Today is my father's birthday. He died four years ago on July 4th. I'm working on a novel about my days as a rod buster. I thought dad would like this chapter. Happy Birthday dad!
Out
A chapter from my novel "Willie"
Joe Daigneault
Kenny, an ex-bull rider turned-Christian-speed-freak, who is
now the Super, wonders over. “What
do ya need, Joe?”
“When’s the pour?”
“At one.”
“Well, I could use two men and
three punks.”
“I’ll give you black Howard and two
new skins.”
“How fresh?”
“Right out of the box… just came
off the rez yesterday and Joe, don’t
kill em we’re short on help.”
“Okay but we’ll be chasing it, see
if you can’t get me a few more.”
“Billy T called and said the office
was sending out some new guy and they said he was only to work with you!”
“Call those assholes back and tell
them, if they want me to baby-sit, they need to tack 50 cents an hour on to my
check and send out a few cases of Pampers.”
“Either way, it’s gotta pour, so
it’s assholes and elbows!”
“Amen to that.”
Kenny walks over to an old
truck. Two young Indians get
out. He points me out; they put on
their brand new, tool belts and walk over quickly.
I say, Yah teh hey apena, denez (Good morning, Navajos.)
The older one replies, Yah teh
hey, hostein (Hello Boss.)
About the same time, Howard, a
huge, scary, midnight black, man, with a two inch wide scar running across his
face, walks over, and growls, “Good morning, you fat, white, piece of dog shit”
“Morning fudge blossom! If your all done with the sweet talk,
why don’t you get these guys loading in that bottom and I’ll lay it out. Oh, and Kenny says if you break em, you
buy em. So play nice.”
Howard walks over to the iron pile
and starts shaking out the rods. I
tell the Indians “Just do what that big black guy over there tells you, keep
your hands on the Rebe, don’t slow down and you’ll be fine.”
The older one says in broken
English, “Wha happen to his face?”
I’m tempted to lay some bullshit
story about a knife fight in the ghetto on them, but decide against it. “Well, when He was twelve, down in
Morenci, he and his little brother stole the limo at his sister’s wedding. Shit, they were just two little black
kids that had never seen a Cadillac that big before… going for a fucking joy
ride. They made it about a mile before Howard wrapped the car around a big old
oak tree. Howard went through the
front window. His little brother
was crippled for life. He’s every
bit as mean as he looks… so I’d leave it alone.” Nodding my head toward the
iron I say, “Get to it!”
Howard picks up four of the 35
pound, number seven hook bars.
They are 12 feet long, with a six-foot tail. Howard is tall enough to rest the bars on his shoulder as he
carries them out to be placed in the box.
Unfortunately, the Indians are only about five feet tall, so they hold
the bars over their heads as they walk.
Both try three bars and make it about ten feet before their arms give
out. The bars go tumbling to the
ground. Howard storms over and
starts screaming.
“You clumsy, gut eating, cock-suckers. Are you fucker’s lazy or just plain
stupid? That’s a good way to end up
in the hospital. If you’re too
fucking short to carry these by yourselves then team up. I don’t want to see
you carrying less than five of those ‘Chingaderas’ all fuckin day… And don’t
let that fat, white, son of a bitch over there run out of iron, I don’t want to
hear it!”
As Howard and the Indians pack the
rods in I set them into place.
Working as fast as I can I tie the bars together by wrapping the wire
around them, where they come together.
Then I cinch them tight by pulling and twisting the wire at the same
time with my hands. Another quick
twist with my pliers then I cut the wire short. There’s no time to be careful, so about every five minutes I
accidentally run my knuckles or forearm across the razor sharp wire. After twenty minutes, my arm drips
blood and will do so for the rest of the day. I’m so use to getting cut that I don’t even flinch
anymore. If it feels too deep, I
just check quickly to see if it needs stitches.
Around nine, an orange Toyota
pickup pulls up. An old Mexican,
wearing thick prescription sunglasses, gets out. He’s the field superintendent.
He asks me, “Hot enough for ya
Joey?” I’m hot and sweating. it’s
around 110°.
“Hey Billy T… no, but don’t worry
we’re suppose to hit 118° this afternoon.
How’s that A-C been treating you?” At 118°the average guy will make
it about twenty minutes before he starts puking. When it’s that hot, people die from heat exhaustion.
“The A-C’sFine… just fine. Come on up out of there I need a word
with you.”
“Look, I got a pour at three and my
ears work fine, so just speak up.”
“Hey… get you ass out of that hole
NOW!… I need to talk with you about this guy the office is sending out.”
I’ve worked around Billy T all my
life; he has a look of concern on his face that really grabs my attention, so I
tell Howard, “Hey, take over.”
When I get up top, Billy T. says,
“Do you remember a huge con that worked down at the yard. The FBI came in and
scooped him up one day about eight years ago?”
“Yeah, I remember him. His name was Willie. I used to work with him when I was a
kid… Why?”
“He’s out and coming here.
Apparently, they were so afraid of him down at Florence that he’s been in
solitary for the past six years. I
guess he beat three guys to death… three guys with knives!”
“So why’s he out?”
“No one left to testify, but he did
the did the rest of his time in the box.
They let him out for one hour a month to walk around in a cage in the
sunlight, wearing shackles with two armed guards watching. Your old man gave
him a job, so he made parole. No
General population for him. They
took him out of solitary this morning and put him directly on the bus. He’s a little spooky. The office told me to give him to you…
keep a fucking leash on him.
There’s a tool belt for him in the back of my truck. Tell him I’ll take it out of his first
check.”
“Will do.”
Billy T drives away and I get back
at it.
Around eleven, I look up from the
hole and there he is in brand new, Levis, boots and a white tee shirt. Just as big as I remember, except he’s
as white as a ghost from being indoors… no sunlight.
“I’m looking for Joey Daigneault,”
he says.
“Well Willie, that would be
me. How the fuck are you?”
He smiles that big, shit eating,
Willie grin and says. “Fine as frogs hair, boy… I’ll be, look at you. You grew up!
glad to see willie back! --tj
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