Lone Rock

by Duane Lindsay

  Adrian wondered, did he believe? He thought of his life, the events that shaped it, examining it as an engineer. Logically he could find no reason to believe in God and certainly his brief contacts with the Bible didn’t fill him with faith. But he remembered the night on the bus and how he’d begged for help. If that wasn’t belief, what was? He recalled the axiom, “there are no atheists in fox holes.” At that moment he had believed. Or was that merely the seductive lure of desperation?

  Did God exist only in the dreams of the needy ? The poor, the wretched, the huddled masses yearning to be free? Was God like America? A place of hope, a last refuge of the spirit?

  He relived the feeling he got when he climbed. The sense of power, the feel of blood running through his body, that glorious sense of freedom, as if he could somehow remove the bonds of gravity and soar into the sky. Sometimes, when he was at the top of some crag where few men had ever stood, he’d raise his arms and hold them up to the clouds, like Icarus ascending, on beautiful wings.

  Was that belief? The knowledge that your own body, all it’s skills and power, all were a part of something greater, something created. He believed that. Was that something God? Was it this God and not that one? Was the Bible the only word, or one of them or none of the above?

  He thought about Jesus Gallegos for the first time in months. Jesus, dead at fourteen, named for the savior Roger was asking about. He thought about redemption, and absolution and forgiveness, and he hoped that Roger was right. Was Jesus somewhere now, free at last?

  He saw Roger watching him carefully, as if he wasn’t used to someone actually thinking about the answer to his questions. He held his expense envelope in his hand, turning it over once, and decided he didn’t have any answers and didn’t want to talk about them even if he did. What a man believed, he decided, was his own concern, as important or frivolous as life itself.

  He said, “Beats me. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Roger sighed and relaxed. He nodded and said slowly, “I believe. And I’ll be here if you ever need me.”

  “You look like a pirate with that scar,” Milt Quaid, the electrician said. He pointed to a section of a huge blueprint, spread on the table in the cafeteria of the Administration Building. The print tended to curl up and they held it down with a sugar dispenser, two ashtrays and a ketchup bottle.

  Adrian peered closely at the indicated place. It was all amaze of blue lines, most leading to arrows with numbers that routed them to other drawings. The set of electrical drawings for Kelly Ridge ran to three hundred pages. This page was the one of interest to Adrian right now.

  “This is the Flow station?” he asked.

  Milt nodded.

  “And this is the main panel ?”

  Another nod.

  “Okay, let’s go look at it,” Adrian said.

  “Can’t,” said Milt definitely.” You need full Haz-Mat gear to go there.”

  Adrian paused.” But why? The plant’s not operational, there are no hazardous materials anywhere, Why can’t we go out there?”

  “It’s policy,” Milt said. “When I was in ‘Nam...” Adrian had already learned that most of Milt’s stories began with when I was in ‘Nam.

  “When I was in ‘Nam, there was this black lieutenant named Willie Stubbs. He was new at the game and as gung-ho as they come, all spit shine and by the book, you know? He showed up in Da Nang this one summer and tells us we’ve got to wear our uniforms all buttoned up. Spit shined, like I said. This was July and the jungle, and it was hot. Hundred degrees, hundred and ten and humidity, well—it ain’t the heat, you know, it’s the humidity.

  Willie Stubbs, he couldn’t of been more than twenty, he declared we had to wear our uniforms buttoned up.” Milt stopped talking as if he was finished.

  “Yes?” said Adrian.” Is that the end? Is there a point to this?”

  “Sure,” Milt said, as if the point was obvious. “It was policy. Didn’t matter how dumb it was, it was just policy.”

  “And you’re saying that this,” Adrian indicated the drawing, “is policy, too?”

  “Yep.”

  Adrian thought hard. “Give me a minute, I’m not quite following this.” He moved his eyes from the drawing to Milt who waited with almost bovine patience. “We can’t go out to the flow station because it’s a hazardous area. And the main shut off for the sector is in that panel which is in the hazardous area. Ah.” Adrian saw it now.” If there’s an electrical problem when the plant’s running, nobody can get near the panel unless they suit up in HazMat suits.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying,” Milt agreed. He look a pen knife out of his pocket and began scraping dirt from his fingernails.

  “So we should move the panel to somewhere easier to get to.”

  “Yep.” Milt waited some more and Adrian thought this was like pulling teeth.

  “Milt, why don’t you relocate that panel to...” he touched the drawing.” Here?”

  Milt said, “I think it’d be better here.” He pointed and Adrian looked. He could see no reason to move it there, but Milt was an expert, so he agreed.

  “Fine, do it, Is that it? Meeting over?”

  Milt continued to stare at Adrian. “You sure do remind me of Willie Stubbs,” he said. “I didn’t realized it until just now.”

  “I thought you said he was black.”

  “Yep, he was.”

  “Why –?”

  Milt consulted some deep recess in his memory, a section not normally consulted, where the devils and nightmares resided, no doubt. “Cause he had a scar like you, got it when a fragment grenade blew up near him during R & R in Saigon. He wasn’t so gung ho about things after that. Fact, I remember he had his eye blown out too and started wearing a patch. We called him ‘Pirate Willie’ after that.”

  Adrian didn’t know what to add to this. He began to pick up the articles holding down the drawing. He was thinking about a problem in the pump house when he looked up to see Milt grinning at him.

  “Oh, no,” Adrian said abruptly.

  “Pirate Willie,” said Milt.

  “Don’t you even think it.” Adrian shook his head, aghast.

  “Yep,” said Milt. “Pirate Willie.”

  He turned away and went to share the news.

  Kenny Lomax was in the middle of his third obscene joke since breakfast, this one involving a deputy attorney, two prostitutes and a pair of size forty-eight hip waders. “And that’s when the trout started biting,” he concluded.

  Adrian surprised himself by enjoying the pipe litter’s crude humor, and laughed genuinely though he did wonder why the assistant DA hadn’t bought a fishing license before the election.

  They were indoors because that’s mostly where the pipes were, and on the ground floor for the same reason. “Shit flows downhill,” Kenny explained patiently.

  This could have been a political observation as well as physics; Kenny tended toward commentary.

  Adrian walked away to a shallow pit in the floor. The drain, required by regulation and common sense, was there in case of a leak, to allow water—or whatever—to be contained and pumped safely to wherever particularly nasty stuff got sent. He smiled and called to Kenny.

  “The drain, here,” he pointed. “It’s supposed to be the lowest point of the room.” He made his voice an accusation, “How the Hell’s this supposed to work if the drain’s at the high point? Christ. Kenny, shit flows downhill, you know.”

  Kenny, flustered, first stared at the pit, then wildly around the rest of the floor trying to figure out how Adrian could possibly know this wasn’t the low point. The entire floor looked level to him. Even if it was wrong, the slope should have been too shallow to see a difference.

  “How can you tell? This isn’t—?” He got down on his knees, placed his cheek against the concrete and peered along the floor as if lining up a pool shot.” It doesn’t look crooked to me.” He looked up at Adrian who was grinning.

  “Real funny, Adrian; real f
uckin’ funny.” He got up and brushed at his knees.” You are the oddest engineer I have ever met.”

  But when he walked off he was smiling. “Good one, though. You almost had me.”

  They spent most of the day checking out the piping system, inspecting pumps and transmitters that were mounted in the intricate plumbing system. Clouds had begun to form and when they emerged from the shadowy buildings, the outside was nearly as dark as the interiors. It made for a depressing day.

  “Have you ever met Corley Sayres?”

  Kenny said, “Sure, I know Corley. Why do you ask?”

  Adrian didn’t know. He’d thought about the man off and on since his confrontational first meeting. He decided his question was just curiosity.

  “No reason. I met him a couple of weeks ago, that’s all.”

  “What’d you think of him?”

  “I dunno. What do you think of him?”

  Kenny laughed.” One of us is gonna have to quit dancing around it, and it might as well be me. I think he’s a royal ass-hole.”

  “Me, too,” agreed Adrian. “But why do we think that?” They stopped in the opening of a huge barn style door, it’s twenty foot height dwarfing them both. The entire plant was built on this scale, as if it was made for a race of giants, not mortal men. Kenny lit a cigarette.

  “Corley Sayres became the veep about two years ago,” he said.” Me and the guys were somewhere—New Mexico? Yeah, the Worell power plant in Albuquerque. We went back to Denver for a break and we met this guy for the first time. He was all dressed in this fancy suit—” Most field guys had an aversion to suits, which was a large part of why they were field guys. In their opinion, suits played with paper and the real work got done by men in jeans.

  “He called us all in—on our day off, mind you—and we all meet in that fancy new conference room. Fancy! It doesn’t even have ashtrays. Well, Milt went out to the break room and got a couple of empty cans, so we wouldn’t mess up that nice table and all, and in comes Mr. Fancy Corley Sayres and Wally Clooner. And Corley launches into this big talk about how things have been easy up to now and we’re gonna have to change our ways, like we’ve got any ways to change. We do good work, you know.”

  Adrian agreed.

  “Wally should have known better. I mean we’ve worked for him since he bought the place and we’ve always delivered. So he should have kept his new partner in check, right?

  “Partner?” Adrian asked.” Corley’s a partner in Control-logics? How’d he do that? What did he bring to the company that would make him a partner?”

  “I don’t know. I stay away from the office. Stupid politics, what it is.”

  “So Corley tried to act like the new boss?” said Adrian.

  “He was all high and mighty. ‘You’re gonna do this; you’re gonna do that’, just like he had any idea of what work is like. Well, Doug. you know how he is, starts spouting off about unions and the working man and our rights and all that bull. Myself, I don’t believe much in the unions.” Kenny lit another cigarette and scratched his cheek, his fingernail making a sharp scritching noise on the stubble.

  “I think if a man’s good at his job, he don’t need a union. If a boss is stupid enough to fire him, a man should just go on up the road and get himself another job. Right?”

  Adrian, remembering his own career, and especially his panicky desperation to get a job, held his tongue. Things weren’t as easy back in civilization, or as clear as they seemed here in the middle of the desert.

  Kenny didn’t wait for a response. “So here’s the odd part. When Doug started talking, it was like Corley took it all personally. Not like a company thing, but like Doug was insulting him directly. So Corley stands up and kind off puffs himself up like a big lizard; like he’s gonna punch out Doug right there in the office. I mean, his face got red and his fists were clenched. He’s got big hands, too, could do a lot of damage. But Wally got a hold of his arm and pulled him off. Actually dragged him out of the room.”

  “We sat there for a couple of minutes wondering what the hell? But they didn’t come back, so we just went home. Never heard another word about it, either. So yeah, I think Corley’s just full of shit.”

  Kenny threw his cigarette butt into the dust. Suddenly he smiled and hit Adrian hard on the shoulder, the kind of blow that jock s do. He grinned a half toothless grin and laughed.” The drain’s too high, that’s a good one. Corley’s an ass-hole, like I said. But you’re all right.”

  He wandered off to the next building and Adrian rubbed his shoulder.

  31 – The Edge of Lone Rock

  They stayed at the Regal Truck Stop on the Interstate, twelve miles from Tooele.

  At four thirty every morning Milt, Kenny and Adrian drove across the highway to McDonald’s. They ordered breakfasts to go with three cups of coffee each and drove the fifty-seven miles to the job. Every other morning they filled the van with gas.

  Milt drove a conservative eighty-five through a dark pre-dawn haze, Kenny sat half asleep beside him, sipping coffee. Adrian crouched in the back on a pile of boxes. The smell of breakfast sandwiches filled the cab. The radio played something that thumped with bass.

  Kenny reached for the radio and a far too cheery voice announced, “...at the Stateline Hotel and Casino, in Wendover. Stay one night for only $29.95 and get the second night free! Kids Welcome...”

  “Screw kids,” said Kenny. “Where’s Wendover?”

  Milt swallowed a bite of muffin.” I don’t know.”

  “It’s on the Nevada border,” said Adrian from the back.” About fifty miles west of Kelly Ridge.”

  “No shit?” asked Kenny. He peeled the wrapper off a cigar and rolled down the window, flipping the cellophane out into the cold dark morning. Chill wind whooshed through the cabin and Kenny raised his voice to be heard.

  “How’d you know that?”

  Adrian held up his cell phone. “I looked it up.”

  “Oh. Milt, how much are we paying at the Regal?”

  “Sixty bucks a night.”

  Adrian was amazed. “Why are we staying there ?”

  “Because Roger wants to.”

  “Did you hear the ad?” asked Kenny.

  “Sure, but Roger thinks we should stay where we are.”

  “Roger can kiss my ass. And, I might add, he’s not here. He’s been rotated back to Denver for at least a month.”

  “So?” asked Adrian. He’d scrunched forward to listen.

  “So, let’s get something better,” said Kenny with a happy smile.

  They ended the day arguing.

  “Roger won’t like it” Milt said.

  “Why should we care?” said Kenny.

  Wendover, Nevada consisted of one street of thirty buildings. All of the buildings were casinos. As they drove across the state line (Welcome to Nevada: God’s pair ‘o’ dice!) they saw a ten story cowboy hanging off the side of the State Line Casino like a wild west King Kong, waving a cheerful white hat at Utah where gambling was illegal.

  “I don’t think we should do this,” Adrian said from the rear. Milt and Kenny, here since early March, had claimed the front seat in the battered company van.

  “It’s cool,” said Milt. The exited the highway and drove into the casino parking lot.

  “What about our clothes?” Adrian asked.

  “We’ll scope out this place tonight, get our stuff tomorrow when we check out of the truck stop.” He made ‘truck stop’ sound obscene.

  They parked and wandered into a huge lobby, past slot machines clacking and beeping, to a large front desk.

  “How much is a room?” asked Milt.

  “Twenty nine-dollars. But the second night’s stay is free.”

  Kenny positively gloated. “See, I told you! Our per diem is $75 a day. We spend ten on food. Add fifteen for a room and we make a profit.”

  Adrian looked around. He didn’t gamble, what would he do in a casino? “But—” he began.

  “You’ll love it here.” Ke
nny put an arm around his shoulder.” And you don’t really have a choice, do you?”

  He turned back to the clerk.” We’ll take three rooms.”

  “For how long?”

  “A month,” said Walt. “We’ll deal with Roger next trip.”

  The land was lonely and time worn. A bit of smoky gray sage and occasional dull green juniper flecked the distant slopes. Pale saltbush and dried brown grass covered patches of ground like a worn out carpet.

  Interstate 80 ran straight across the land like a ruler to nowhere. North was nothing but dusty white alkali flats. A turkey vulture soared high on its ceaseless quest for the dead.

  To the south, ranges of mountains stretched toward the road like a spread fingered hand. Each finger separated by at least twenty miles and each fell short of the interstate by at least five. Here and there 1-80 intersected county roads that looked like burro trails—two faint tracks leading off into the distance. The only sign of man was the interstate itself and the power lines that ran along side.

  Wasteland. The word leapt to Adrian’s mind. The basin he was driving through was aptly named Skull Valley because of the oxen and mule bones left to bleach in the sun by the pioneers. His eyes roamed over the desolation. It looked like God had gotten tired before finishing.

  Adrian spotted some small brown pebbles arranged to form letters out on the alkali flats. The dark stones stood out starkly against the white salt. The message spelled out was “Ray loves Jane.” In a heart. too, Adrian approved.

  About a mile farther along another message spelled Jesus is Lord. Half a mile later. God Loves YOU adorned the roadside. He began to wonder about where these roadside writers got all the dark brown pebbles.. This led to interesting speculations about the amount of work required to find the stones, load them into a vehicle, transport them...

  A Ford pickup roared past, startling him. He glanced down at the speedometer and saw he was doing eighty five. No wonder the guy blew by him.