by Rick Treon
“Why? Where are you staying?”
“On my friend’s couch. He lives nearby, but he doesn’t have a spare room.”
She responded with a sigh, then silence.
“Hey, if you want me to pay for half a room, I’m going to stay in half that room,” I said.
“Fine.”
Jorge opened his door. It was 6:59 and everyone was meandering toward the bosses.
“Hey, I have to go. All you need is your driver’s license, your social security card, and a blank check for the direct deposit. When will you be here?”
“Tonight.”
I opened my door. “Sounds good. I’ll text you the address of the hotel around ten.” I slipped the phone back into my pocket and hustled to catch up with Jorge.
“So, are you two going to start fucking or what?” he asked.
“Shut up.”
“What? You just said you’re going to be staying in the same hotel room.”
I shook my head. Flashes of us lying in bed together had run through my head after Veronica agreed to the deal, but that wasn’t the point. Plus, after the way she’d played hardball, sleeping with Veronica seemed nowhere in my future.
We walked up to the group of about thirty men and Melissa, who’d stayed after learning that Jillian had died. It was murder, though nobody had said it out loud, and the guys figured she would drag up, pipeliner parlance for leaving with no notice. But she could kick most of our asses and liked to present herself as fearless, whether she was or not.
“Listen up,” Redbeard said. “We’re back to work today. With things on hold at Site One, we’re going to work on all the fabrication out here and ramp up excavation out at Site Three. Operators—see me after this meeting so you know who’s going where. Labor hands—go holler at Jameson. Welders—Zak is back today, and he’ll get you straightened out. Okay, that’s it, have a good day out there and stay safe.”
We were all about to break up when Zak cleared his throat. “I have something I need to bring up.”
Several welders hung their heads and reluctantly began walking back toward the gathering. Zak liked to talk about the same safety issues at every meeting. Even a newbie like me was getting annoyed. It took about a week to get the basic safety rules down. Wear your personal protective equipment, known as PPE. If you’re rigging something to be lifted by a hoe or fork truck, do it correctly. Helpers had to worry specifically about making sure disc guards were on the grinders unless they had permission from Zak or a welding inspector. And the golden rule: If you’re not sure whether something is safe, ask.
“We had something pretty serious happen that we need to talk about,” Zak said. “Now, I know it was crazy yesterday, and it’s going to be that way for a little while, but someone left the gate back there wide open. And that’s a huge deal.”
The group stopped stirring. Zak wasn’t reading from his usual script, and we might be in store for a serious ass-chewing.
“There’s a lot of cattle and other livestock out on these ranches, and we are guests on their property. Not only is there money to be lost if any animals get loose, but it’s unprofessional. There are only a few of us here with keys, which helps. But from now on, if you open a gate, you stay there and lock it up. No more telling the last guy through to shut it for you. You open it, you’re responsible for closing it. Got it?”
We all nodded or mumbled acceptance. Zak began walking toward the collection of welding rigs, and we let him get a few steps ahead.
I thought back and was pretty sure I wasn’t responsible. But as tired as I was in the mornings, I couldn’t be sure.
“That wasn’t us, was it?” I asked Jorge.
“I don’t know if it was you. But it doesn’t sound like they know, either. Or, if they do, nobody’s getting fired this time. Don’t worry about it.”
Zak did not look pleased as we approached. He was about four inches shorter than me, which seemed typical of welders and their helpers. Being tall meant it was harder to get under the pipe. He was still cleanly shaven below a University of Oklahoma ballcap. The lack of his short beard—he must be keeping it off for meetings with the gas company executives, which he no doubt hated—took thirteen years off his thirty-year-old face.
“Look, we’re behind,” he said. “We don’t have the trailers yet to move the hoes from Site One, so we’re going to share these. Things are going to be slower than we want, so we’ll be working Sundays from now until I say otherwise.”
That last bit was met with a mix of groans and excited whispers. Some of the older welders, especially those who lived nearby, valued their days off. The younger ones who traveled in their fifth-wheel campers were happy to get more overtime.
“As for today, Jorge and Paul, y’all go set up on that thirty-inch pipe,” Zak pointed about a hundred yards north. “I’ll have them bring over a ninety for you to weld on. Everyone else, go to your trucks and I’ll come by and let you know when we have you set up for a weld.”
Jorge and I walked back to his truck to put on our PPE. It was an unwritten rule that our fire-resistant clothing—referred to as FRs—steel-toed boots, hardhats, gloves, and safety glasses weren’t required until after the tailgate meeting.
“Sometimes I wish we weren’t teachers’ pets,” I said.
“Says the kid who used to ask for extra credit.”
It was true. I had turned down a party or two when we were younger so I could finish an extra essay assignment. “But Zak doesn’t give a shit if I suck up to him. You’re the one with the brown nose now.”
“Shut up.”
I laughed. Jorge knew I was right, but he would never admit it. Flouting authority had been part of his persona. But he now welded as well as possible, seemed grateful to stay busy, and cared about things being precise. He was a craftsman, not just a hired arm like many of the welders. As a result, we were often put to work first and chosen to stay late if needed. On the other hand, we were also given the welds Jorge and Paul preferred. That usually meant bigger pipe and, occasionally, only finishing the weld.
Jorge began slipping on his boots. “You realize you didn’t mention anything about FRs or PPE to your new girlfriend.”
I was digging in the back looking for my hardhat. “That was on purpose. She’d’ve tried to get me to pay for half. And she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Dude, you could get her. Hell, you almost had Jillian. When was the last time you had a girlfriend?”
Jorge did a lot of good-natured shit talking when it came to women, but it was usually soaked in machismo. He rarely asked me such pointed questions.
“I don’t know. Maybe a year.” I had lied, as I suspected many men did when confronted with their romantic and sexual deficiencies. The real answer was more than three years. She and I broke up right before I sat down to write my last unpublished manuscript, a domestic thriller in which a struggling male writer kills his fiancée after he finds out she’s cheating. Let’s just say the setup for that novel was eerily similar to how our relationship ended.
My time without companionship was no doubt why I’d seemed desperate to create a spark with Jillian, when all she’d done was be friendly.
Jorge began buttoning up his starched navy shirt. “See, it’s time. Anyway, do you need me to take you to my FR hookup? I’m not sure if he has jeans small enough for her, though.”
“No, I remember where he lives. Does he sell boots, too? If not, I need to look up how late RedBoots stays open.”
“Nope. Just shirts, pants, and overalls. And don’t take her to RedBoots if she’s a short-timer. Walmart boots will last a week or two.”
“Maybe I want her to spend some of that pipeline money early.”
We laughed, the seriousness of the conversation giving way to our typical bullshitting.
“You have no idea how to get a girl into bed, do you?”
“Shut up.”
We finished putting on our gear, then removed the foil from our breakfast burritos. Jorge bought us
breakfast from a convenience store every morning. He bought two for himself, both sausage, and shoved a handful of hot sauce packets in the bag. I always ordered a bacon and potato and could not handle any spicy condiments. But for Jorge, more important than the food was the coffee. He had to get a large cup, infused with French vanilla creamer and sugar. I preferred a tallboy of Arizona sweet tea.
We sipped our drinks and watched a rigger walk up to a large nylon strap—a thick, green loop that looked like a coiled snake—and threaded it through a short piece of orange pipe angled at ninety degrees. Two more riggers attached the strap to the end of a hook on the arm of a track hoe, which lifted the pipe off the ground.
Getting it to us took several tries because the riggers were inexperienced. It was unwieldy, and they had no idea how to handle it. When it arrived, the riggers and welders—with some assistance from me—got the pipe ends mostly matched up using a chain clamp, a spiked collar we used to tame the uncooperative tubes.
That brought us to about 9:15 a.m., followed by an hour of squaring the ninety, which was frustrating for everyone involved. The precision required, combined with the size of the pieces, meant incremental angle adjustments accompanied by constant clanging of metal.
Much of the work was done by the riggers and a group of labor hands. They swarmed to the ends of the pipe, talking quickly in Spanish and giving directions to each other. One gave hand signals to the operator in the hoe, though the uninitiated might think he was attempting shadow puppets.
As a helper, I should have been in the scrum. But I was little help in large groups and always seemed to be in the way.
“What a clusterfuck,” Paul said.
“Yeah, these guys don’t know what they’re doing,” Jorge said. “I’ve got some good news, though.” He turned to face Paul. “We found you a helper.”
“Already?”
Jorge nodded. “One of Big Nasty’s old girlfriends.”
“The stripper who sucked him off?” Paul turned to me and laughed.
“Not her.” For the first time I was thankful my face was constantly red from sun and arc burn, disguising my embarrassment. I lied smoothly. “We had a thing over the summer, before I started working with y’all. She’s green like Jillian was, but she’ll be fine.”
“You two getting a hotel room?”
“Yessir.”
Paul nodded. “Hell yeah. You’re finally going to get laid without having to pay for it.”
“Well, he is paying for half of the room,” Jorge said. We all laughed, causing irritated looks from the labor hands who didn’t have the luxury of standing around cracking jokes.
I scanned the job site and found Zak explaining a schematic to a pair of welders. I yelled his name and waved him over. Jorge and I told him about Veronica, and he said he’d go get the ball rolling with Captain Redbeard.
“Bring her to the tailgate meeting in the morning and you should be all set,” Zak said.
A labor hand got Jorge’s attention. They spoke in brisk Spanish and wild gesticulations.
“They’re ready for us,” Jorge said. “You got everything ready?”
I nodded. I was wrong. I’d laid out six of the tools we usually used. But, as usual, I forgot something. Four somethings. I ended up climbing into Jorge’s bed to retrieve items from the toolbox.
First up was a thicker wedge, which was hidden beneath his spare set of welding gloves and the machete. Next was the larger of his two sledgehammers, which was necessitated by the larger wedge. Then came a larger square than the one I’d started with, followed by the even bigger aluminum drywall square, both of which I should’ve had from the beginning.
After finally getting everything aligned, Jorge welded about five inches on the top while Paul did the same on the bottom. They then tacked their respective sides after banging on the wedge a few more times.
It was only 9:48, but we wasted a few minutes until our government-mandated ten a.m. break, giving me the chance to use my phone and book a hotel room in Borger, the only town in Hutchinson County big enough for the kind of chain hotels Veronica would be expecting. That was fine by me. I chose one close to Jorge’s house to reduce the amount of sleep I’d miss driving there in the morning.
It seemed silly, but I felt nervous before composing my text to Veronica. I was tapping out the address of a hotel, which felt like I was setting up a taboo rendezvous. Then there was the underlying secret of our agreement. The police investigating the crime wouldn’t be happy if they found out I’d brought in a reporter to cover the murder. Neither would our bosses.
But the plan was already in motion, so I put my thumbs to work.
Booked a room in Borger. Try to be there as close to 5:30 as possible. We have a few errands to run before tomorrow morning.
I looked at the screen for a few seconds, waiting to see if she would respond right away. I was about to put the phone down when three dots appeared.
Errands?
I smirked.
Need to pick up a couple of things for you to start work right away. No big deal.
Veronica responded almost immediately.
OK. I’m only in Round Rock, but the timing should work out if I speed a little. I’ll call when I’m close.
RedBoots closed at six, so we’d be cutting it close. Otherwise, we’d be going to Walmart. I wanted her to spend more money. I normally wasn’t so vindictive, but I wanted to get her back for making me spend nearly half of my per diem. I comforted myself with the knowledge she would only spend twenty-five dollars an item for her FR clothes through Jorge’s connection, so she’d still come out ahead.
My concentration was broken by the sound of Jorge opening his door. “All right, buddy. Break’s over. Go start the machine.”
I nodded and put my cellphone face down on his center console, still unsure if bringing Veronica out there was the right course.
I was still contemplating my choices when things started to unravel.
A loud yell carried through the pollution of grinding and welding machines, and we all turned to see Billy James—who wore a gray but well-manicured Fu Manchu—barreling toward Zak.
Billy pointed at Jameson, the young foreman in charge of the riggers and labor hands. “You too, motherfucker.” Billy swiped his finger in Zak’s direction, telling Jameson to join our boss.
Jameson complied and jogged toward Zak, who looked surprisingly calm in the presence of an angry man who liked to brag about his days as a defensive end at Angelo State. Jameson, who was at least six-foot-four and was easily thirty years younger than Billy, looked like he wanted to duck behind Zak.
A dozen people sprinted toward the commotion, and two other welders were holding Billy back by the time I got there. He was still pointing, his anger directed mostly at Jameson.
Zak was trying to diffuse the situation. “Billy, I agree that it was partly the riggers’ fault.”
“Riggers? Riggers?” Billy yelled. “I haven’t seen any riggers on this fucking job. I see a bunch of kids who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. And the one in charge is younger than my goddamn machine.”
Jameson was usually cocky and full of bluster, but he had given in to his instinct and was standing behind Zak.
Zak, however, was used to dealing with angry welders. And, as it turned out, he was the one who’d set Billy off. “Look Billy, the decision to run off your friends was mine. Were they brought the wrong fitting? Yes. But they also welded it on the wrong direction, and I’d just got done explaining it to them.”
“So what? That’s not enough to run them off, and you know it.”
Zak held up his hand, like he’d done to me the week before. “That’s going to be their third cutout and repair. And as many welders as there are looking for work out there, that’s all I can allow.”
“Those other two were bullshit. One was his helper not knowing how to work a fucking grinder.”
“And the other was an arc mark.”
Billy lowered his finger and
voice but remained loyal to his friends. “They don’t know how that happened. It’s bullshit and you know it. But whatever. I guess they didn’t suck the right boss’ dick.”
Zak walked over and patted Billy on the back. “I understand why you’re pissed. Go take a walk and calm down. Then, if you’re still upset, we can talk about it.”
The bystanders all began gossiping. Who got fired? What happened? Was Billy next? Speculation was rampant, and nobody seemed to have solid answers. I was so engrossed I barely felt the tap on my left shoulder.
“Beck, they need you back over at Site One,” Zak said.
“Okay, let me go get Jorge, and we’ll drive over.”
Zak shook his head. “No, they said to only bring you. Go tell Jorge he won’t have you until at least after lunch. Tell him to find a labor hand who can help him for a while.”
“Sure thing. But did they tell you why they only need me?”
“It’s the Texas Rangers this time. I think they’re doing that thing where they talk to us one at a time. Stupid cop bullshit. Anyway, run and tell Jorge, then meet me at my truck.”
Site One was a sprawling patch of land that had been a working compressor station a few decades ago. The skeletons of the old compressors looked like a parade of giant, square elephants with their trunks turned skyward. The trunks were large exhaust pipes, and the bodies were enormous engines once used to push oil downstream. The crude ended up at one of the major refineries in the Panhandle, West Texas, or Oklahoma.
The compressors were in the distance as we rocked in our seats while his pickup crossed a cattle guard. We continued down the dirt road that led to a large tin building surrounded by vehicles, including an SUV with Texas Department of Public Safety written across the side.
“The cops have set up shop in the main building,” Zak said. “They interviewed me in here this morning before sending me after you. I have to go get Jorge next. I’m going to spend all damn day driving back and forth.”