The Wheelman
A look of shocked bewilderment shot across Ike’s face.
“Whaddaya mean I don’t get a mask!?” he sneered as he quickly twisted his shoulders to look toward the back seat.
“The wheelman never wears a mask” growled Blade through his teeth, clinched tight on one side.
Ike’s mind scrambled frantically for something he could say……some incontrovertible argument. One look into Blade’s cold grey eyes told him though that it was no good. He wasn’t going to get a mask.
A deep dread of the next four and a half minutes took hold as he began to see flashes of fates that could await a maskless wheelman. He shuddered a bit and tightened his grip on the wheel. The wheel was his job today. He glanced out the car window down the street. It was cloudy but, at least the roads are dry he thought to himself. Thank God the roads are dry.
Blade leaned forward from the back seat to give final instructions. His men all tilted their heads inward to listen.
In a low deliberate tone Blade spoke……
“OK, here it is. We got 4 minutes 21 to get this payday done. Put you masks on before we get outta the car. There’s cameras in front. The rest goes just like we planned. Got it?”
Everyone gave Blade one nod in unison. They were all nervous but, as Blade’s crew, they were set.
“ Ben! Start time when………..and ONLY WHEN!…… I slam the door shut.”
Blade was a meticulous planner - he was especially obsessed with timing. He often told the story of how one cell mate of his would have gotten away with 160 thousand if he had only pulled the rope tied around the bank manger’s potted fichus 3 second sooner.
“Three seconds! 160 G’s!!” he’d always yell, wide eyed, after recounting the tale.
Blade always planned his jobs to the second.
Startled, as if he had suddenly been jarred awake at 3 AM by a rat scurrying across his bed, Ben choked as his eyes slammed wide open. Stretching in his seat he cocked his hand up to check his watch. He gave a slight gasp when it wasn’t on his wrist. All he saw was the faint tanned outline of where it should have been. Panicked Ben started searching, trying not to show the crew the sudden fear he was feeling.
“Whatssa matter!?” Blade hissed.
“My watch – I, I…..wait……”
“Jesus H. You did bring yur watch right? I said RIGHT?!” Blade boomed.
Ben was frantically patting each of his pockets one after the other looking for this key piece of equipment.
You are the time man on this job! How can you NOT have yur watch!?” Demanded Blade.
“I dunno Blade!. I, uhhhh………”
Ben was now sweating profusely. Ike reached back into the seat beside Ben.
“Here it is” he said as he pulled the missing watch out of the folds of Ben’s jacket.
Blade shot a look of angered frustration at Ben.
Ike had seen that same look before when he had watched Blade try and make flower shaped marzipan for his girlfriend but could not get the roses to come out right. Ike also knew the look meant Blade’s fuse was burning perilously close to the powder too.
Blade, through a pained face, gathered his composure a bit. “Alright, we got the watch. NOW, let’s get this gig goin. Check yer ammo.”
“Ammo Blade? Uh, but…………….”
“We got the guns right?! Tell me somebody we got the guns!”
“We got ‘em Blade. They’re in the trunk . Here, here’s the key Blade.”
Blade snatched the key from Jake and stared at it a moment.
“These are Dodge keys Jake.”
“Yeah yeah. Dodge. That’s what I drive Blade. A Dodge.”
“Uh, gee Jake. Did we, uh, drive your car today or mine Jake?” asked Blade straining to maintain what little grip he had left on his anger.
Jake looked around to confirm his answer before he spoke.
“Uh, we drove your car Blade.”
Jake still hadn’t grasped the significance of this situation and Blade was about to erupt.
Just then there was a tap on the window.
The crew jumped in their seats.
Ike jerked his head around to a familiar face looking in.
“Hey Ike! How ya doing there Sport!”
It was Ike’s Chiropractor Jim.
This event confirmed Ike’s earlier opinion. He now knew, more than ever, that he should have had a mask. Every wheelman needs a mask he thought.
He decided not to mention this to Blade just now though. It would be poor timing.
Hot Days and the Ice Incident
It was a hot summer afternoon by Pacific Northwest standards. It was pushing the eighty degree mark hard under the most pristine postcard sky I had seen in a while. As a rule we have a sea of cold steel battleship clouds cruising above waiting to spit rain at the most inopportune time. Generally it’s right after I have lit the grill or, gotten the mower out. Not today though. Not one suggestion of a cloud was anywhere to be seen.
I was in the backyard with my daughter. We were poolside – a brand new six footer. This one had the popular coral reef theme printed all the way around the sides with the light blue plastic bottom in it. The fish around the sides were done with tasteful layers of fluorescent paint. None of this haphazard, splashed on cartoon looking stuff here. No sir. This pool was leaning towards an object d’art in a classic Van Gough way with an edgy sort of late period Picasso abstract treatment to it. The creatures adorning the exterior, in shape anyway, actually look like varieties you’d find in secluded Caribbean waters between islands ringed by perfect white beaches. The occasion also called for one of my girl’s favorite games she invented on a similar day last summer. This one centers up around her discovery that water balloons pop if thrown. This is science she understands.
Pink is her favorite color. After her targets have been acquired she turns to me with an expectant look. The game has begun. I am now her weapons expert and she orders a package of two for her first volley. She knows if I’m not filling a new one by the time she has launched her first shot I won’t be in time for the second round of firing. She let’s me know I need to step it up when she says “Make a pink one Doe!”. I knew that.
Her accuracy is between thirty and sixty degrees off to either side of where she’s pointed but this is acceptable since it’s within her field of view. She likes to see the little explosions as the projectiles contact the ground. Her arms loader is good today and I keep up through the ground target shelling but an aerial threat has now presented itself. A fly has wandered into the firing range. This no drone either. It’s a live fly in top acrobatic form and it’s too sweet a target to pass up. I have to short load the balloons because her fire rate has risen to maximum levels as the fly darts wildly about in the air. The battle is intense and it seems is wearing the fly down a bit.
The fly chooses a new strategy and lands somewhere perhaps hoping lack of motion will make detection difficult. My girl has watched it land though and knows exactly where it is. She has a bird hot and ready to fly as she slowly moves forward. She has the fly locked. It’s his time.
My daughter stands motionless though, still locked on, balloon overhead begging to be fired but she's not going for the kill.
Suddenly she looks up at me with an expression of giddy delight. What is going on I wonder. The fly is unscathed and now air born again.
Then she squeals “Doe! It’s the ICE CREAM MAN!!!!!”
“What? I don’t hear anyth………….”
Then, the distant but unmistakable, acoustically lethal, looping tangle of notes announcing the coming of the ice cream man drifts past my ears. The truck is in the area but still a ways off. The 5 or 6 minute wait will be a painful ordeal for sure but, that sound is all kids call to arms. It’s time for action and there is absolutely no time to loose. We have to run through the house. We have to rip the front door open. We can’t take the time to close the door. We have to jump off the porch steps. We must sprint to the curb. We have to scream with glee and jump up and down. We have to look down the street expectantly. We have to make sure the money is out and ready. We have to listen carefully to the music and try and determine where the truck is based on sound level and direction.
Then we have to wait impatiently and talk about the delicacies the ice cream man will bring and which will be sampled that day.
The ice cream man is a mini Christmas on wheels.
The vehicles pressed into service as ice cream vending units have changed since my time. Now, they are older family vans or creaking barely running retired mail trucks with freezers thrown in wherever they fit and a decal of the menu slapped on the door. Chances are the owner/operator has their family stuffed into the spaces around the cooler too. I have even seen a 70’s vintage Ford Fairmont converted to an ice cream selling vehicle by ripping the trunk lid off and wedging a freezer into the space previously occupied by the spare tire. The tire was still there too, just repositioned to accommodate the new accessory.
What the vehicles lack in class though is made up for with the customer service offered from these units. The sellers are never impatient nor must they ask a second time what was ordered even from my three year old. Once the order is placed the delivery of the product is almost machine like in it’s quickness and efficiency.
During the interminable wait there at the curb with my daughter I slipped away to my time knowing the Nirvana of the ice cream man.
In my day ice cream vendors drove custom built trucks that you could walk around in with compartmentalized stainless steel freezers. The doors on the tops had industrial grade locking handles. The act of opening one of those freezer compartments to get an ice cream bar made a very particular series of sounds that I’ll always associate with sweet, frozen treats on a stick.
I hear a rough approximation of those sounds on some rare occasions when I’m around a commercial walk in reefer for whatever reason, usually a restaurant.
Mr. Squires was the man who worked our neighborhood and ice cream vending was his chosen profession. His truck was spotless and glowing white with blue pin striping and his name painted in script hovering at an artful angle over the bold block letters spelling out the magic words “Ice Cream”. Stepping up to the door of the truck there was a custom built counter affair displaying a hand painted menu. It had a work surface on top mostly for money counting. Immediately behind this was a candy rack. The whole thing was a master work dedicated to the psychology of the impulse buy. The problem was he was dealing with lower middle class kids with limited funding. As professional as he was I am sure he never made it onto the Rockefeller guest list.
On summer days back then the countdown clock would start each afternoon at about 2. For our corner, Mr. Squires was scheduled to swing into sight by 3:15 PM.
Kids would play for 15 minute bursts then the timekeeper nominee for that day was sent to find a clock and report back to the gang of us how long we had to wait. This runner was usually someone’s kid brother or sister picked because they were fleet of foot, had good stamina and responded well to threats of being pounded. We had to be very discerning in our choices though. We once sent Jody’s blazingly fast kid brother Scotty to get us a time fix. When he came back he said it was two.
“Two !? TWO !?! It was 2 a long time ago. How could it be two still?”
"Yeah. How?" another added.
Scotty stuck to his story. He wouldn’t budge. It was two.
Finally after the interrogation had reached a stalemate Jody went to look for himself. He came back and told us it was ten past three.
Scotty was now in Jody’s sights and a pounding looked imminent.
The rest of us were planning to jump Jody for not knowing his brother couldn’t tell time.
An ugly scene was unfolding when…….
“ICE CREAM MAN!!!!!!!!!!” someone behind us yelled.
We were now all late for the other ritual – the crucial forming of the line.
Now, amid the seeming chaos prior to the arrival of Mr. Squires there were strict rules that we all adhered to.
First, a kid from another stopping point on the ice cream man’s route would never have the audacity to come to our corner and try to get into our ice cream line. It just wasn’t done although newcomers were eventually allowed to participate in the pre arrival position negotiations if they had done their time at the end of the line. Four or five days were generally adequate.
The second rule was that there were no cutsies. Someone who had been tardy for the negotiations could not cut into the line at any point unless it was in front of a new kid at the end.
Third, if you had to leave the line after negotiations had taken place but before arrival of the truck you could get your place back. This convention could be used as a rouse however to advance in line position simply by saying you were in front of someone that was ahead of you originally. This ploy was rarely successful but it was common enough for someone to give it a try anyway.
The last rule was that a notorious haggler’s position claim could be overridden by the group even if they were there first in line. Hagglers were kids who had more than fifty cents. The half a buck got you pretty much the ice cream of your choice but if you had more than that you had to spend as much as you possibly could by adding other items. Those kids would lay their money out on the counter and start ordering.
“I’ll have a Nutty Buddy, uhh, some Good n’ Plentys and uhhh, uuummm, a Tootsie Roll.”
Mr. Squires would say “that’s ninety five cents, you only have 72 cents.”
There was always a moment of silence as the haggler struggled with the recalculation they now faced.
“OK.................. Umm, I’ll have a Nutty Buddy and some Good n’ Plentys”.
“That’s 75 cents, you don’t have enough”.
More silence.
Then the invariable query from the buyer – “What could I have with a Nutty Buddy?”
Mr. Squire was an excellent mathematician and would start pulling items out of his candy selections that came as close as possible to consuming the entire 72 cents.
The kids in the back of the line naturally got impatient with the buyer.
“Just pick!” someone would yell.
“Take two Tootsie Pops” another would call. "Those are good."
Flustered the buyer would then pick something they could see but Mr. Squires hadn’t offered as a possible purchase option that met the given budget.
Mr. Squires was now getting impatient.
“Look, all this is 25 cents” he’d say waving his hands over one of the shelves.
”With the ice cream you don’t have enough! Pick from here” he’d say pointing at the bottom shelf.
Granted everything for 20 cents or less was junk but, still it was understood that if you had it you had to try and spend it. Sometimes the pressure was just too much and the haggler would just buy a pack of gum and call it good. This was tat amount to admitting you had cracked.
Invariably someone would comment -
"That's Stoopid! You coulda had two Tootsie Pops for that!"
"Yeah. Or taffy even".
Through the line of 7 or 8 of us Mr. Squire’s willingness to accommodate diminished as the line grew shorter. The kids towards the end were given proportionately less ordering decision time.
On one particular day when beads of sweat were streaming out from under Mr. Squires’ toupee into his eyes he actually ordered the number two kid, who was having trouble deciding, to the end of the line. This was an unprecedented move. It was new territory. No one even knew it was an option open to Mr. Squires but, it happened. Dumbfounded the kid did as instructed without one word of protest. We now knew also that Mr. Squires was short fused given the right circumstances. What other option cards did he have in his hand? Could he just drive off? Could he change his route so he didn't stop at our corner?
Dear God! These possibilities weighed heavily on us for a while. We now held our breath until we could hear the music at 3:15 each day.
This was too much.
It was at about this time that we affected a new level of sophistication around our whole approach to the pre arrival operations. We first eliminated all the guesswork around timing and clock watching by deploying tactical reconnaissance missions to key way points on the route. Typically these were carried out by the kids with the fast bikes and ranged as far as the Landmark homes where the very well to do kids lived. As the reports came back we could judge our level of readiness relative to Mr. Squires position and make adjustments if needed.
Breathless agents would skid to a stop in front of us.
"He just turned onto Stonybrook."
"He's going down Rome".
One by one they reported.
“He’s on Sylvan now!.”
He was close.
It was that time.
Our yeller would make the announcement -
“He’s on Sylvan. Get over here if you want ice cream!”
The line negotiations would then start.
Second, we pooled all of our pricing knowledge and interrogated everyone on what they were buying. Money was counted and if a mismatch was detected the miscreant was briefed on available options.
“You can’t get an ice cream and two taffy strips for that. You need more.”
“Yeah, go get more money. Hurry, he’s past Sylvan by now!”
When Mr. Squires got there – we were all ready. We executed our ordering with the precision found only in the finest Swiss watch. We knew our stuff.
Now, it so happened that we had let two girls from the top of the housing tract into our group. They were tough girls and no one messed with them too much. They were known for their vicious squirt gun assaults on only the slightest provocation.
On this one day, this day that would become infamous, everyone was through the line and Mr. Squires was readying to press on to the next street over.
I was standing next to Gerry the younger of the two sisters. I don’t know where she got it but she came up with a softball sized chunk of ice and let it fly at Mr. Squires truck just as he was starting away. It hit the “S” on “Squires” with a dreadful thud immediately followed by a scraping sound as the ice tumbled down the back of the truck. The truck jerked to an instant stop and out came Mr. Squires with fire in his eyes.
I looked for Gerry but she was gone. The rest of the kids were scattering quick.
He had been assaulted or at least he took it that way.
He yelled “Why did you throw that!? What do you think you are doing?!?!?”
He was looking directly at me.
I tried to explain but he didn’t listen. I got a very sharp lecture.
I don’t recall how many days in a row I did not line up for Mr. Squires but I didn’t want to be faced with him. I knew then he didn’t like me. When he would stop at our corner I’d just turn away.
Late one afternoon way after he had been past at his normal time Mr. Squires came to the door of my house. My mother came to get me and said he wanted to talk to me.
He told me that he found out it wasn’t me that had thrown the ice and he apologized in a very sincere way.
I have always wanted to say thank you Mr. Squires.
I learned much from you that day.
Confined Diplomacy
I have been sliding by for a while now, on a plain as the Nirvana song goes. I’m under direct assault from many different sides, financially, professionally, my wife and finally, this new dog that likes to chew everything to shreds.
This dog is truly cunning and downright ruthless in her approach to her selected targets. She always probes for weaknesses prior to any engagement. In fact, I’m astonished to find that she seems to be familiar with the battle tactics employed by the Sioux at Little Bighorn. Her foes stand no chance going in.
I knew her tendencies but, last week I made the fatal mistake of leaving her unattended in the house while I went to the bathroom. In the 90 seconds I was out of sight she decided the sofa was as vile an object as she had ever seen and launched a devastating blitzkrieg attack that left the sofa, well, defeated with no question. Heaps of pristine white batting from the now annihilated cushions littered the living room floor telling the story of the battle. Her pride in this piece of work was evident as I watched her tail wave wildly from side to side.
She clearly still had the adrenalin rush going from this her latest kill when she glanced up to se me standing there in the hall with my mouth gapping open. When I shot her my patented look of death, she cowered and went for the door. She knew I was at Defcon 1 and the full nuclear package was probably warm and ready to fly.
She flinched first though.
I stood down.
Thus go the diplomatic missions at my house.
From Russia with Love
Last summer I had started receiving mail from a Russian address. She said her name was Natasha. She wanted just to be friends and write back and forth. She sent her picture. “Loving eyes” was the first impression I had. Deep, round, green pools of adoration for the right person at the right time in the right place.
We started writing. Very chatty for the first several exchanges. This didn’t exactly follow the typical scam pattern I had read about doing research on the area she said she was from. None the less, almost everything I read on the place said it was scam central.
The mailer was patient with me, slowly guiding me along. Finally she surfaced the professions of deep feelings and love for me. With each mail after that she continued to describe how she felt and how I made her feel.It was nice to have that sort of attention paid to me.Now, it fit the pattern though. The hook was just delayed. I found by all available accounts that I was probably mailing a group of scamers. Probably men on top of that.
Even though my head said Natasha was just a prop, my heart wanted to hear more of those words. I kept writing right up through the request for funds so she could make travel arrangements. My head told my heart “see? I told ya so.”
My heart told my head “just for that crack I’ll make you believe fairytales still happen. Ha!”.
And it did. And I do.
Why am I such a sap?
Why do I cling to this notion that “it” meaning - two people meeting their dream mate at the same time and they happen to be the same two people - can still happen?
I found the following blurb I wrote after I had received the “hook” mail.
Somewhere in the world there is a girl that is the one in the picture. I know this.
Somewhere there is a human who has put together a set of words that gave me feelings.
They are not the same person.
I know this.
I look into the picture’s eyes though and read the letters in my head and I feel loved and in love. It is nice to feel that again – even if it is a mirage.
Maybe somewhere in the world there is a girl who can feel about me as the letters said.
Perhaps anyway.
It would be more than a dream if they were really the same - If the letters were actually written through those same eyes in the picture.
It would be a miracle on high if I could actually be with her. Just her.
I want my other half. I thought I had her but, I was wrong.
I think now I’ll never find her. I will move aimlessly through this life.
It’s nice to think that another life will happen – unaware of the last or the next but, really in my heart I feel everything ceases never to be again.
In the end does it matter if I was loved the way I love the person I’m missing?
Not after the darkness, but in all points up to it.
The First Day
I was tired to the point of feeling like I was in some sort of distorted dream, awake but still major parts of my brain were not functional. I had been awake for better than 24 hours. I had a chance to get an hour of rest but real sleep just wasn’t possible. The oiled sofa would not cooperate.
I was nervous as I settled at one of the galley tables to have coffee with 3 of the workers that had already started talking about what was going to happen that morning. I looked through the window and saw only darkness outside. I introduced myself and slowly sprawled across my chair trying to look experienced. I listened.
One was a grizzled slightly built man with a forcefully quiet demeanor, cold steel eyes and tanned leather for skin. He kept his jaw under tension and didn't move it much whenever he spoke. It was obvious he was in charge and he knew it.
The other was a Cajun named Mick. He was loud, uneducated and looked like he had just spent the night wrapped around a truck engine. He was young but, the few years he had spent working on rigs showed through in the already deep creases in his stubbled face.
The last man, Ben was a driller. I knew that because that’s what the man in charge called him.
“Y’all men grab some 18’s an some shackles. We’ll meet on the drill floor in 15. The driller is on the floor with ya’ll. I’m runin the table.”
Ben nodded then Mick piped up.
“Fuckin 18’s? They aint no way we could break that fuckin’ bit with no fuckin’ 18’s! Muther fuckin’ 18’s. Shit!” he said indignantly.
“We aint gonna use the 18’s to break it.” the man in charge growled with and armor piercing glare back at Mick.
Mick obviously was an experienced rig hand and was used to respect from anyone within earshot but the man in charge had silenced him with almost no effort.
I now somehow knew that the man in charge was called a tool pusher. Also instinctively I knew to avoid him. He was not pleased I was there and I was very aware that he was watching me.
As the 3 of us walked out onto the deck and headed down into the bowels of the machine, Mick was talking to no one in particular in his usual loud Cajun accent.
“Fuckin pusher. Fuck that muddah fucker.”
“Fuck him“ the driller commented.
It was at about this point in my young oil rig tenure that I began to realize the word fuck is a universal term and it’s use is required at least once in any form in every spoken sentence. I also found if I didn’t know what someone was talking about the phrase “fuckin A” or in a real pinch just a palin, old fashioned “fuck” would get me by even though it was known I was a worm or, the new guy for those never exposed to oil hands.
Mick found what we needed and started passing the tools out.
I was disappointed really when I found out that the oil industry’s “18” was nothing more than an 18 inch pipe wrench. Fuck. I can buy one of these fuckers at the local hardware store I thought. What a gyp. I noticed however that I was picking up the lingo. I was pleased I was adapting so quickly.
It was sunrise when we made it up to the drill floor which was immediately under the derrick. On the way, I had started to notice that there are a lot of stairs on an offshore rig.
I would come to find out that everywhere I needed to go on the machine, climbing in some form was required to get there. The cardiovascular benefits of this activity were most often enhanced by carrying large heavy objects, usually metal. One hundred feet of coiled arc welding cable was especially effective at driving my heart rate to nearly explosive levels.
The drill floor was about a 30 foot by 30 foot square pad made of what appeared to be wood, but I had never seen wood quite like this. In appearance the planks looked like garden variety railroad ties but, they were unnaturally large, looking like Paul Bunyan himself had cut them long ago. The surface was a cold grey and felt like stone. The many scars and gashes left in the timbers served as record of it's long days at battle in the fields against obviously colossal metal opponents slammed against it.
As I looked around I realized not one piece of machinery I saw was familiar.
The tool pusher circled us up and reviewed the plan of action.
“Nah men, they want us to use the drill table to twist the bit off the collar.”
Mick immediately piped up.
“How da fuck is we sposed to hold the bit and turn da collar with a mudda fuckin bunch a 18's? Aint no fuckin way!”
The tool pusher shot him a glance but it was an understated version of the one I had seem in the galley. The tool pusher was as skeptical as Mick.
“Ahh raht nah what the engineers want us to do is turn the collar with the table and clamp the bit with the tongs” he explained.
I looked at Mick for some indication of what he thought about this plan we were about to execute. He had a puzzled look on his face and was making small circles in the air with his index finger. He was trying to visualize this unsrewing process.
Finally he fixed a gaze at something far away in the middle of his mind. A look of discovery flashed across his face –
“Aint no fuckin way! Cause, look, this fucker turns like that right? Den the fuckin bit comes off like this. Mudda fucker! Wait…………………….. Fuck. He’s fuckin right. It could work!”
The problem was that there was a drill bit screwed onto a drill collar that was stuck fast and no application of heavy tools so far had persuaded the thing to come off.
The plan was to lift the whole piece upside down with the air tuggers, put the collar into the table and clamp the bit with the pipe tongs. Once we had hold of it the drill would be turned hopefully breaking the bit free.
Dangerous? Of course. The drill table was capable of turning millions of pounds of mud filled drill pipe all day every day. We were about to try and turn only a few hundred pounds of bit with it. If the threads really were welded together somehow and didn’t give way the table could twist the collar to the point of shattering. It was also possible that the whole thing could slip out of the table and tumble over the floor in an unpredictable path. Then there was the danger of the tongs breaking. If any of these were to occur, large chunks of sharp, very mad metal would fly everywhere. The drill floor would be a war zone for an instant.
The pipe tongs were suspended horizontally over the floor on something akin to garage door springs. They were serious industrial strenght tools with clamping jaws that could have ripped large trees in two at the base in skilled hands. The handle on each was the size of a ball bat at the fat end and perhaps 7 feet long. This was a leverage tool intended to quickly grab large objects and hold them against great force.
I followed everyone else’s lead and we set to work making the preparations for the operation that was about to take place. The collar was clamped in the table, the bit was clamped with the tongs and the tongs were held in place with the wire rope from the air tuggers.
When we were ready, the tool pusher yelled out to us “Ah raht men! Get outta there!”
Ben and Mick ran and I followed. Clearly they were unsure of what was about to happen.
I was worried because the tool pusher had let a hint of fear escape his lips when he told us to leave the floor and I distictly remember seeing his jaw move. It was very apparent none of them had ever seen anything like this attempted before.
As we watched from behind a quarter inch thick steel wall that partially surrounded the back half of the derrick, the table slowly turned right. The tongs jerked slightly as the slack came out of their wire rope tethers. Even with the noises of the machine running, I could hear everything start to strain and popping sounds were coming from places that seemed to have nothing to do with what was happening on the floor.
I watched the tool pusher as he braced himself and gently cradled the drill controls in his hands. He slowly but continually increased the turn on the table. Nothing was moving as far as I could tell but I could hear the motor on the table continuing to work and twist.
There was suddenly a sharp and loud report not unlike a gunshot from the direction of the clamped bit. Everyone yelled “fuck!” in unison and jumped back a full step.
Something serious had just broken but it was unclear as to what. I looked at the tool pusher and he had let the controls snap back into the neutral position as he gazed at the bit trying to decide what had just happened. He gathered his courage and started the table again but barely applying pressure to the drill controls. The collar was turning but the bit was not.
“Holy Fuck! That shit fuckin’ worked!” Mick yelled with a smile on his face.
The bit was free. There was a brief attempt at celebration on the floor but it was actually more an expression of relief.
I would listen to lots of rig stories later that made me understand most celebrations like this were just about surviving to work the next day.
Industrial Petroleum 101
Randy had dropped into the store on his 28 day break and rented some movies as he usually did. He always rented them 5 or 6 at a time and would go back to his house and watch them all non stop. I knew he’d be in the next day and cycle his entertainment again. It was his MO.
As it went, Randy had been coming into the store for a number of months and we had spoken only in brief bursts here and there. He was always talking about these breaks of his and the places he had just come from in South East Asia. I was intrigued about what he was doing over there. Hearing tell of people traveling to such distant lands was almost unheard of in this part of Alabama, but I didn’t pry. It was clearly his job that took him there for 30 days at a time. I wondered what kind of company would give someone 28 consecutive days off. None came to mind immediately nor could I recall ever running across any one else with such a work schedule.
Then I heard someone say one day he was an airline pilot. His trips abroad and lengthy breaks would now seem to be explained. I had an uncle that was a pilot and he did get extended breaks. I didn’t recall them being 28 days though.
The next time he came in he made his selections as usual and strode up to the counter to check out. We performed the prerequisite southern greeting.
“Hey man. What you know good ?”
“I don’t know it, what you know?”
“I don’t know it.”
This was the exchange that southern males here did. There was never any deviance and both the challenges and the responses were required when friends saw each other. Randy and I recited the lines perfectly.
With the formalities officialy out of the way, the conversational field was now wide open and it would be no longer considered an offense worth shooting someone over for me to ask about his profession. I used to fly private planes so I was interested in talking with him on the subject of his career as a pilot. I thought too that I could probably remember enough to at least follow what he was talking about.
“So, Randy, which airlines are you a pilot for?”
My question was met with a very blank distant gaze followed by a stunned look of disbelief He was thinking about something and he was thinking about it hard. After a few seconds of the stare I became concerned that maybe I had somehow, inadvertently mind you, received some proprietary information that only dead operatives from his “company” knew about.
That’s it. He must be a field agent for some government organization with a three letter acronym for a name and no direct accountability to anyone and I, a crummy video guy, had just blown the lid off of his cover.
Aw gawd! Now what?
“Airline pilot?” he slowly questioned.
Now, here was my chance for redemption. I could deny all I had said with some quick thinking and sound alike phrase of some sort like “adrenalin riot.” I started formulating the sentence in my head.
“Oh, no, no. Ha. You thought I said airline pilot? Ha ha. No, I said adrenalin riot – which adrenaline riot are you for……… see?”
Oh shit. That’s stupid! He’ll never buy it especially if he’s a highly trained foreign operative.
I started to have that sinking feeling that my mental agility was again in the process of failing me. Temporary but sudden loss of my faculties seemed to be a daily occurrence. Today was obviously no exception.
I was out of time. The silence was reaching painful levels so I made a quick decision to go with the truth.
“Yes, I heard you flew planes for a living Randy.”
Slowly a smile began to form across his face. I was relieved the truth had worked, or seemed to at the moment anyway.
“Airlines. Ha! That’s a good one. Oh man!”
Not only was the truth working but it was funny besides. This faux pas near miss of mine was turning out rather well after all. I was pleased.
“Well, that’s what someone said anyway.”
“Man, I don’t fly. They fly me. I work in Jakarta.”
“Jakarta? Wow. What do you do there Randy?”
I felt I could risk venturing into this more deeply targeted territory just because I was now reassured that he wasn’t a trained killer with a hair trigger.
“Man, I work on a rig.”
“Rig? Uh, what kind of rig?”
“Oil. It’s an oil rig.”
He went on to tell me that he was an electrician aboard an offshore oil drilling rig. His shift was 28 days on and 28 off. We talked extensively over the next few days about the oil business and roughly how diesel electric rigs worked. I was interested because some of the things he talked about were familiar to me or at least the names for them were. I recognized SCR for example.
“I didn’t know oil rigs had SCR’s and it sounds like they work the same way the ones in TV’s do.”
“Aw heck man. It’s all the same stuff you already know” he said in a matter of fact way.
I had taught myself electronics and was repairing TV’s and VCR’s and, well, anything that “plugged up”. I had a rep in town as being on top of my game, so to speak, in the electrical arena. Now, this didn’t guarantee an income for yours truly. People would bring in things to fix, which I would do, then not have the funds to pick them up again. In fact, the business was a loosing proposition and I had my bank account to prove it.
Needless to say I had need for some money, or more accurately, money on a steady basis. In talking to Randy I found out rig workers are paid fairly well. In fact very well relative to what I was used to. My interest grew and Randy could tell I wanted a crack at it.
On his next 28 day break he told me he had talked to his superiors and there might be a spot for me soon. Pay would be around 50K a year. I was floored. I could not believe rig people made that much.
A couple of weeks later Randy called.
“Hey man. How quick can you make it to Louisiana?”
“I got a spot!? Oh, man. I don’t know. When do I have to be there?”
“You are late now. They are holding the spot but it won’t last. You need to go. There is a tool pusher that wants his man in the spot. He’s mad right now about you getting it.”
Not a great start I thought but, a start anyway. As I hung up the phone I was wondering what a tool pusher was.
I left about 11 AM that same morning and drove for some 4 and a half hours to make it to the Tri-Drill corporate office. I found who I was supposed to talk to and they hustled me into the office and we started to plow through the paper work.
A few hours later I thought I was done but, there was a problem. I hadn’t had a drug test and it was required by law. The dilemma for Tri- Drilling was that their need for an electrician on the rig was acute and immediate. They needed a guy now. In the oil game I would come to find whenever the word “now” was involved it meant “time to panic” in common English.
The managers circled up just out of auditory range for a conference on this test business. There was some arm waving along with some quick slicing hand motions. Then the vaporous whispering they were all doing grew into louder more guttural growls with a few sharp edged inflections here and there. Finally the group quieted and with a few nods the circle broke.
They had decided to improvise and administer their own version of a substance abuse test. Everyone insisted this was as close to legal as it got in Louisiana and there was no way they could be accused of any misconduct in the matter. All of them had agreed on the point and they had witnesses to prove it.
It started with two of the larger more threatening looking men moving forward and taking up flanking positions just inches away from me. I could feel their breath on the back of my neck. They were both biker looking types coated in various shades of stale grease. Neither of them had the worry of the complications too many real teeth can cause. They had both reduced their chopper inventory to the barest minimum.
They chose to take the direct approach to the problem by asking me 12 different ways “what drugs is yew on?” Each time I repeated I was not taking, nor had I taken any drugs prescribed or otherwise.
As this process ground on I could tell my interrogators were getting frustrated with their inability to break me down. As their supply of variations on the base question dwindled the tension grew. With each volley they launched their fists clenched a little tighter as I repulsed the attack with the same answer I had already given them ten different times. “I have not taken any drugs”
One of them turned toward the rest of the onlookers after about fifteen minutes of the interrogation and proclaimed “he aint gonna tell us no way.”
They had thrown in the towel. I felt the flush of victory.
Little did I know they had a hole card and now desperate, they decided to play it.
They called
her in.
She was a very well endowed tight sweater blonde with a sweet full smile topped off with dimples and a set of bedroom eyes.
One look at her told me she knew her business. She swished across the room moving every curve she owned and sat right in front of me. She wasted no time in going about her work.
She had one of those innocent sounding silky southern accents and I could tell she was capable of using it with the precision a brain surgeon would have killed for.
It wasn’t hard to see that she was accustomed to getting exactly the result she wanted any time she unleashed it's full power on a selected target. This accent plus the other weaponry in her arsenal made her flat deadly.
She started the ordeal by patting my hand softly and looking into my eyes. I was ready for her though. She would not break me godammit. I read Raymond Chandler after all and I knew what to expect from this, this, inquisition I was about to be mercilessly subjected to.
Gimmie your best shot babe I smugly thought to myself.
Then, I noticed her nipples getting hard and starting to show through her scoop neck knitted top. Oh my God! This woman is ruthless. I reckoned she could probably fake an inoperable tumor on cue too. She was good. Really good.
They had pulled out all the stops and I was starting to sweat just a little. I knew with her goods she could get me to admit anything and I wasn’t sure how much of her torture I would be able to stand. I tried not to look into her eyes by looking at her chest. Shit. She had skillfully made her nipples even bigger. I went back to her looking into her eyes and, at that moment she had me. I was lost in the seas of green that surrounded her pupils and the memory of her thin sweater top adhering perfectly to every undulation that lay below.
I was now breathing more quickly.
“Now sweetness, if you have had, well, a slip, we can fix it. You just need to tell me what it was. Please for me.”
I drew on every shred of courage I had and said in a shaky voice, “I have not taken any drugs”
“Aww, c’mon precious, you can tell me. I need to know just what it is – that’s all. Not too much for a man like you is it baby?"
“I have not taken any drugs.”
“Say, tell you what. Maybe you and I….well. You know, uh, later. I'm a single girl see. But, sugar I need to know what I need to fix for you.”
“I have not taken any drugs.”
With each of her queries, my patented answer came more easily.
So the grilling went. No one could believe I was telling the truth. It was just not possible that someone who wanted to work on a rig was not on drugs but the evidence was irrefutable. She had done her very best work on me but could not get me to confess.
After a short conference in more whispered words, they decided I was not going to change my story. They were still very afraid that somehow though I had bested her skill with some sort of sideshow trickery.
“Maybe it’s the drugs he’s on” one of them offered as explanation for the spectacle they had just witnessed.
They decided it wasn’t possible because no one could take enough narcotics to fend off her full assault with such aplomb and still be conscious.
They were in a bind. They had no options left and signed me up for my first “hitch”. A hitch is a 28 day cycle in the oil business. I was on my way to untold riches.
My instructions were to leave for Brownsville Texas whenever I wanted just as long as I was there at 6 AM, gulp, the next morning. It was past 5 PM now. I was told to stop on the way out of town for back x-rays. From Louisiana the drive to the tip of Texas was at least 6 hours, more like 8 maybe. I’d have to drive most of the night to make it on time then work the whole of next day on an hour of sleep. I wasn’t used to this at all and I didn’t much like this whole work on no sleep idea. Thus began my stint in the petroleum industry and my introduction to what the word “now” meant to these people.
Randy had taught me a few things in our conversations. First there was a lesson on the types of rigs. I learned terms like jack up, platform and semi. The rig I was to be on was Tri-86. It was of the jack up variety and this was what I was to look for at the ship yard. There were no more specific directions than that.
“It’s a lil ole jack up dawn aya. Onlyiest one around.”
I’ll find it. Hell, I know what jack up looks like. I had seen pictures in a magazine Randy had shown me. No problem.
I arrived at what I thought looked like a ship yard at about 3 AM. I was looking for 3 tall legs towering in the air about 400 feet. This normally would not have been a problem but, everything in the yard, which stretched for a mile and a half up and down the small bay had steel structures sticking up in the air 400 feet. Well, shit.
I drove up and down the main road outside the yard trying to pick out a set of jack up legs.Finally, on the 3rd slow trip back down the yard, I saw what I was sure were the legs of a rig rising only slightly above the rest of the thick clutter of steel pointed skyward. From where I was on the road though it looked, well, small and I was, quite frankly, disappointed. I was expecting big. Maybe even something bigger than my concept of the word big.
That’s not what I was seeing though at least from where I was at that moment.
I had perhaps a quarter mile walk to get to where I thought the rig was. As trudged down the small path, gear in hand, the sea of steel stuff started to part and thin. As I moved forward I started to pass the other shipyard refuse and I was thinking I could begin to make out the triangular shape of the hull.
About half way there I was sure it was the rig I was looking for. The closer I got to it, the larger the machine became. Each time I glanced up at it, it was twice the size it was before and I had only walked a few paces.
One hundred yards out I looked up again and I was in awe. It was big. Very big. It had also acquired a definitely menacing appearance somewhere along the way.
The size of the machine along with the increasing pungency of the raw petroleum odors and the still of it’s massive steel structures hanging motionless against the moonlit sky gave it the character of a sleeping metal colossus that could crush me in an instant if I woke it up. I was now afraid of the machine.
I pushed myself up the mountain of steel steps that seemed to lead up to the deck. There were 3 flights of them and I was tired as I labored upward. On stepping onto the rig for the first time I looked up and my immediate impression was that everything was ridiculously oversized, would probably hurt to pick up and would probably kill me if I was the least bit careless. I turned out to be right on all 3.
The thing was cold, gray and very raw looking with streaks of rust poured down the vertical surfaces and apparatus along with piles of parts were everywhere. The scene before me would make any junk yard look like a garden spot perfect for a picnic. This place was a wreck.I realized looking around I had no idea where to go. To the left was quiet shadowy mechanical stuff of some sort. On my right was a 3 story building that stretched all the way across the middle of the rig. There were windows and lights. I headed for that.
I found a door which was actually more like a ship’s hatch and went inside. My only directional choice was down. The smell of every oil based product I have ever been around was concentrated just inside the hatch. I found over time on the rig that this smell never went away. It was always there. Later in my career I came to understand this was due mostly to the mud room buried down here.
I explored the lower deck inside the monster. Again apparatus and parts all of which were big and heavy looking were everywhere. I had never seen any of the tools that were scattered about. Pipe wrenches as long as I was tall. Bolts the size of my wrist. There was a room I happened into holding 3 identical looking machines of some sort that were each easily the size of a city bus. They were pushed through cut outs in the floor with cat walks all around them. I was curious as to what they were but, I needed a place to sleep and clearly, there wasn’t anywhere to lay down below deck.
I found a stairway and went up again. After more stumbling around the building thing, itself the size of a ship, I located the galley. There was a vinyl sofa along one wall. It had a thin coat of oil on it but, no matter. It was 4:30 and I needed sleep. I was very tired. Six AM would be there all too soon.
Out
I knew I was almost out of the medication I was taking but, I thought, no problem. Call The Doctor and have him refill the prescription over the phone – slam dunk done.
I called him on Thursday and, as usual, I had to talk to him leave him voice mail. Voice mail is an interesting medium. With the increased storage capacity most modern machines have, you can carry on entire conversations with the stuff. This was the way The Doctor and I held our conversations.
I dialed his number.
“At the tone, please record your message”
And not just any beep either but a very obnoxious, shrill irritatingly loud beep that makes you hold the phone away from your ear and squint through one eye. It’s as close to being a “tone” as Capone was to paying the IRS.
After I got the phone back to my ear, I spoke the message I had rehearsed in my head a few times before the call.
“Hello Doctor. You have given me a prescription that I need to have refilled. I’m almost out. Please call me back if you have any questions.”
I waited for his reply which came about 2 hours later. Naturally, I wasn’t by the phone when he called so, he left me voice mail.
“Hello, This is Doctor. I got your message about your prescription and it’s no problem, I have called your pharmacy and you are set to go.” .
Wow, that was easy. There are actually systems in the world that work. I didn’t have a chance to go pick up the prescription until Friday night. It was going to be so clean. Walk in, say Hi, I’m Mr. Depression, get the stuff, walk out.
“Hello, I’m here to get my prescription. My doctor phoned it in”.
“Certainly sir, I have it right here. Oh, wait. You aren’t covered for this until next Thursday.”
“What?! Uh, I’m sorry. What does that mean?”
“Well sir, he gave you enough for 1 month with your first pickup. You are not due to receive any more until the 5th.”
“Oh, Iiiiiiiii seeeeeeeeee” I said. I knew now how to explain this whole thing away.
“The Doctor increased me from 150 mg per day to 300 mg per day so I ran out early.”
“Well, I’m sorry but that’s not what it says here. Taking medications as you see fit is a dangerous practice sir.”
“But, no, I didn’t do that. I didn’t take more. I called him and he increased my dosage. I am following his orders. See?”
“Well, he gave you the same as last time. And you can’t get them until the 5th.”
At this point I’m starting to realize the system that was so easy just a little while ago had reached around and bitten me and there was not going to be anything I could do about it. It’s Friday night and I’m reasonably sure The Doctor won’t call back this late – maybe not for the entire weekend. A mild, low level wave of panic washes through me. then, I start thinking. I have three 150 mg tabs left. That’s two for Saturday and one half a dose for Sunday. It’ll have to do me then, on Monday I’ll call and see if The Doctor can get this all straightened out. That’s the plan.
I tell the druggist thank you and walk away. As I make my way to the door I’m a little worried about Sunday. I’m wondering aloud if one will be enough.
Saturday came and went. I felt OK although there were things tugging at my stomach all day. I did a good job in covering them though.
Sunday was, well, ratty. Now, I have no idea if the was a result of taking only a half dose of the meds before I was fully on or, if it was because I knew I had only taken half and would probably feel different. Either way, suggested or real, I felt the turmoil start inside me again. I tried very hard to keep a lid on it and not spew forth a thousand questions at my wife that were gnawing away between my ears. I made it, sort of.
I called in to work on Monday morning saying I’d be late. I had some details I had to attend to. They understood and said it was fine. I had my voice mail in to The Doctor at 7:30 AM so now it was a waiting game. Shit. What happens if he doesn’t get in till like, 10 or 11? What happens if he does not call back? How long should I wait to give him another ping? What happens if he calls in sick and he doesn’t get my voice mail until Tuesday? Why all of a sudden do I sound like Woody Allen?
He called back about 8:30 or so. I talked to him directly. It was an actual mono y mono verbal exchange. He had fixed the problem and I could pick up the prescription at any time he said. With the intensity of a crack addict holding the first two bucks he’s had in the last 3 days, I headed to the drug store.
I got my meds. As I sat in my car, tearing the bag open to get a pill quick, I thought I have become what I feared most of my life. Just another screwed up neurotic American sliding through his space popping pills to keep the lid on life. Fuck.
I thought about this all the way to work, some 70 minutes worth. I wondered if Mia Farrow had a new movie she needed a co-star for. I would have been a shoe in.
Screw you Woody.
One vs. Borg
I suppose to say it was a conservative town would be like saying Attila the Hun just had a bad temper. The five thousand people of this little part of Dixie were of majority opinion that Bill Clinton was the anti christ everyone had been waiting for, that Wal Mart was a viable option for dinner out with the family and most of the Democrats in the country worshiped the devil ( all true based on first hand experience ).
Buried in the deep woods of central Alabama is this little arch conservative collection of church going folks most of whom fear deeply travel much outside the boarders of the State.
Through some very weird karma, a kid raised in Southern California, me, wound up living here in this foreign, or closer still, alien land.
Being in the video business as I was, you meet lots of people and you get to know their taste in movies. I once had a female customer tell me that she was hoping they would remake Gone With The Wind and cast Sylvester Stallone as Rhett. I watched the new releases closely for such a movie but, never was able to deliver. Imagining Sly saying “Yo Scarlet “ piqued my interest too and I started sort of hoping for the same movie. I was always in the mood for comedy and this one sounded good.
I also had an overall dressed weather beaten man come in with his grandson who must have been all of 5 or 6. His taste ran to hunting videos as the only entertainment choice which made him think, and he liked that. He picked up one tape called "Hunting North American Whitetail" while his wide eyed grandson watched his every move. The man said "we don't need no tape bout North America deer. We in Alabama" and he placed the box indignantly back on the shelf.
It was in this town I met a guy who I'll call Ronnie. Ronnie was a tallish overweight high school kid. He had dark straight hair he kept oiled and combed in perfect lines across his forehead. He never wore overalls or jeans, much anyway. He was always smiling and had some subject on his mind to get a conversation started. He was worldly beyond his years from what I could tell talking with him. His interests spanned history, social culture, science and a little mythology. I always thought it strange that he did not have the deep, barely translatable southern accent most in those parts had including his brother. Tim was a muscular, chisel chinned football player a year older than Ronnie. Tim had one of those tough guy acts but it fit his looks perfectly. Tim and Ronnie were outwardly, direct opposites.
I had known them both for perhaps a year or so when Ronnie landed a job at the local pharmacy which also offered videos for rent. He came in and poked fun at the fact that we were now competitors and he was always on a "reconnaissance mission"for his new employer checking us out.
Tim, as I recall, had gone the way most in the area did working for one of the two close by paper mills after he graduated from high school. Aside from the professions and business people in that town, it was the only way to make a decent living. Ronnie was obviously targeting larger fish but his folks were hard pressed to finance any college education for him what so ever. Ronnie just needed school money, not a life at hard labor. He took the job that fit what he was after.
There were three sit down restaurants in town and 3 fast food places. Then, there was the last option of Wal-Mart. The sit down restaurants were a seafood place, a steak house of sorts and a local, do it all diner. When word of a new restaurant opening was leaked, some say from City Hall itself, the town telephones were lit up like it was the fourth of July.
"It's a whut? Whut did yu jus say?!!!"
"I sed, it's a China place a movin in to the diner."
"The diner? They sold the diner??!! Oh Lord help us on Sundies."
A Chinese restaurant replete with the obligatory Chinese family ( a whole passle of em ) was moving into the spot known for many years as, The Diner. Finally, this was news with some meat on it's bones people could get their teeth into. This was Pulitzer caliber stuff for the local weekly and, like I said, the whole town lit up talking about it.
Now, I had been there for some time and I had heard conversations that go on amongst the men on Sunday afternoons after church. I was truly horrified at some of the things I heard and this was, almost, the 90's. Intolerance is a vast understatement. These church going, morally upright ( at least on most of every Sunday ) people harbored genuine, visceral hate for anything other than like minded, like looking people anywhere. I was truly worried for a time about the new family moving in.
On opening day, the place was packed. Wall to wall, overall clad men with wife and kids in tow, Nanas, pawpaws, young couples on their first date. They had all come to sample the culinary delights of the orient as one patron I heard put it "Right here in Alabama too!"
He was as amazed as I was. Not only was there foreign food being served within the boarders of our rural county, foreigners was "runnin ever wicha way, a doin the servin an th cookin an talkin to th people findin out what they wuz gona eat". And the townsfolk reciprocated by talking back to them. An actual conversation or two on something other than the menu could be heard now and again. The people seemed taken by this sudden immersion in another culture.
One toothless but respected local who was well know for his insight into local horticultural cycles and climates, lent his wisdom to the occasion by saying "thayz ever whar an kinly hard t' understand but it sho wuz good eatin in thaya. Hewww!" in talking about all the Chinese people he had seen working the crowd in the new restaurant. This was something akin to the Good Housekeeping seal of approval for the place.
They were a hit and I was in shock. I had no idea the people in that town would embrace foreigners, especially ones so very different than themselves, with such open arms. Now, this is not to say that the doors at homes in town were thrown open en masse to have visiting time with the new folks. Still, it was good to see the business doing so well.
They had a son about 20 or so. He and Ronnie started coming into the store renting movies. I was happy to see Ronnie. He had been scarce since starting with "the competition". Ronnie hadn't changed and I found his new friend was equally outgoing. Through his somewhat broken English he also always had a story and a smile. He and Ronnie were seldom seen apart unless they were at their respective jobs.
As it works in small towns, people are very nice and hospitable face to face but, as soon as you are out of earshot, bang, the whispering starts. I know because I have not only gotten a few ears full but I had been whispered about pretty much since the day I first showed my face in that town.
As it always went in that town when people get bored, the rumors start. "Did you know that Ronnie and that new Chinese boy is.........uh, what you call,................homysexall?!"
"Na! How do yew know ayut?"
"Well, Lindy said he seen em going into the woods tgether and then ther wuz N'Orleans.! They went down er and stayed t'gethuh...in the SAME room naw!"
"Good Gawd!"
This rumor plus truck loads more swept the town like fire in a gas factory. After a couple of weeks hearing the same things about Ronnie and his friend I was afraid for them. The town et al was on a pseudo witch hunt and the truth was going to be told whether it was or not. After all this was, well, the case of cases. There was the H word involved in this one and no matter how you pronounced it, everyone knew what it meant.
All the while, behind the scenes as the rumors flew, the townsfolk were tirelessly gathering more facts, comparing notes, and formulating the course of events since the Chinese family had arrived and their evidence trail had started. They worked with the efficiency of an FBI crime lab and had assembled the complete story in a few short days. It was told and retold until it was a different story.
As this pattern runs it’s course, people get bored again even with a story as big as this, and the gossip about the two died down. I quit hearing about them as much. I was relieved for them.
I hadn't seen either of them for some time but, I had heard that Ronnie wasn't working at the pharmacy any more. Something had happend but no one would tell me, a foriegner myself, exactly what.
One day some time later, Ronnie walked in to the store. He looked quite different. His smile was gone, he didn't have his friend with him and his movements were slow, somehow measured with none of the spontaneity I had always known him to have. He asked me if we had any openings. When I asked him what had happened at the drug store, he told me in a very subdued voice that his managers had confronted him with "the facts". They demanded to know if it was true.
Ronnie really could have told them anything he wanted, just as long as it involved being saved, lots of time in a Baptist Church and the commensurate daily praying. Really, it's true. Once, a man in town had almost killed his wife beating her. He went and got himself saved at church and was truly sorry for what he had done and had cried out to God to smite him in open court for his sins. That was his defense and it worked. Not only was he acquitted, after this outpouring the folks in town decided that he had repented and was therefore safe for society ( and his wife ) again.
Ronnie told them instead that everything they had said was in fact true. He admitted he was gay in no uncertain terms and the Chinese man was his partner. They dismissed him at the pharmacy immediately upon his "confession".
Word of Ronnie's admissions spread rapidly and nearly brought the phone system down in those parts according to one company employee. It was a genuine scandal unearthed and shown the light of day and everyone that was anyone needed to see it because, well, this was town business after all. You can’t just have a person in town like that unless everyone knows all about it. It’s just not right.
Most individuals in Ronnie's situation would have left. Just packed up and hopped a plane somewhere, anywhere away from Alabama. He could have at least gone to Mobile where no one knew him and landed a job easily enough.Instead, he chose to stay in a place where he knew he was hated and even feared and try to rebuild his young life. His brother Tim had even said Ronnie wanted to stay in town because it was his home.
Now, he was out asking people who he knew had already condemned his soul to hell for eternity about jobs. Everyone he runs into everywhere he goes knows who he is and exactly the nature of the so called sins he has committed. He has to put up with the scowls and cold eyed stares as he walks by. He hears the whispers behind cupped hands and knows exactly what they are saying.
Some wanted to kill him outright (this is not second hand information) figuring they would be doing the world a service. There is nothing hated more than a homosexual south of the Mason Dixon line. Not even armadillos are despised like this ( it's a hunting thing. The armadillos make noise that scare the deer that hunters want to shoot. The only sensible answer to this problem is to exterminate every armadillo in the south. The same logic applies to gay people who are all so sick you can't get them back )
All Ronnie wanted to do was to live his life on his terms and pay his way for an education.
I left my relatives in Alabama behind and moved north westward in the early 90's to a more culturally open society. I had to really if for nothing else than to pay homage to diversity.
I heard some time later that Ronnie had indeed stayed in town and was getting his life back on track again, to the degree he could, considering the attitudes about gay people he had to contend with. I don't know how he did it other than guts and determination in measures not often seen.
As things for him were slowly improving, they suddenly took a turn in the wrong direction. Drastically wrong. He died in the mid 90's after he had contracted AIDS.
Ronnie,
I just want to say thank you sir. You are one of the most courageous men I have ever had the honor to know and I am truly humbled by your memory
Dear Therapist
I'm finally making some progress on understanding where my wife and I are as individuals in our married relationship. Sounds weird I know. A marriage is a union between two people weather they be gay, lesbian or straight.
We had a very honest talk last night that answered many of the questions that had bothered me over the last few months.
The sum of our talk is this:
At this point I am focused on the final goal of a traditional marriage and family. That is, a monogamous relationship with the woman I love raising our children together. Period. This is the family I have always dreamed of having because the one I grew up in was in no way a family. We were a collection of individuals who all happened to share the same roof.
My wife on the other hand is what she terms more open in her attitudes about monogamy and it's place in our marriage. I have mentioned to you her second life which she has been living on the fringes of since we were first separated. She has never kept this a secret from me, in fact she's talked about it to me on and off since she started attending the meet 'n greets this group holds. As you may imagine, this group has a very casual approach to sex and relationships. It's a swing group and she never tried to make that a secret. I wasn't upset about her going to these because she said she was just in this group for friendship. I believed her.
Finally last night, as I said, we had a talk about this group and what she's looking for in it. She said that she did want casual, no strings sex but she wanted that with other women while we continue our married life ( this supposes we can get the living arrangements taken care of and my son straightened out ).
Here in this sharp difference between her ideas on casual sex and my ideas on monogamous sex lies our, or better my obvious stumbling block. To me sex is a very private way of expressing deep love for someone and actually augments that love. I discovered quite some time ago that sex is not so special without the love that goes along with it.
For my wife it is not. It's like a hand shake or a peck on the cheek or just another bodily function that needs service from time to time.
I finally concluded with my wife that I was willing go down this road with her and try sharing her sexually with another woman and she could, at her discretion proceed. There was one request I had that was that she have her sex with her partner only. No men allowed. She said she would honor my request. Here again I believed her. She has said to me in the past that if we don't make it as a couple she would go totally gay.
The only action she has told me of is that she has kissed with one particular woman but there was nothing more than that.
As this conversation went on we also decided I would go to a meet 'n greet with her one night to meet some of these folks. She says they take place in bars around the area typically on Thursday nights. She has spoken to me about it in months past asking if I wanted to go. I was usually not too interested. I'm willing to try this with her now just to establish some presence in this other life that's developing within her.
Even tough this talk went a long way in quieting some of the fears within me, it has brought to mind many more new thoughts and questions as you may have guessed.
I am worried that some of the pictures that were raging in my head may come back. Namely pictures of my wife having sex with other men. These keep me awake at night and scare me the most. It's a deep fear and I have no idea where it came from. I told my wife I could not handle her with other men, not now, probably not ever. This to me is the ultimate rejection there is no other that equals the cruelty of this act. My wife has known this about me from the start of our romantic relationship.
My feelings regarding another woman having sex with her are different ( I hope ) in that I know my wife is not rejecting me but getting fulfillment in a way I can't. Which ever woman she is with will not be better than me, just different.
So, after considering all this I am wondering if and then how I can attitudinally affect some part of this casual sex life style. It is so very foreign to me when I really think about it. It is contrary to everything I have learned about relationships, love, and my heart. How will I handle meet 'n greets where hands travel freely? How accepting will I be of another woman in bed with my wife? How is it possible to keep love and sex separated? Will the other woman feel the same way?
I am willing to tepidly explore this other life style with my wife just to be with her, and because I love her.
I just have no idea how I'm going to react.
Regards,
Me-
Waiting for the on.
The Doctor returned my call and left voice mail for me.
“I think what you describe is normal for this medication and will pass in 2 to 3 weeks. If you are not suicidal, stick with it. Oh yes, you could increase the dose to 300 mg just to see if that improves the situation.”
I was very ready for improvement. The depression was getting worse and I needed sleep. The night before I called, I could only manage 3 hours or so. The night before that it was about 4. I had truly forgotten the last time I ate or what it was I consumed. Finally the thought of 3 more weeks of what I was feeling was too much to bear. I decided I would increase the dose the next day.
The evening The Doctor left his message was also my regular therapy session. I walked into her office, sat down and started to tell her that I had been diagnosed with depression and I had begun the medication as prescribed. I told her it wasn’t helping and that Doctor had said if I wasn’t suicidal yet I was OK. Midway through the phrase “I don’t know if I’m suicidal or not” I broke completely down. I had never done this in her office before – never. Liquid tears, no longer just dry sand caught in my aching throat, poured from my eyes. For 30 minutes they flowed and I sobbed out my story for the last week. At the end of my session my eyes were drier but they hurt so badly. My therapist said the flow of emotion was a sign that I wasn’t dead inside but alive and I was trying to express that part of me I had kept buried for so long. I hung my head as I left her office not wanting to look at anyone really nor did I want to be seen.
I have spent considerable time and energy in my life mastering the art of being nearly invisible. More exactly this is instinctively being able to impact human senses in a neutral way. I sit in the back of the room or along the side. If I’m in a lit area I am motionless in as much shadow as I can find. I open and close doors quietly. The object of walking is to make as little sound as possible. No thumps, clicks or bumps. In fact, just sitting is hard work. No sudden moves allowed. No sounds to speak of. I’m always alert to the fact that I can do nothing that might draw attention. If I must pass someone in a hall somewhere my eyes are averted and I carry my head at about a 45 degree angle. I learned early in life that any eye contact is an invitation for human interaction and I knew that, when given a chance, people would hurt me unless I knew who they were. Even then they might just for the hell of it. This is why I’m so off balance in unfamiliar surroundings where interaction with strangers is required. If talking to another human isn’t expected behavior I can tolerate these things though.
The twist on all this is that I don’t appear neutral physically. I’m in fair shape for my age and wear my hair long. To my ass in fact. It’s unique for this cultural moment. I ride my motorcycle with the streaky blonde pony tail streaming out behind me. The bike is a black sport bike. Again, unique for my age. Most in my age group ride cruisers. I get lots of stares when I’m riding.
In general you can easily pick me out of a crowd. But this paradox leads to questions-
Why would I want to be unique and stand out in some respects but hide in others?
How did I get like this?
How can I function in a world filled with people?
Will I ever figure me out?
Will I go mad trying?
Why is it important anyway?
My wife and I went to our first couples counseling session today.
It was a neutral experience.
The Doctor part II
In giving me directions on the phone The Doctor had said “I’ll tell you something that will help, enter from 19th”. Even though it sounded a bit cryptic at the time and since the address was on 116th, I just took the note and asked no questions but I was wishing I had. I was at 116th and 19th but, where was his office? It was a residential looking street. I looked across 116th and there were some offices over there, medical looking anyway, so I drove into the first parking lot. This wasn’t it. The addresses were one hundred too high. Crap. Next parking lot up, 10 too low but there was a driveway around back. Sneaky I thought, hiding an office in the back of the building. Still though, none of the addresses matched what I needed back there.
After stumbling around for a while I finally gathered my courage, went into one office and asked hoping whoever I contacted would be able to help because I was now running late.
In general I consider asking strangers for any information at all a brazen act. I hate asking someone for something even as simple as the time. Asking for directions is considered an act of war. I suppose it’s because of my reaction when someone asks me for information. They ask politely enough usually starting with “Excuse me.” But then, they always ask about someplace I have never heard of. “Do you know where I can find All About Hair? It’s a store where the sell trimmers for nose hair. I have these hairs, see………?”
Great I think. I’m now forced to communicate with this stranger and I know more than I want to about what bothers them. Nose hair bothers me too but it’s near the bottom of my “conversations to have with strangers” list.
I’m polite of course.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know where that is” I say.
Then the silent, incredulous stare. It’s always the uncomfortable silence during that stare that gets me the most. I can see thoughts register in their eyes. The first look says “Oh wonderful. Of all the people I could ask I pick Mr. Stupid.” Then, it’s a look of “what am I going to do now”?
At this point the requestor of the directions will probably try to jog my memory as though I have been to Al’s Atomic Hair hundreds of times before but for some reason, I just don’t remember it.
“It’s near a gas station” they say pleased with themselves they were able to reveal such a lucid clue. This chance for redemption they have thrown me surely will do it they think. They wait for the light bulb to flicker on.
Meanwhile I’m thinking there’s a gas station on every corner in this section of American suburbia. Why did you pick this as the notable landmark no one could miss?
I say “well, I always go to the 76 up the street and I don’t recall seeing Hair World there.”
At this point I can sense that the exchange is almost done. The look of disbelief has been cast and they have decided their first instinct was correct. I’m Mr. Stupid in the flesh and any more trying will just cement their impressions more firmly.
“I’ll try in here – thanks” and they are gone.
The receptionist seemed a little upset that I would dare walk in and ask something so common.
“This is not the address you want” as I showed her The Doctor’s address on the card my therapist had given me. I covered his name with my thumb so she wouldn’t know who I was looking for. I thought that if she did see the name with all those letters behind it she would instantly wonder why an insane person was walking around unattended in broad daylight.
She had no help to offer and curtly indicated so. On the way out I thought to myself that it was interesting that I was the stupid one whether I was asking for or being asked for directions.
I finally found the office. It was as the Doctor had said, on 19th hidden in plain sight in the residential neighborhood I had started with.
I walked in, filled out the forms and waited.
The Doctor appeared suddenly and quietly. He was just there and I was at a loss to explain how he had materialized beside me. It will remain a mystery I suppose but I’ll be more aware next time and watch for him.
He was a tall slender man with thinning sandy colored hair probably in his mid 50’s somewhere. He spoke softly in even tones as if he was purposely avoiding any display of emotion what so ever.
His office was a large room unremarkable in most ways walking in but, when I sat on the small sofa along one wall I noticed the immense space between where I was and his desk. I also noticed he seemed much taller when he sat down. If this man didn’t have the power to proclaim me unsafe for human interaction of any kind and locked up on the spot I would have risked asking how he did that.
“Say, Doc. How is it you are taller when you sit down than when you are standing? And while I’m asking stuff, how is it you can just appear in a room?”
“Ah, I appear and disappear for you do I? I see. Orderly!”
There was a long moment of silence as The Doctor wrote upon one of the forms I had filled out. Again, there was that notable absence of emotion even as he moved his pen. His hand guided it much in the same way he spoke. Very even and clean with few hints of any peaks or valleys. No abrupt movements at all. He probably learned early in his career not to startle his prey.
Finally he looked up and asked “what brings you in today?”
I was a bit slow on the uptake. Actually I was nervous about disturbing the quiet with my voice.
“My therapist said I should, uh, come to see you.”
“I see, and what did she say?”
“She said I was depressed.”
Immediately upon my admission I may, underline “may” be depressed he launched a list of questions. There were about 20 or so. Lots of yeses, a few no’s and one kinda later he confirmed my therapists diagnosis. I was depressed, no two ways about it. The treatment was of course medication.
“What about side effects?”
“There are some side effects to consider, especially the………………
SEXUAL ONES!”
I was distinctly upset that he had chosen those words to emphasize and show some modicum of emotion with.
“Sexual………? You mean negative performance impact? Sexually?”
“Yes”
“There is one medication that reports incidents of sexual dysfunction as low" he said.
“Low but possible correct?”
“Yes, possible.”
Oh no. God no. Not only must I struggle with serious depression but I may also not be able to make love to my wife.
I had mentioned to her a couple of weeks ago that I might be depressed.
She said I could be depressed all I wanted but I should, under no circumstances take medication since I was an alcoholic – clean and sober for 15 months, but still an alcoholic- taking medication could set off a chain reaction and coax me to drink again.
She was serious and I did not want to throw any kind of curve into our already strained marriage. I love her without end but the way I hurt inside was bad and getting worse and The Doctor had spoken.
The Doctor
I would have preferred a nice, fatal car accident. It would have been quicker and basically more fool proof than anything else that comes immediately to mind. A quick flash of light, maybe a burst of static then cool never ending darkness waiting for birth again. Perhaps even the local news would have mentioned it in the morning traffic reports – “Accident shown by our exclusive Action Hotspot Trafficams has traffic in trouble on the East Side. Stay tuned for more after this........”
People stuck behind me, or what was me, inching along and now running late would swear at me over their radios, “Bastard!”.
But, such is not the case, at least not yet. Instead, through the twists and turns, cliffs and abutments that litter life, I find myself here contemplating a blank page, love, death and a tuna sandwich I may or may not eat.
I’m perplexed by tuna or rather my feelings about it. On the plus side I like the taste, it’s cheap, it won’t spoil if left contained and, in a pinch, you can eat it straight out of the can when energy and time are everywhere else but with you. Not so pleasant are the thoughts about how many dolphins may have actually paid the ultimate price for my sandwich.I always imagine what I’d do if I were a dolphin in that situation, suddenly ensnared in a net and forcibly pulled out of my home. Once landed I like to think I’d shit on the closest tuna, spit my dying breath at whoever was on deck and say to myself “eat that human jerks.”
Not really. I’d die very confused trying to understand why someone would want to hurt me like that. I would never know.
I have this problem, or set of problems and to go along with them, lots of advice on what to do about them. My therapist who I have been seeing for about a year has finally decided I may be depressed. Everyone I work with says I need to drastically increase my alcohol intake but the folks at the AA meetings I go to tell me that’s not a good idea. My wife tells me I need to fix myself first, next work on my head strong 13 year old son from my first marriage then deal with my mother who, through a very strange crack in the space / time continuum lives with us. After my first wife left me for someone else, my mom helped out as primary care provider for my son while I worked. I couldn’t have made it without her really.
Next on the list are our current marital problems following our year long separation.Only after all this will I finally be able to tackle the most vexing problem of all. Why the 3 dogs we have insist that the great outdoors is not a dignified enough place for them to do their business and go in the house, on the carpet upstairs, downstairs. There is nowhere in the house that has missed a full blessing at one point or another.
My therapist referred me a Doctor of Psychiatry. I think it was because I told her that I was really hard pressed to come up with any reason not to go out and get drunk. I was having fond memories at that moment of the blackouts, beer vomit and waking up in strange places like outside on the front porch in my sleeping attire which consisted of only boxers.
As nearly as I can reconstruct it, that night I drank my 15 or so beers to relax a bit and passed out at the normal time on my side of the bed. This was my nightly routine. Nothing unusual.
I must have had to go to the bathroom somewhere in there and in a blacked out state decided the front porch was just the perfect place for it. When I woke up, probably in the range of 4 AM, I was actually shocked to be outside. I couldn’t sleep again as I tried to remember how I got there.
Actually, I was thinking it would really be good to drink again just this once. Just one more time to get me by, get me past this period I was going through. My only problem is that my “once” would last 10 years.
Expressing this thought to my therapist was a sure sign to her that I was entering dangerous ground again and I can’t say I could argue with her. So, she recommended I go see the Doctor.
I was nervous as I started out from the company parking lot but I kept going. As I drove to his office I was wondering what differentiates a psychologist and a psychiatrist anyway. I had never been to a full doctoral psychiatrist before. His title certainly was impressive but was the source of his mana just matter of a few capital letters following his name on his card? Was it a matter of 8 additional years in some Ivy League school and the commensurate ruination of his parent’s financial security?
Were the movies accurate? If this guy felt so inclined could he order the straight jacket and padded cell for me where I’d wind up making friends with a bed pan?
If I gave a little too revealing an answer to one of his questions and betrayed something about my inner self not even I was aware of could he take legal action to have my adult rights stripped from me?
Would he be able to see parts of me I had no idea existed?
What the hell was I about to do?
I have found in the past that when I’m dealing with institutions I know little about and don’t seem to have even the remotest capacity to understand like banks, the IRS and collection agencies that I usually wind up getting screwed. This trip to see the Doctor was no different. I was filled with hesitation and a sense of genuine dread.
The real dread I felt was not of the system I was about to face however.
I was very afraid of what he would tell me about me. I almost didn't want to know but, I needed to do something. I was starting to hurt in a way I had a few times before and knowing what I was about to go through scared me to death.
