. Reluctantly Adrian lifted the seat, noticing that the contents beneath were frozen solid. With a sigh of deep unhappiness he undid his belt, pulled down his pants and sat down.

  He stared at the graffiti scrawled on the walls to distract himself. Most was typical: huge male genitalia, oddly shaped female parts, obscene and usually impossible suggestions. One caught his eye, almost making him forget his discomfort. It was a variation of the old “here I sit, broken hearted/tried to shit and only farted”, but incorrectly done, as if the writer hadn’t been able to remember.

  Here I sit...trying to shit

  All sad but not happy!

  And only farted.

  Incredibly, it was carved into the plastic with a knife or screwdriver blade. Adrian grinned at the idea of some worker, taking a long break, sitting here, ass frozen, scratching that into the wall, trying hard to get it right.

  This was going to be a very interesting place, he decided. He couldn’t wait to meet the rest of the guys.

  They were the Marx Brothers of the Kelly Ridge Incinerator, the sweat hogs of field work. Milt Quaid ran wire, Kenny Lomax lay pipe, Doug Galbraith installed equipment and Roger Detson supervised the crew. Together for seventeen years on a dozen projects all over the country, they had a close, if dysfunctional bond that included drinking, crude jokes, obscenity and, somehow, Christianity.

  Milt was as thin as the wire he pulled, a short man of forty-two who’d left four wives, six kids and an alcohol treatment program behind in the last two decades. His hair was short in a military style flat top and he wore a faded red lumberjack shirt and blue Levi’s with orange handled wire cutters in the rear pocket.

  Kenny Lomax, the plumber, was tall and bald. He’d worked industrial construction ever since he’d been caught by the early return of a long haul trucker. The man’s wife had managed to keep him from actually killing Kenny, but the resulting trauma—and multiple contusions— had been convincing; a change of career was required.

  He had a thick pony tail growing in the back, held in place with a dirty rubber band and kept a pair of yellow goggles around his neck. He always carried a memo pad and a stubby number two pencil for writing down pipe dimensions, saw cuts and crude jokes. He had a sixth grade education and it was likely he was the writer of the “all sad but not happy “ carving on the port-o-john wall.

  Doug Galbraith, the heavy equipment installer, was the closest to educated, A prodigious reader, he’d been taking correspondence courses during the years on the road. At fifty-seven, he possessed enough non-accredited hours to hold a master’s degree in everything from electronics to sociology, with a couple of minors in climatology and Finnish romantic literature of the eighteenth century.

  He was also, comparatively, the best dresser of the group. Since his job rarely involved rolling around in the dirt like Kenny, or climbing steel beams like Milt, his denim jeans were actually blue and his shirts free of tears and tobacco stains. He wore thick glasses and an Australian bushman hat.

  Roger Detson, the crew chief, kept a lid on the chaos. Since it had been nearly twenty years since any of them had actually held a job with any accountability beyond getting the lights to work, the equipment to run and water flowing, Roger’s job was a cross between liaison with the home office, den mother and probation officer. He intervened with the local officials when “his boys” raised too much commotion or violated too many sacred rules. He curbed their scandalous expense reports, smoothed over excesses in language, and twice had bailed them out of jails, though asking bitterly how it was that “two thirds of my crew—two thirds!” could be arrested. He seemed more upset that they’d been arrested at once, than at all.

  Roger spent his free time with the Bible, having been converted in 1992 during a Clinton-Bush debate by a spirited representative who believed solemnly that Clinton was the emissary of the Devil. Subsequent political events had not convinced Roger that she was wrong. He weighed three hundred and twenty pounds on a five foot nine frame, which made him an immediate candidate for massive heart failure. He defended his weight by declaring it “God’s Will” to the argumentative interest of Doug Galbraith, who was always willing to argue faith.

  The weather was pleasant, sixty-five degrees and sunny, fleecy white clouds in the immense bowl of blue sky. It contrasted nicely with the sere brown earth, never once indicating that tomorrow could be thirty below zero. Weather was a sort of three card monte in the Utah desert.

  Adrian got out of the car, unburdened by the usual forty pounds of cold weather gear. He wore new jeans, still stiff despite six hot water washings, and of such a deep indigo that he looked like a walking blueberry. He had tan deck shoes on his feet rather than the normal steel toed work boots. In all, he looked like the new kid in school, the new hire, the Virgin.
He carefully removed a brown paper bag from the rear of the car, straightened the kinks in his back and apprehensively approached the trailer.

  He opened the door and stepped into a cool interior. The crew sprawled around on chairs and tables, wearing faded and worn clothes, drinking coffee or Coke. They gave identical stares at the intruder.

  Adrian stopped in the doorway.

  “This is Adrian Beck,” said Roger from his supervisor’s chair. “He’s the new engineer I told you about.” The rest of the group inspected him the way a recently fed pride of lions gazes at a stray gazelle; not hungry just now, but interested.

  “The new engineer,” said Milt, with a vaguely southern drawl. His tone indicated he’d seen a lot of engineer’s come and go. He was holding the sports section of some newspaper rolled up in one hand.

  “Come to tell us how to work,” agreed Doug. He was sitting on a built in desk, leaning back against the wall, drinking what looked like a carton of milk. He finished the drink, crushed it in one hand, belched and threw it at the garbage can near Adrian. It landed on the floor and spun twice.

  “Fresh meat.” chimed in Milt happily.

  “Be nice, boys,” said Roger. “He seems okay.”

  “The hell’s wrong with your face?” demanded Kenny and the others all leaned forward to stare at the scar.

  Adrian stared back. He had a time stands still feeling, as if he had eternity to consider his response. Six months ago being this close to any of these guys would have sent him into a quivering panic. Maybe the job in Arizona had helped, or the long hours in the office, or the climbing steep rocks, or Maggie, or the work with Toby; any of the things he’d been doing for half a year could have pulled him out of a shell he didn’t even know he’d lived in.

  Though unafraid he was still nervous. He knew his next words would determine if his time here was enjoyable or an unending nightmare of juvenile games.

  He swallowed to loosen his tongue –a cracking voice would be a disaster—and said quietly, “I was in a knife fight.” He paused for the effect, added, “The hell’s wrong with yours?”

  He didn’t smile; that would have been suicide. He waited while they heard his answer, processed it and responded.

  Doug was first. He spit out his milk and began to choke incoherently with laughter. Then Roger got it, and Milt. They all turned on Kenny.

  “Score!” yelled Roger

  “Yeah, Kenny, what happened?” hooted Doug.

  “He got beat up by a Mexican whore, that’s what I heard,” added Milt.

  “I heard he was so ugly, when he was born the doctor slapped his mother,” said Roger.

  Kenny glared at his friends, back at Adrian who stood waiting. How would he react? Adrian was taking a huge chance that the plumber had a sense of humor.

  Kenny flashed a smile that displayed three missing teeth and nodded an acknowledgment that he’d been hit. He slid out one leg and pushed at a battered red and white cooler, the only refrigeration in the dirty trailer. The plastic box moved slightly toward Adrian and Kenny said, “have a drink. It’s on me.”

  Keeping eye contact, Adrian bent down and opened the cooler, fished his hand around the ice and took the first can he felt. He straightened and gestured with the can, slowly holding up a large bag with his right hand as if it was an offering to these strange new gods.

  “I brought donuts.”

  Gordon had warned him.

  “Now how would you know that?” Kenny asked Doug.

  “I read it.” His voice had the aggrieved resignation held by people who read versus those who don’t.

  They were all in the company truck at the end of Adrian’s first day on the job, heading east on Interstate 80 at ninety-three miles an hour. Milt was driving, Roger overflowed the passenger front seat. Kenny and Doug were arguing in the middle and Adrian had been consigned to the rear. His Toyota remained behind at the trailer.

  “They can’t either,” said Kenny. No one really knew what they were arguing about.” It’s like Svenda Fingensdottir said.” said Doug.” Never insult a little man, for he has nothing to lose.”

  “Fingens...daughter,” Roger said.

  “Dottir, ‘ Doug corrected.” Dot -Tir.”

  “Dot-tir,” said Roger.” Why are you always quoting her?”

  “Well, it’s not like there’s a whole lot of eighteenth century Finnish romantics to choose from,” Doug admitted.

  Adrian snorted, he couldn’t help it, the sound just exploded. Three heads swiveled to look at him, another set of eyes peered back in the mirror.

  “Something funny, new guy?” asked Doug.

  Adrian, caught between laughter and being caught, tried to control himself and failed miserably. For the first time in what seemed like ever, he was laughing out loud.” No, I’m...” He waved a hand—time out or give me a second, here—and tried again.” Svenda?” He broke up again. The idea of eighteenth century romanticists sat on him like an elephant joke; bizarrely funny for no apparent reason. And Finnish, at that. He managed, “Svenda,” again and sank his head in his hands.

  Slowly the others turned away in various degrees of amusement. Roger returned his eyes to the road in time to keep from going off it, although, considering the flat treeless salt flats, leaving the road wouldn’t have been a noticeable change.

  Milt yawned and scratched the stubble on his chin. Kenny and Doug, in the middle seat watched each other warily for several miles until, with deep suspicion, Kenny said, “Svenda? You made her up?”

  “I did not,” Doug said, aggrieved, suddenly realizing he could have made up others, and who’d know? “She’s a real person. Was a real person.” He turned to glare at Adrian, still choking in the rear.

  Milt yelled, “You did! You made her up, you cheating bastard.”

  “I didn’t, you stupid pipe layer.”

  “Ass-hole.”

  “Fuckin’ hippy.”

  “Book reader,” Kenny declared with withering scorn.

  Roger, seeing things fall apart bellowed, “We’re here,” and pulled off the highway on a circular clover leaf marked at forty miles per hour. He took it at seventy while barely squealing the tires.

  He parked the van in the lot of a two story older truck motel next to a set of gas pumps and a liquor store, Across the road was a brightly lit McDonald’s. Singly, like clowns exiting a car, they stumbled out, creaking and stretching. Without a word they separated, trudging up the rickety wooden stairs or vanishing around the corner toward the liquor store. Finally, only Roger and Adrian were left. The sky was still clear, but evening and darkness weren’t far away. There was a mournful feel, as if ghosts of depressed travelers hung in the air.

  “You’re in forty-six,” said Roger. handing over a key. We’ll pick you up at 4:30.” He turned and strode off, a too stout man in tattered coveralls.

  Doug Galbraith and Adrian stood on the edge of the catwalk at Clarifier B looking down at the desert. In the two weeks he’d been at the plant, Adrian had been paired most often with Doug.

  “The transmitter’s over here,” said Doug, pointing. He unsnapped his safety harness and walked unsteadily, hands tight on the yellow rails. Adrian, still gazing at the scenery, also undid his belt, but walked with casual certainty, quickly catching up with his slow moving partner. The smell of salt and mesquite filled his nostrils and he breathed deeply, savoring the day.

  “Beep -beep,” he said, coming up behind Doug.” Let me by, huh?”

  Carefully, Doug let go with one hand and leaned back to make room. Adrian bounced by, feeling the thin grid steel bend under his boots.

  “Doesn’t this bother you ?”

  “What?” Adrian turned back. Doug was carefully reattaching his harness, securing himself to the steel rails.

  “This.” Belted, his confidence increased and he leaned into the canyon separating two huge vats. His head hung nearly eighty feet above green painted concrete.” Gives me the fuckin’ willies, man. Makes my balls crawl all the way up.”r />
  Adrian also looked over and shrugged.” No.” He turned away to face a complex looking piece of equipment. He studied a black phenolic tag, comparing it to a list in his hand.” This is it.”

  “Sure it is,” agreed Doug.” ‘I installed it. How come you’re not afraid of heights?”

  “I don’t know. I like to climb things. I do rock climbing for therapy.”

  “What kind of therapy?” Doug fumbled for a cigarette. The rules would soon forbid smoking, but until the actual chemicals arrived, no one paid any attention. He blew a puff of smoke which swirled into the thin air.

  “I was injured last year. Broke a couple of ribs, my leg, an arm. Got this.” Adrian touched his cheek.” When I got a little better I started climbing. My doctor recommended it. Now I do it for fun.”

  “Rock climbing? You mean like up the side of a mountain or something?” Doug looked dubious. Clearly he thought this to be the height of folly. He gestured at a tall radio tower in the center of the huge complex. It stood nearly a hundred and fifty feet high and had thin metal rungs all the way up one side. At the top was a five foot circular platform of grid steel.

  “You could climb that?” Doug asked.

  Adrian considered. “Sure, it’s not so high.” Watching it. poised high and aloof in the mid-morning sunlight reminded Adrian of his intention to go back to Lone Rock. Maybe this weekend he decided, if the weather was good.

  “Wait a second,” Doug said.” You say you got hurt? But you said that scar was from a knife fight. Did you make that up?”

  “Maybe,” Adrian smiled, playing with an idea. He touched his cheek again, feeling the twisted hardness and the odd sense of numbness.” Did you make up Svenda Fingensdottir?”

  Doug eyed him.

  “Right,” he said eventually.” Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  “Do you believe?” Roger asked.

  “In what?” Adrian handed over a stack of papers and Roger neatly placed them on the desk. They sat in the office section of the trailer, listening to the wind howl outside.

  “In God,” said Roger. “In the Bible.” His voice held the incredible patience of the true believer, willing to wait forever if he would only be heard once. He punched holes in papers, sipped coffee, stapled more papers, sucked the cream from a Twinkie, folded papers and belched. He placed the papers into a Manilla envelope.