Authors: Bill Leviathan
Nothing worked out as planned. Old Jim proved to be the liability I expected him to be. Jon and I ditched him somewhere in Oklahoma. What he taught us about firefighting was borderline useless. He hadn't done that kind of work for almost three decades, and he was a city firefighter, not a forest firefighter. All we were able to get out of from him was that forest fire fighting is a whole different ball game. Great. Nothing gained from him, and nothing lost when we abandoned him. We were at least kind enough and waited for a warm, sunny day to kick him off the train. Still, I doubt he would even be able to survive the walk from the train yard to the nearest town.
Jon still liked the idea of heading to Montana, though. Neither of us knew anything about the state, except that in the second grade I had to memorize that the state capital is Helena. So that was where we ended up, Helena, Montana. Fortunately for us, the hobo traffic through Montana in the winter isn't too high. I wasn't able to sleep at night when we first arrived, afraid that my toes and fingers are going to freeze off, but at least there was a bit more work there. All of it was from the mining companies. There was a lot of silver and lead in the ground there. The engineers there make a killing, but us common manual laborers were still making just enough to get by. Just like in Pennsylvania, I was always picked to work on some cleanup crew. The waste those mining companies generated was nasty stuff. The work they had us do wasn't too difficult. Grab a shovel, shovel the waste into barrels, pack the barrels onto a truck, and watch the driver take it all away. The work would break my back before I turned forty, but it wasn't difficult work. Or that is what the intellectuals tell us manual laborers anyway. I'm not sure where the mining companies were taking the waste, and to be honest I didn't much care at the time. If they paid me to care, I'd consider it.
“Hey there, Pete, I've got some good news.”
“Let me guess, Jon: You found a nice girl in a cave who you fell in love with and want to marry. A bit hairy for your tastes, but you'll let it slide. I'm happy for you, Jon, just be careful waking her while she's in her winter sleep. I hear that's when they get the most ornery and violent.”
“That's... Jesus, man, where do you come up with this shit? No, that’s not why I want to talk to you. I wanted to tell you that I got offered a driver's spot today. Twice the pay to sit on my ass while you bust your ass shoveling.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in my face, Jon. You're a real great friend.”
“We share the same ragged tent and bed, man. What I make is yours.”
“And not vice versa.”
“I'll be working a little bit later than you, so I'll meet you at the bar afterward. Might as well celebrate this with a couple of drinks on me, right?”
“Whatever you say. As long you’re the one who's paying.”
I guess it was Jon's lucky day, him getting assigned to a driver position and all. That's as far as his luck took him, as the truck he was driving hit a patch of ice and flipped. His head split open as it smacked against the side window of the truck. Since it was his first day as a driver, he had someone else driving the route while he was just in the passenger seat so he could learn the route. The driver survived, and was able to walk back to the waste facility without a bruise or a scratch on him. That's how I found out, and that's how he ended up losing his front teeth.
Have you ever felt like laying down, just staying there completely motionless until your body wastes away into dust? That's what I felt like after Jon died. The only thing that would make me stand up was my need to fuel my alcoholism. I didn't not like to admit it, but he was the only person left who I cared about even the slightest. Plus, after he was gone, I realized just how warm being forced against his body in our cramped little tent kept me at night. There was no one for me to be snarky to, no one to steal any warmth from, and nothing to keep me motivated to continue to exist. There was nothing to stop me from meeting my end at the bottom of a bottle.
After that, I was a complete mess. Jon helped keep me straight. He even had me saving some of my wages. Not in a bank or anything. There's no way I could afford the minimum deposit to open a bank account and all of the subsequent fees. It was all stored in a small metal box buried under our tent. We had cut out a hole in the bottom of the tent floor for easy access, and always had it covered in blankets so any one snooping around wouldn't see it right away. Now the only thing my money was good for was a couple glasses of cheap liquor or beer to numb my senses. That's another good thing about Montana. There was a lot of cheap alcohol there. What meager savings I had were dwindling fast. As it got warmer, more and more workers arrived in town, meaning there was less consistent work for me, and less money for alcohol. I can’t think of a worse punishment for my life’s sins.
I had to go somewhere to take my mind off of Jon. The place I went to was called “The Sink Hole”, my go to bar. The lights there were dim, no one was ever there to bother you, and as long as you kept paying, they kept serving. The grog they tried to pass off as beer there wasn't much to look forward to unless you were a raging alcoholic looking for a fix. Perfect. It was brownish in color, minimal carbonation if there was any at all, an aroma of wet garbage left out in the summer, and a strong solvent flavor to let you know you were doing some real damage to your liver. I hit my limit quick that night. Doesn't take too long when you forgo eating anything during the day. Well, I guess I swallowed some tooth paste that morning. A better breakfast than most days.
New faces aren't common in The Sink Hole. Lately though, this old man had been coming in. He would sit on the opposite end of the bar from me, nursing a single beer for hours, and occasionally he'd shoot me a glance. I did my best to send him a scowl in return, but more often than not I just ended up slobbering all over myself in the attempt. During one of the rare chats I'd have with the bartender, I mentioned I originally came here to learn to fight forest fires, and saw the old man perk up a little bit. I think that may have been the first day I saw him in here.
My stomach lurched. I wasn't able to hold the grog down any longer. It all gushed back up. The harsh mix of stomach acid and whatever caustic shit was in the beer seared the back of my throat and my nostrils. At least I made it outside of the bar that time. The owner said if I vomited inside without making it to the bathroom one more time I'm banned from the establishment. Not sure what I'd do without the reliable Sink Hole. I'd probably just buy myself a bottle of something more reminiscent of rubbing alcohol than actual liquor, curl up on a park bench, and hope that by the time I saw the bottom of the bottle I'd still have my senses to get myself back home before I freeze to death. Then I'd wake up the next morning blind from the wood alcohol.
“You doing alright there kid?”
I turned around and saw that old man from inside standing near the alley entrance to the bar. I think this is the first time I'd ever heard him speak.
“Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about me, gramps. Just go back inside and mind your own business.” I tried my best to look as dignified as possible with snot and vomit dripping from my nose.
“Listen kid, I noticed you in the bar a few days ago, I figured you could use some help.”
“Stop calling me kid. I'm twenty five God damned years old and I don't need no drunk geezer looking out for me.”
“You sure don't seem to have the wits of a twenty five year old. All I ever see you do is drink until you can't even stand and then vomit all over yourself.”
“Most of it's on the ground, not me.”
At that point I'd had enough. I started to walk away, hoping he'd take the hint. Not this guy though. I guess he was determined to get something through to me.
“When I first saw you, you told the bartender you were looking for firefighting work.”
“Yeah, so?” I quickened my pace, and tripped over my own feet and fell to the ground. The old man helped me up, even as I tried to push him away.
“Firefighting is my line of work, kid. I've been doing it for decades now. The summers keep getting drier and hotter, and the state keeps getting less and less resources to properly manage the forests. The end result being, we get a lot of forest fires around here.”
“Yeah, ok, and why are you telling me this?”
“We need new people every year. It's seasonal work, so most of the labor force moves away. Come the end of September, I’m the only guy left on the team.”
“Are you in need of a completely inexperienced drunk?”
“Experience, you'll get in time, but lowlife drunks aren't the sort we're looking for.”
“Then what are you doing talking to me?” I'd had enough of his lecture. I tried to bull past him. He stuck out his hand and pushed on my chest, stopping my getaway. I was too out of it to put up much more resistance.
“Stop for a second, son, so I can look you in the face when we're talking. Right now, you're no good for anything. You're on the way to drinking yourself to death, and it isn't going to take much longer for you to get there. I see kids like you every year. They come here because they had nothing left for them back home. They think they'll find something here, something to at least pass the time and scrape a living off of. Over time they all realize the same thing, life's rough here. The work is harsh, the weather is harsh, and the drink is harsh. Even the water here tastes rough. You, though… you seem a little different. I don't know what it is about you, but you seem like the kind of person that can buckle down and focus toward a real goal. That's why I'm talking to you. You've fallen into the same trap as every sad sack who comes through here does, but I can see you climbing out. You just need a little guidance, and I think I might be able to help you out a little bit.”
“What makes you think you can help me?”
“To be honest, you remind me a lot of my son when I look at you. I-I lost him a few years ago. Working down in the mines.”
“So what? You want to relive your father years through me? Find someone else to fulfill your fatherly needs, gramps.” I started walking away again. I hoped he would get the right signal, but the old man grabbed me by the arm and twisted me around to face him.
“Listen to me. I just want to help you, you stupid son of a bitch. Firefighting takes a lot of training. I can help you with that. It will be worth your while if you're willing to put in the work. Trust me on that.”
“Whatever, old man. I don't even know you. Why should I believe anything you're saying?”
“I'm not going to force you into anything. If you want my help, stop by the forests service building downtown tomorrow morning. Ask for Paul.”
Sleep came easy for me that night. The tradeoff were these bizarre dreams I had the entire night. I kept going back into The Sink Hole, over and over. The only thing they would serve me was tap water. The bartender would always give me some strange, random response to anything I said to him. ‘Drink up, it'll put scales on your chest’, ‘Have a sip, it’s good for your brain, or at least the one in your second head’, ‘Drink enough of that and you'll shit out a mighty fine necklace’, ‘Trust me, you’ll get a better buzz off that than any alcohol we have here’, ‘You’ll get all your vitamins and minerals drinking that, and then some’. Paul was there too. Something terrible was always happening to him, but he didn't seem to mind. Once he was on fire, completely engulfed in flames. Another time he had a knife sticking out of his back, his body covered in bloody bandages and his wrists bound. I think I saw the crushed body of his son sitting next to him, trying to take a drink but his crushed throat wouldn't allow it. Paul wasn't wrong, looking at his son was like looking in a mirror. That is, if the image of a man I’ve never met in one of my own dreams is anything to go by.
When I finally awoke, I reached for the nearest bottle. Empty, everything was empty. Not the best start to my day. My head was killing me, and I had nothing to calm it down and wipe those dreams from my head. I stumbled around looking for some cash. I couldn't find anything. Just the lock box under my tent. On the box I could still read Jon's handwriting, ‘Save it for a rainy day’. It wasn't raining, but if it's always 5 o'clock somewhere, it’s always raining somewhere too, right? Screw it, I thought, I don't need to make excuses to myself. I wanted to get drunk, even if it meant wasting everything I'd earned up to that point. There was a combination lock on the box, and I'd be damned if I could remember the combo. I figured I'd have to break it open, though I lacked any real tools to break the lock. I slept on top of enough rocks, one of them should have been good enough to break open that cheap lock. I'd have to dig in the ground under the tarp to get to them.
What the hell was I doing? Digging in the winter earth with my bare hands just to get some cash to stupefy myself for a few hours? That couldn't have been the only thing I was good for. Fuck. The headache was killing me, and my bowels felt like they were taking a ride on a roller coaster. Was I even enough of a man to go through alcohol withdrawal at that point? I couldn't remember the last day I didn't get drunk. The collective hangover could have quite literally killed me.
Screw it, I thought. I took a walk downtown. The old man was right. I wasn't going to survive much longer if I continued on as I had been. I needed a change, but firefighting? That's dangerous, hard work. I guess shoveling around toxic waste all day isn't that great for you either, but at least it didn't involve being burned alive. Just the slow death from inhaling carcinogens all day long. I'd be making near four times as much as I did then if I became a fire fighter. If the old man was everything he claimed, I might just have a shot at making a living out of it. Something one day I can look back on and think “Yeah, I could have done worse things with my life”. The American Dream.