Authors: Donna Morrissey
“Why did Push do that?” I asked.
“Because he’s a stun prick,” muttered Ben.
“No other reason?”
“Because they hates each other.”
“But—yet they work together?”
“They’re stuck with each other. Nobody sane will work with Push, and nobody sane will hire Trapp as a driller—he don’t have enough experience going for him.”
Ben’s tone softened somewhat as he spoke of Trapp, then angered as he emitted another cuss, whether at Trapp, or Push, or the both of them was hard to determine. He drove in silence now, a sourness emanating from the grim set of his jaw that curdled the air and kept me from asking anything more. Chris patted my knee every few minutes, breaking the silence with an occasional comment meant to lighten the air.
It was late afternoon by now, and long shadows fell across the road. After another few miles Ben geared down once again, turning us onto a rutted access road. The woods were thicker here, darker, the truck vaulting over ruts deeper than Gran’s turnip drills. Branches swiped at the side windows, skinning themselves of leaves and bark as they twisted around the side mirror and were wrenched along. Bogs appeared by the roadside, their low, ruddy surface like black mats beneath the walled woods whose western tips still burned with sun. The road became muddied, the tires biting and slipping up the side of a sharp-turning knoll.
“C’mon you bastard,” cursed Ben, slapping the dash as the truck slid sideways. “How’d you like to walk in that mud,” he shot past me to Chris, the softening of his tone offering recompense for his moodiness. “Sticks to your boots like cement and just as heavy.”
Chris nodded, his eyes as intent on the road as Ben’s. The knoll levelled off, the road gashing through the thicket ahead, oozing with mud until the woods opened onto a wide, open field patched with grass and bare earth. To the far left the last rays of the evening sun brightened the whitish siding of a group of trailers huddling the treeline. Several trucks were parked haphazardly before them, their dark greens and blues obscured by layers of dust. Tire tracks cut a road across the field from the trailers to another scattering of dust-coated trucks parked beside the rig. It was the rig that commanded my attention.
Looming thrice the size of the service rig we’d just left, its platform rose twenty feet above ground, its sides cleaned of dust and painted a cherry red. Other tanks and sheds—the same cherry red—crowded the rig floor and spread out beside it, along with diesel engines and generators that shuddered and rumbled and screamed over a jungle of machinery that swung and hoisted and spun beneath the tall column of the derrick rising a creamy white into the fading glow of sundown.
“So big,” I said breathlessly, holding my nose against the stench of diesel and ground rot filtering through the truck as Chris lowered his window for a better look.
“She’s Push’s baby,” said Ben. “Her bottom’s a big stink, but as rigs go, he keeps her cleaner than Mother’s floors. Can’t stop its squalling, though—the screaming jimmies,” he said as Chris raised his window again, softening the deafening whine, “four of them—motors—screaming and roaring all the time—they run the power to the generators, the pumps. And then you got the pumps, big piston pumps that are
bum-bum-bum-bum-bum
all the time, shaking and rattling everything—walls, ceiling, floor—everything shakes with the pumps, and the jimmies are shaking, and they’re always screaming, can’t hear a damn thing, can’t hear your own teeth chattering.”
“What’re those men doing?” asked Chris.
Ben was quiet, his eyes ruminating over the four or five men wearing yellow hard hats, prowling through the jangled heap of metal making up the rig floor. “Running pipe,” he finally said, “and going nuts.”He shrugged, trying to make light with a laugh. “Easy to go nuts working the rigs—especially this rig. Nobody talks to nobody. Can’t hear nothing but the jimmies. And your own head. Turns everybody into pricks after a while, hearing nothing but that. But it’s all changing these days— they’ve got everything electric on the newer rigs. This is a relic.”
“Can’t you wear earplugs?” I asked.
“Can’t shut down your head. Everybody gets stuck in their own head—days at a time sometimes. Gets to you after a while, all them stupid thoughts—thinking about this, thinking about that, the ones back home, what a prick buddy was last night and the night before and every fucking night—small, stupid stuff—getting more festering time than it deserves. Turns the mind to rot after a while.”
“Gee, Ben, nice place you brought us.”
He relaxed his shoulders, his tone softening. “Sorry. Thing with Push and Trapp back there—got me going. The boys are always at it, blows over in a day. How’s she going over there, Bud?”
Chris was leaning towards the windshield, staring with trepidation at the rig, the machinery, tracking the movements of the men. He sensed me watching and nipped my fingers, grinning.
“Bucket of grease, good rag, and I’ll have them jennies humming like lullabies.”
“Jimmies, b’y, jimmies, not jennies, jeezes,” said Ben.
“What’s all that over there?” Chris pointed to a vertical stand of thirty-foot piping stacked by the side of the derrick, its black mass jutting into the faded blue of the sky.
“Pipes,” said Ben. “Drill pipe. That’s what she’s all about, drilling holes in the ground, and that’s the pipe we drill down the hole—all day long we’re connecting pipe, drill one length down, connect another pipe, and then drill that sucker, thousands and thousands of feet underground. The fellow up the derrick—the tower—up there on the monkey bar—he pulls a length of pipe out of the stand whenever we need it, hovers it above the drill hole. Them fellows standing about on the floor, they’re the roughnecks, they grab the pipe and connect it to the one we just finished drilling. And on and on and on, all day long, and that’s running pipe. Then one day we hit the zone, and whooosssh! Up she comes! But you now, buddy,” said Ben, wrenching the truck into gear, “don’t gotta stick your head over a drill pipe, all you gotta do is keep everything greased—you carry a five-gallon bucket of dope on your arm like your mother wears her handbag shopping—”
“Dope?”
“Grease, b’y, grease, whatever.”
“Ahh, I get it, pusher for a boss, gallon of dope, and thirty-foot joints,” said Chris. “Yeah, starting to see why you like this job.”
Ben wrenched the truck into park again. “That’s older than Aunt Milly’s bloomers. For fuck sakes, keep your jokes to yourself till you know what you’re talking about—the boys love razzing. You got that?”
“I got that. And the derrick fellow—you never said what he does.”
“Already told you—jeezes cripes, he forgot already, the derrickhand hauls pipe from the stack when we need it, hoists it over the hole we’re drilling, and the fellows down below connect it and we drill that bastard down, and then another and another, and that’s called making hole. Or tripping in. Call it whatever you want, it don’t change till we starts hauling pipe outta the hole, and then we reverses everything I just told you. And if you thinks this is noisy, wait till we starts tripping outta the hole—getting it all, Sis?”
I turned to him, struck by the gusto flowing into his words, his eyes sharpening with excitement as he spoke.
“Why do you take the pipe out?” asked Chris.
“Lotsa reasons—lose something down the hole, the drill-bit wears down, anything can happen, and she all gotta be hauled back out.”
“How does it get noisier?”
Ben snorted. “Think about it: every motor on that rig kicking in at the same time to lift that pipe out of the hole— that could be a hundred thousand pounds coming up that hole on cables—and when them motors kicks in—
Aaaoooorrrrrrrooonnnnnnn!
Every motor there is singing, and they’re all singing because we’re running cables, throwing chain, whatever the hell. And everything’s on winches, and the blocks are lifting, and everything on the floor’s shaking and rattling with them motors shaking and rattling and singing. And, as I said, that’s tripping outta the hole.
“Running pipe in is quieter. Don’t need all them motors, gravity usually sinks the pipe down the hole. You got the blocks lowering the pipe, and the most you hears is the brakes
squeak squeak squeaking
as you’re lowering the pipe down.”
“You
like
all this stuff,” I said with wonder.
He looked at me blankly.
“Jeezes, Sis, he’s an engineer,” said Chris. “How stuff works is what he’s about.”
“Still got me snorting coke on campus, eh?” said Ben. “Time I showed you something manly—like tucking you inside an apron.” He wrenched the truck in gear, this time starting us across the clearing.
“Hold on a minute, slow down,” protested Chris. “What’s them big red tanks besides the rig?”
“Mud tanks—where we store the mud for drilling. I’ll tell it to you later.”
“Tell it to me now—will you stop—just fuckin’ stop, what do mud got to do with anything?”
“Slow down, and let’s get this grub in, Cook’s drier than bone by now. Eh, look at him,” he nudged me, “can’t wait to get his new boots on.”
Chris was wrenched around, his hands gripping his knees, staring back at the rig as Ben buckled the truck over the rutted clearing towards the trailers.
“You’re gonna be fine,” I said, patting his hand. “Greasing things, that’s all you have to learn.”
“Jeezes hell.”Chris whipped his head around to face me. “I don’t need you telling me my job, you keep your mouth shut—you says anything in front of the men, I’ll heave you out the window.”
“Look at him, foaming at the mouth,” I chided.
“No fighting at camp,” ordered Ben. “And you,” he flashed me a look of warning, “wherever your brother’s concerned, do as he says and Keep Your Mouth Shut!” He pulled alongside the first trailer, reamed the gearstick into park, cursed as the engine raced, booted her down and cursed again as it bucked and sputtered before shutting down. “Here we are, Miss Sylvie, your new quarters, the cookhouse. You’ll sleep in there with Cook, the rest of us scumbags sleep in the bunkhouses. You’ll love Cook, she’s a doll.”
I followed him inside the cookhouse. It smelled like coffee and fried bacon, and was small, rectangle shaped, with low ceilings. The walls were stained with dampness, no matter the smothering heat, and the floors squeaked beneath each step taken. A long, cafeteria-type table cluttered with dirty dishes stretched across one end of the trailer, with a sink and cupboards, stacked with dirty pots and pans, stretching across the other end. The wall space in between was tightly wedged with a deep freeze, refrigerator, and stove. The one thing of colour in the whole sparse place was a faded girlie calendar tacked to the wall. A door stood at each end of the rectangle. My bedroom, Ben pointed out, was off from the kitchen sink, and Cook’s down a short hallway from where the table was sitting.
Cook was asleep in a chair by the table, her fat little neck cushioned by thickly padded shoulders. Her chins quivered with each snort of air she took in and gargled back out. A wheezing came from her lungs, something to do no doubt with the pack of smokes and ashtray sitting on the table near her.
“Emphysema,” said Ben. “Hear them lungs clear across camp some days, rattling like cobras. Her medicine makes her a mite drowsy,” he added, winking towards the brandy bottle partly tucked behind the breadbox. He bent towards the sleeping woman, examining her well-rounded face, knobby nose, and wet, bluish lips. “No, sir, she’s no doll. Bit of weather beating at that face. Looks like she was moored off in some cove and forgot about for a week.”
“Shikes, Ben.”
“Sad truth,” he said to me. “We don’t exactly get the babes in a camp like this.”
Cook’s breathing stopped, her mouth gaped, and her head jolted forward, little green eyes flashing up at Ben and me. As if figuring us for a figment of dream, she closed her eyes, fading back into sleep.
“Wake up!” Ben clapped his hands.
The little green eyes snapped open with a cross look. “What do you want?” she asked in a gnarled voice, then broke into a series of dry coughs.
“What do I want!” Ben shook his head, tutting. “Wait till I gets her brandy from the truck, she’ll land me a smile then. Meet your helper, Sylvie. Sylvie, meet Connie, the cook. Cook she likes to be called.” He pinched my arm on his way back out the door. “She’s a sweetheart. Have a chat with her. She’ll be all over you.”
Cook’s face brightened after Ben. “Are you his girlfriend?” she asked, with a sudden suspicious look at me. Then relaxed into a smile as I shook my head. “Good. Not a place for shenanigans. You’ve met Pushie?”
“Pushie?”
“Push. Tool Push. It’s his rig. Didn’t he hire you?”
“Yes. Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“Yes, we’ve met.”
“Pushie’s my brother-in-law.”
“Oh.”
“He married my sister—Mare.”Cook coughed. “She’s gone now. Mare.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
“She was a lot younger than me. Cancer. Do you smoke?”
“No, ma’am.”
“That’s good—that’s what,” more coughing, “gave me my bad lungs. Always bad when I first wake up. You cook?”
I hesitated.
“Better if you don’t,” said Cook.
“Guess I don’t then.”
Cook yawned, her eyes fading off as though a great sleep beckoned her. She pulled herself up with a start. “Good. That’s good.” She rapidly patted her chest. “Breathing’s—always—bad after a rain. Your room’s in there,” she said, pointing to the door at the end of the kitchen. “I’ll do the cooking. You’ll do the prepping and cleaning.” She gestured at the sink apologetically. “It’s piled up a bit. Haven’t had any help. Can’t keep everything running without help.”
I looked to the pile of dirtied pots and pans with a sinking heart. Something brown and glistening and curled into the corner beneath a side table caught my eye. Fur. It was a wet clump of fur. I drew back, bumping into Ben coming through the door with a sack of potatoes.
“There’s something there,” I said urgently. “There—under the table.”
“What—where—?”
“The table—under the table. It’s—it’s sleeping—”
“That?” Ben pointed to the clump of fur and let out a laugh. “Jeezes, girl, that’s my bear cap. Got wet in the rain the other night.”