Big Dead Place

by Nicholas Johnson

  Eventually all the prizes were awarded, and bingo night came to a close. When I went to bed at midnight, Boozy was still absent. At 3:30 I awoke to find Ben sitting at the foot of my bed hissing: “Nick! Nick! We’re going to bring a frozen pig in here and put it in Boozy’s bed! I just wanted to let you know.” That was agreeable to me. I drifted in and out of sleep to the sounds of frequent but careful door openings, conspiratorial whispering, the click of a camera, muffled giggles and, finally, a loud outbreak of laughter that fled through a slammed door, followed by the clown’s vengeful grunts.

  The next day I saw the photos and learned what had happened.

  There had been a plot against Boozy since the early evening. The drinks at the bar were followed by a bottle of rum in the upstairs lounge of 155. To get Boozy in his best mood and lower his defenses, a female operative made out with Boozy in the corner while her boyfriend looked on, understanding the sacrifices one must make for glory. Later, Boozy spent some time bent out the window, suspiciously trying to rid his mouth of spit, and some feared Boozy would spend the night on tile instead of sheets. The entire caper hinged on Boozy returning to bed, but they had underestimated his endurance. Deducing that boisterous company infused Boozy with life, as lightning did Frankenstein’s monster, they told him they were going to go sit in the Galley—a wretched place to drink—and it appeared their trick worked. Boozy went off to his room, and the cabalists spent 45 minutes or so in the Galley waiting for him to go to sleep.

  When they returned upstairs, they saw Boozy on his hands and knees crawling backwards from Jeannie’s room, pulling a frozen pizza on a plate across the floor. Jeannie had a toaster oven, and had invited us to use it any time of the day or night to cook the little frozen pizzas purchased from the bar. As he stood in the darkness of her room watching the glowing elements of the toaster oven thaw the frost and curl the cheese on the miniature pizza, he suddenly worried that he was being inconsiderate of Jeannie. When Ben came across Boozy inching his way quietly from her room, he noticed the stillfrozen pizza had a bite missing from it.

  Tough measures were called for, and the female operative accompanied Boozy to his bed. I slept, unaware of the brave clown-macking nearby. She left Boozy horizontal and happy, and he plunged into sleep.

  You have come to the pristine and stark seventh continent with images of adventure involving physical endurance and rugged beauty. It is the middle of the night on a Wednesday, and you wake up to pee. You emerge from the women’s room. A man in the hall runs past you with a frozen pig under his arm, pursued by a lurching, drunk clown.

  The pranksters were startled by Boozy’s persistence in seeking revenge. He lumbered up and down the halls for ten minutes in a poorly planned circular hunt, but Nero had escaped his perspiring clutches by stashing the pig in the sauna and hiding in the women’s bathroom. Standing on a chair, Boozy was about to climb through the ceiling tiles into a room he thought harbored a suspect when he realized he was on a cold trail and returned to his warm bed. The pig was later removed from the sauna and returned to the food freezer.

  In the weeks after the last Winfly flight, winter-overs began shaving their heads or their beards, or dyeing their hair, getting ready to return to the larger society as if preparing for a date. The anticipation of summer brought a new vigor to the station. The Safety Guy declared scores of tools unsafe, so people had to sneak the tools from boxes on the cargo line to do their jobs. The skua piles grew in the dorm foyers as 200 winter-overs scrubbed rooms and prepared to leave, while Debbie sent troops of frantic janitors to remove the piles in order to keep the halls orderly. While the company president encouraged us to participate in the All-Employee Opinion Survey, HR hounded us for “a good response rate” to the survey.

  Riding this new burst of energy, the Safety Girl audited work centers. At the BFC, she told one of the workers that their work center looked pretty good but for one small problem. The Flamms cabinet held materials that were still packed in their cardboard packaging, which, she said, added an unnecessary fuel source for potential fires. She asked the BFC supervisor to go through the Flamms cabinet and remove things from their cardboard packaging. The BFC supervisor reminded her that there were thousands of cartons of matches in the Flamms cabinet for use at field camps, and asked if she had to remove all the individual matches from their cartons.

  “No, that’s okay,” said the Safety Girl, “matches aren’t flammable.”

  The absurd circus seemed to be approaching some climax. On Labor Day, when Denver took a holiday, we howled with laughter. We were in the final weeks of winter. Soon we’d be in Christchurch—fantastic Christchurch!—eating green curries, drinking black lagers, and bitching if it rained. Nothing could faze us. Then Denver cut our bonuses across the board, and the laughter died.

  Once we were busy losing money, we could hardly raise a chuckle, even at the season’s last All-Hands Meeting, when a carpenter whose bonus had been cut behind the scenes received a $100 award for Outstanding Achievement in public. Some who asked why their bonuses had been cut were told that if they didn’t accept the changes to the supporting documents, their bonuses would be cut further.

  On the last day of winter, most of the winter-overs skipped work and went to Daybar to get loaded. Tradition and the principle of safety in numbers protected all but one janitor who, like a weak gazelle at the watering hole, was fired. At the bar himself, the HR Guy had seen the janitor there and signed the paperwork for his termination.

  Just a few days before he flew out, one of the FEMC supervisors was written up for an email in which he had referred to Franz and the HR Guy as “fingees,” a term so established that it has been used in official government publications. He resigned on the spot.

  It was announced around this time that “Rose-Colored Glasses” were available for the winter-overs. They were hung in an envelope on the Housing bulletin board.

  While Jane was embroiled in a futile struggle with HR, I was waiting upstairs to complete my room inspection.

  When the room inspector (a janitor temporarily outfitted with a clipboard) arrived, I was on the couch playing Tomb Raider 3, searching for my artifacts. We greeted each other politely, and I resumed my position on the couch while she began looking around the room. She opened the fridge.

  “Are these your Cokes?”

  “No, they’re my roommate’s,” I said. “He’s not leaving yet for another week.”

  “Well, when he leaves he’ll have to clean them out of the fridge,” she told me with a small laugh.

  “He’s leaving in a week. I’m sure they’ll be gone before then.”

  “Well, as long as he takes them out when he leaves. Are these your decorations?” she asked, pointing to the plastic grapevines that circled the room near the ceiling.

  “No, they’re my roommate’s. He’s leaving in a week.”

  “Oh well, ha ha, I’m afraid I can’t sign off on the sheet until they’re taken down.”

  “Do you mind if I take them down now, so I can sign off instead of you coming back?”

  “Well, okay.” She smiled.

  I set about removing the plastic grapevines from the wall on my side of the room, to avoid a $500 fine. As I did this she moved to the windowsill.

  “This windowsill is dirty,” she said.

  “I specifically paid careful attention to scrubbing the windowsill,” I said calmly. “I know you always check the windowsill.”

  “Well, okay,” she said. “It must have gotten dirty again in a day!” During a recent room inspection, the inspector had examined the windowsill and told the room’s occupant that it was dirty. The occupant, thanks to the efficient McMurdo grapevine, knew of this season’s windowsill fetish amongst the Housing inspectors, and came over in surprise to examine the filth in question.

  It was frost.

  CHAPTER 11 NOTES

  1 Along with the health magazines, I received from Raytheon brochures advertising Metlife, Raytheon’s preferred insurance provider
. One of the brochures featured Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and the rest of the Peanuts gang. On the front of the brochure, Woodstock was talking into a tin can, and Snoopy was listening through another tin can at the end of a string. Above this scene was the slogan, “The Word Is Out About Metpay.” My first thought on examining the brochure was that it must be expensive to pay for the rights to use Peanuts characters to advertise a commercial product. Later, on January 2, 2002, a friend sent me an article from the San Francisco Examiner with the headline, “Insurance firm can’t wait for client to die.” A Raytheon engineer, exposed to toxic chemicals and radiation in the course of his job, had to have a physical examination done every six months by a medical firm specified by Raytheon. He always passed his physical exams, but when eventually he went to a different doctor, he was told that his medical records showed that his kidneys were malfunctioning and that he needed a transplant immediately. He had two separate kidney transplants, and his worker’s compensation claim resulted in Metlife agreeing to pay him disability benefits until the age of 65, or until he died. Nearly ten years later, Metlife terminated his benefits without explanation. The claimant reported that the Metlife representative in charge of his case said, “We weren’t expecting you to live this long.” The claimant sued Metlife, living long enough to collect back payments and to be reinstated. Less than a year after the case had left the courts, Metlife again terminated his insurance, and the case again went to court, to be processed and digested by the sluggardly cilia of justice as the claimant began to run out of money for medicine. After reading the article, I dug out my Metlife brochure and examined it further. Inside, the Peanuts gang is gathered together, all of them smiling, all of them giving an encouraging thumbs-up.

  2 Old Antarctic Explorer—a self-congratulatory term for someone with a lot of Ice Time. At one point the store offered certificates that certified one as a member of the McMurdo Society of Old Antarctic Explorers. The certificates read, “The society’s purpose is to work in partnership with each other to support scientific efforts on the highest, driest, coldest, windiest, and southernmost continent. Continuing the venture of the pioneer Antarctic expedition leaders who launched this endeavor and to pay honor to all those who have followed them to the bottom of the world.”

  APPENDICES

  APPENDIX I

  THE IRONWORKER AND THE RUSSIAN BRIDE

  IT WAS ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH the winter when Tracker the Ironworker first learned from a co-worker that the Internet could be useful for finding and corresponding with potential Russian brides. His co-worker had shown Tracker how to open a free email account and how to navigate the relevant chatrooms.

  It was not long before Tracker found a delicious prospect named Natasha Petronovich who—except for the pictures, retrieved from some porn site, of “Natasha” lying in the grass with long blonde tousled hair, or wearing a short denim dress and climbing in a tree—was entirely fabricated by Tracker’s hairy male co-worker, who devotedly corresponded with Tracker for the latter part of the winter. “Natasha” convinced Tracker to fly to Moscow after his long winter, where he arrived with two hundred condoms and several cartons of Benson and Hedges menthol cigarettes that had expired in 1996. He had bought these items in McMurdo at “Natasha’s” recommendation, and hoped to sell them on the Russian black market.

  What follows is the correspondence between Tracker and “Natasha Petronovich.” Hundreds of misspellings have been corrected for ease of reading, though the intentionally bad English of “Natasha” has been left intact.

  Tracker to Natasha:… You asked me why I’m coming to your country in October or November instead of right now, well, where should I start? No, I’m not coming there because of work reason, I’m coming to see you and your country, to have a great vacation. Who knows what might happen between the both of us, only our good lord knows, I’m sure it’s good, whatever it might be, I can tell by looking at your face, you’re a good person. I look forward to meeting you soon, SINCERELY I DO. The reason I can’t come to your country right now is because I’m at the South Pole, Antarctica. I work for the United States government, and the National Science Foundation, researching the ever changing weather conditions in our world. It’s very cold here right now, 91 below zero today…

  Natasha to Tracker: So nice to read your letter. I am happy that you find my picture pleasing to look. I do not think am so beautiful but it make me feel good in my heart to hear your kind words saying I am. Thank you very much.

  So you are scientist at the south of pole? That is very exciting! I do not know people live there. If I can ask, what is it you study there? Do you have the bird penguin there? I see them in movie and think they are very nice bird. Make me laugh when I see.:)

  91 degrees below the zero? Brrrrrrrrrrr! (Is correct word?) Is very cold in Moscow winter but that is too cold for me. I think you very brave and strong to live in such place. Am very proud to have a friend who do this! Me? Like I said, I am just secretary. Not important like scientist. Secretary is just ok job. I do not get paid a lot of moneys but am happy for now. I share apartment with two friend with names of Beta and Tamsin. They are long time friend and we have many funs together…

  In University I study accounting but also study dance. To be dancer is what I really want. We have very famous ballet here in Moscow called Bolshoi. Ever since young girl I dream one day to dance with Bolshoi Ballet. Is dream of many girls in Russia. Sadly, I was in accident when 20 and hurt my back and now will never dance with Bolshoi. Oh, my back is better and I can do most things but to do ballet dance hurt too much.

  That is why I am secretary now. Am lucky I also study accounting in University or have nothing. I still love to dance and tried other job as dancer in club. They want me remove my clothes while dancing. I did one night but was too embarrass so did not do again. It was good monies but not right thing to do. So I am secretary and for this time am happy with that.:)

  Oh, I could tell you more but then you know all my secret! That is no funs. I think I will be like book. Each letter like page in book. The more letter you read the more you learn of me.:)

  You must tell me more of south of pole where you live. I think is very exciting!

  I find other picture to have put on this letter. Hope you also like.

  Tracker:… I hope you didn’t get the wrong impression from my last letter, but here goes again. I am not a scientist here, I just work for the NSF National Science Foundation. The work that I am here doing is, I am a crane operator, a pipe welder, and an iron worker. I build new labs and buildings for the scientists as you can see in the picture.

  In response to your profession I think you to have a very important job. All companies and businesses need secretaries too, to do many jobs for them also. So don’t think your job is so bad.

  By the way, I’m sorry to hear about your accident, everybody should be able to pursue and for fill there dreams. Maybe it was for a reason, good or bad, who knows. I too like to dance, but not to ballet. I like to dance to disco and southern rock. I think if you like to dance, then you should do so, no need to be embarrassed about it, you’re a beautiful lady…

  Let me ask some questions, for my book.

  When is your birthday? What size pants and shirt do you wear? Do you have a phone I could call you at work or home? Can I mail you a letter or package? If I could send you something what would you want the most? Do you have a car? Can you read English, or if I called you on the phone would we be able to talk to each other?

  What do your friends think about us writing to each other?

  The end of the Questions for now. I really hope you continue to be like a book, I love to read. I wish to know the name of your book, is it Natasha or Tasha, you tell me, I’ll keep reading it, because you have caught my attention. Ha Ha I wish to read all your pages, then maybe we could start a new book, who knows, it could be a perfect book between the both of us…

  Natasha: I have just return to Moscow from visit to my family home in Nizhniy. Is south
and east of Moscow. I was hope to spend my summer holiday on Black Sea like last year but not enough money so I go to visit my parents and Taki. It was very nice time and my good friend Tamsin accompany me. Oh, we have moneys to go to Black Sea but Tamsin and Beta and I are saving for new apartment. We are on list for two bedroom. We live now in one bedroom and is not so bad because we are such good friend. Tamsin and Beta sleep in bedroom and I have small place to sleep in main room.

  Sometime in winter there is no heat and we all get in bed together for warmth. Then is real nice sometime. I like best when I am in middle and my two friends on each side to make me warm. I will act as if asleep and Beta and Tamsin will begin touching me. Is a game we play when together in bed. They touch on my arms and legs and stomach and then my breast. It make my nipples stand like tiny soldiers! I am still pretend to be asleep and they will touch my other places. Tamsin has good English and she says is called “pussy”. Like pussy cat. Is that correct? They touch me there and then is very difficult to pretend sleep! It become very wet and I am so hot that I open eyes and say “What are you doing! You evil girls are being bad and not letting me sleep!” Then we all laugh because they know I not really asleep. Sometime Beta or Tamsin will kiss me on pussy and use the tongue to pleasure me. Ohhhhhhhh that is very nice I think! I very much like to be pleasure that way. Sometime I pleasure Tamsin and Beta with my tongue but is better when they do to me.:) Tamsin and Beta have boyfriend and they get very jealous when we play our bed game. I have boyfriend last winter he was sometime also jealous. Now am single so no boyfriend to be jealous and can do bed game all of time.:)

  I hope you are not suprise by me telling this to you or think I am bad girl. Is just a silly bed game that we girls like to play. I have understanding that Americans are very open about sex so I am try to be like American girl for you.:)