“I’m gonna give it a shot and see what happens. I gotta put my best foot forward and hope I don’t stumble. Right now’s probably my last day of drinkin,’ and I’ll give it a shot tomorrow, see how that goes. What do you think? Think it’s a good idea?”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure how serious he was, but I felt guilty that I bought him a drink when he was on the verge of quitting.
I asked him about the last time he went to AA—what worked for him?
“Well, you’ve got the 12 steps you go through. I don’t even remember what they are, but one was to make amends for all the wrong I’ve done. Because with alcoholics, we’ve done a lotta wrong to people. I don’t even remember all the people. I don’t know where they are anymore. So that’s gonna take me a while. You got to admit to yourself and to others that you’re an alcoholic, and believe in a higher power, and trust in Him.… I think if I get into this AA program, get some sobriety underneath my belt, maybe Gary’ll give me my old job back.”
Stakes decided to attend an AA meeting that night at 8 p.m. As I drove him in the direction of Sonstegaard’s house, he wasn’t sure how to get back because he’d never left the house on his own before. I explained how close it was to downtown and showed him which street to turn on. “Huh, it’s just straight down this road?” he asked, pointing outside the car.
He leaned back in the passenger seat, still confused on where exactly he lived. When I dropped him off, I watched as he walked back to the house. About halfway down the cement walkway, he slipped on the ice, his arms flailing and his right leg sliding off the path. He caught himself before he lost his balance and hit the pavement. Then he continued walking cautiously, keeping his arms out to steady himself, to the front door of the house, and disappeared inside.
* * *
Around 7:30 p.m., as I read in my hotel room, Stakes called and said I could join him at his AA meeting if I liked. Guests were allowed at this one, he said. But no recording and everyone else had to remain anonymous. I agreed.
I drove downtown to where the meeting was held. The location was a weary two-story brick building on Main Street, next to a coffee shop called Daily Addiction that had opened during the boom. I grimaced at the irony. There was a crisp layer of snow on the ground, and Main Street had a few modest Christmas decorations. Red SEASON’S GREETINGS flags draped the streetlamps. I saw Stakes and another man standing outside smoking cigarettes. Stakes waved. I exited my warm car and stepped into the bitter cold air. A gust of wind stung my face and slammed my car door shut.
Stakes introduced Randy, the neighbor who had first invited him to AA. Randy had been attending AA meetings on and off in Williston for about three months. He had moved to Williston from Wyoming.
We were a few minutes early, but the door to the building was unlocked, so we entered and walked up a steep stairway to a room on the second floor. The space had a linoleum floor, couches, a small kitchen, and a vending machine. Inside, it smelled of bleach and burnt coffee. Eight long tables had been placed in a square formation so everyone could face each other.
Stakes dug some change out of his pocket and bought a Cherry Coke from the vending machine. We grabbed two seats near the door and Randy sat across from us. Eight men and two women were already there, sipping Styrofoam cups of coffee and chatting quietly. Stakes saw one woman he recognized and said hello. Later, Stakes told me they had met when they both lived on the streets during his first winter in Williston.
In the room, posters of the 12-step commandments hung on a maroon accent wall, next to plaques of quotes like A DECLARATION OF UNITY and AA PREAMBLE. Stakes picked up a book called 12 Steps and 12 Traditions, then placed it down on the table unopened. He looked around the room, then stared down at his lap and fidgeted. He rubbed his palms and picked at his thumbnail. A few more men strolled in and took seats across the room. There were 19 people total now, 3 of them women, not including myself. Stakes looked at the clock. Only a few minutes until 8 p.m. He crossed his arms and stroked his beard. He leaned over and whispered to me: “I’m not going to talk this time. I’m going to wait until I’m more comfortable.”
A couple minutes past 8, a man near the front of the room announced it was time to begin. “Let’s start with a prayer,” he said. Everyone in the room stood and bowed their heads. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” the man said. The men and women in the room knew the words and chanted along. They finished with “amen,” and we sat back down.
Stakes seemed to suddenly realize he was still wearing his Cattails baseball cap, so he took it off and put it on the table in front of him.
The introductions began, with everyone in the room stating their first name followed by “and I’m an alcoholic.” Everyone greeted them in return. When Stakes’s turn came, he sat up straighter and said, “My name’s Tom and I’m an alcoholic.” He seemed relieved when his turn was over and they moved on to the Hispanic man next to him. Over the next 45 minutes, people volunteered to share and spoke about the difficulties of working far away from their families and the benefits of being part of the AA community. Stakes listened quietly, shifting his weight or picking at his fingernails.
For the closing prayer, the man at the front of the room asked everyone to stand and hold hands. I took Stakes’s hand and we bowed our heads. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name,” they said in unison. “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.… Amen.”
* * *
The next day, Stakes planned to attend two AA meetings back to back—one at 12 p.m. with Randy and another at 8 p.m. His roommate, Rick Sonstegaard, had stumbled home drunk from the bars the night before and told Stakes he wanted to join AA as well. Stakes decided he couldn’t hang out with his old friends Nate Beatty and Greg Mackie anymore because they spent too much time at the bars. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to resist alcohol around them. He also wanted to buy a new hat. “I’m gonna have to get me another hat. This hat’s got a duck layin’ upside down with a bottle in his mouth. I don’t think that’s a good influence.” He laughed. He hadn’t felt jittery yet; he figured it was a good sign.
Before the 8 p.m. meeting, Stakes, Sonstegaard, and Randy decided to attend a free dinner in the basement of a local Methodist church. The church was adorned with two lonely strands of Christmas lights at the entrance. We walked down a flight of stairs into a gymnasium-like room, and a pudgy woman with short, jagged blond hair stopped us. “Merry Christmas!” she said. The enthusiasm in her voice felt forced. Inside, a dozen round tables were decorated with shiny plastic red-and-green tablecloths, with candy-cane-striped candles as the centerpieces. A statue of Mary and baby Jesus sat by a plant in the corner, looking like items at a yard sale. The blonde woman asked if we’d like a plastic gift bucket. The buckets were old gallon ice cream containers stuffed with toiletries, socks, and thermal underwear. Stakes took one and thanked her as we walked away. “This’ll be the biggest Christmas I’ve had!” he said, and laughed. We sat down on metal chairs under the fluorescent lights. The room was packed with people—mostly men, but a handful of women and one family with toddlers. Stakes dug through his bucket and found soap, a comb, a few pieces of candy, and a card. He opened the card and read it aloud: “Wishing you the best gifts from friends of faith at the Methodist Church and the Life Assembly of God Church.”
“A little personal touch,” Stakes said, nodding. “That’s nice. First Christmas card I’ve gotten in a long time.” At the bottom of the bucket, he found a multicolored rubber bracelet with lettering that said WALK WITH JESUS. Stakes asked if anyone wanted it, but Randy was already wearing one. Stakes shrugged and stretched it around his wrist.
The pastor of the church stood in the middle of the room and announced it was time for dinner, the
n said: “All right, let us pray!” The room fell silent. “Great House of God, thank you for this food which our friends have made for us this evening. I pray, dear Lord, that its warmth will fill us with warmth as we celebrate this time of year and the coming of our savior Jesus Christ. Help us look for those who need a little bit of extra love and compassion during this time of year. I pray this in the name of Jesus. Amen.”
“Amen,” the room echoed.
Chairs squeaked on the linoleum floor as people stood and formed a single-file line behind the serving table. A man who looked around 40, with a protruding belly and oversized jacket, walked down the line and held up Colgate toothpaste from his bucket. “Anyone want this toothpaste?” he asked. We all shook our heads no.
We were handed Styrofoam plates and bowls, and a volunteer slopped chili into my bowl. It had chunks of ground beef, garbanzo beans, and hot dog slices in it. There was no vegetarian option, but no one seemed to mind. We filled our plates with saltine crackers and grilled cheese sandwiches layered with salami, and picked up plastic baggies stuffed with homemade cookies.
During dinner, Sonstegaard talked about what Williston was like before the boom. He had grown up here but moved to Seattle after high school. He returned a few years ago to care for his aging mother and find work. He had met Stakes through Nate Beatty, an old friend of Sonstegaard’s. Stakes slurped his chili while he listened. As he lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth, tiny strings of gooey cheese stuck to his beard.
After he finished eating, Stakes walked outside to smoke a cigarette. As soon as he was gone, Sonstegaard leaned in closer and explained how Stakes came to live with him and his mother. On Thanksgiving, Beatty and Sonstegaard visited Stakes’s camper to bring him a 21-pound turkey. They noticed Stakes had only a small heater and wore thick layers to stay warm. The temperature was around 12 degrees that day. “He had a little heater, but it was so small,” said Sonstegaard. “I could see my breath coming out. I thought, ‘Jeez dude. You can’t stay here. This is not okay.’” Sonstegaard and Beatty discussed finding Stakes a better place to live. Sonstegaard didn’t think his mother wanted to take in a homeless man, but he explained Stakes’s situation to her, and to his surprise, she agreed. He wasn’t sure how long his mother would let Stakes stay with them, but he was determined to help the man get back on his feet. “We’ve got to get him a car and help him find work,” he said.
Stakes returned from smoking and sat down.
As we cleared our plates, the pastor of the church announced we’d be singing Christmas carols. Stakes leaned over and whispered to me: “Oh, no, let’s get out of here!” he teased.
The pastor started with “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.” A woman played the piano. Stakes cleared his throat and sang along. His voice was soft but confident, hitting a range of high and low notes.
After singing six more carols, the same woman who greeted us when we arrived stood up and projected her voice: “If any of you need a winter coat, you can follow me upstairs and I’ll see if I have anything! If you did not receive a bucket, see Lynn in the blue sweater and she will help you out!”
A pastor from another church, wearing a purple dress shirt and a tie with a smiling snowman on it, sat down at our table and introduced himself as Dennis. He said that he helped organize another weekly dinner at the First Lutheran Church on Main Street. They started offering the dinner because of the boom and usually had about 70 to 90 people show up.
“Do you ever help people find jobs?” Stakes asked.
The pastor said he could try.
“Could I give you my name and number just in case?” Stakes asked. He borrowed my pen and wrote down his name and number on the back of the pastor’s business card. Underneath he wrote: “Looking for work. Met at Methodist church for weekly meal.”
* * *
At the AA meeting later that night, Stakes spoke up for the first time. “I’m Tom and I’m an alcoholic,” he said clearly and confidently, his voice projecting into the quiet room. “I came to the meeting today at noon, and I came back tonight and I’m still sober. I’m grateful for that. I listened to a little sermon this morning on TV, so all in all it’s been a good day. I try not to have too many bad days. I learned from you guys the other night that you got to let it go. You got to give it over to God; you can’t handle it all on your own. It’s like when our lives become unmanageable. Well, mine was pretty unmanageable.
“I drank about a half gallon of vodka every two days. All the time. I tried to quit last week for a couple days and, on the second day, man, I started shakin’ so bad and skin crawlin,’ cold sweats. Well, I ended up havin’ to get another bottle just to get over it. And then when I started comin’ to AA and I gave it up, I didn’t have the shakes. I haven’t had the skin crawlin’ and cold sweats.
“It’s been a few days now that I haven’t drunk anything, and that’s a pretty good feelin’ for me. I appreciate you guys and what this program means, and I don’t plan to give it up because I know it’s somethin’ I have to do for the rest of my life. ’Cause if I don’t and I start gettin’ a little cocky, I’m gonna go right back to that bottle. I’ve got to do everything I can to maintain sobriety, and leave it in God’s hands, because I am in the palm of His hands. That’s all I got. Thanks,” he said, and leaned back in his chair.
“Thanks, Tom,” the room said in unison.
37. CHELSEA NIEHAUS
Six weeks after my visit with Jacob, I flew to Louisville, Kentucky, to see Chelsea, Will, and Litha, who was now six months old. Oil prices were in free fall. Jacob’s hours had been cut, and the atmosphere at his workplace was tense. Jacob had netted about $83,000 the year before, but with the reduced hours, he was looking to make only $63,000 for 2015—if he kept his job. Nearly every day, Chelsea heard about more oil field layoffs. “A lot of people are scared,” she said. “Some were laid off right before Christmas. I have a feeling a lot of those jobs won’t come back.” Chelsea tried to keep costs down and not hire babysitters unless she had to, but it was difficult to parent alone. “I haven’t had an hour to myself in I don’t know how long,” she said.
I saw her on a brisk January morning before she took Will to school. Two months earlier, she had enrolled him at a Waldorf school, where he seemed to be thriving. At his old day care, his teachers told Chelsea he was “behind” because he couldn’t write his name by age three. But at Waldorf, teachers didn’t introduce students to the alphabet until age seven. Instead, kids were taught to cook and clean, tend a fire, knit, draw, and sing songs. “It’s very new agey,” said Chelsea. “They teach them how to be people and to work with their hands.” It cost $6,000 a year, however, increasing to more than $10,000 a year at age seven. Chelsea received help from her grandmother to afford it.
Chelsea loaded Will and Litha into the backseat of her Mitsubishi to drive Will to school. Will wore red rain boots and insulated coveralls that were three sizes too big. Litha wore a knitted shark-shaped hat to keep her head warm. Chelsea fastened Litha into the car seat, and Litha burst into tears. “It’s okay, Litha,” Chelsea said, soothing her. “She hates the car seat. She’s pretty convinced it’s where abandoned babies go.”
In the car, old coffee cups sat neglected in the cup holders, loose change was scattered on the floor, and receipts were stuffed into a compartment under the radio. Will had plastered colorful stickers onto the backseat windows.
On the drive to school, we passed a gas station. The price was now $2.17 a gallon for unleaded. Watching gas prices trickle down was hard for Chelsea—every cent decreased Jacob’s chances of keeping his job. “It’s been frustrating here lately,” she said. “Everyone around me is excited about oil prices being so low.”
Chelsea felt more isolated than ever living in Louisville. Although she had gone to college in Louisville, she didn’t have many friends in the area. Over the years, she’d lost touch with people. Her community used to be her coworkers at the lobster shipping company, but she didn’t talk to them much anymo
re. “I miss my job. I kind of regret letting it go now,” she said.
Chelsea entertained thoughts about returning to work but knew it would be difficult with Jacob in North Dakota: “There are a million things I could do, but I can’t do any of them with just me here,” Chelsea said. She had a bachelor’s degree in arts administration, a fine arts minor, and an MBA. In addition to her degrees, Chelsea was certified as a life coach, a wellness coach, a herbologist, and an ordained minister, and she was working toward certification as a birth doula. “I have all these degrees and credentials, but I’ve never been able to do much with them,” she said. Plus, working full time didn’t make financial sense. She’d have to pay for day care for Litha and after-school care for Will. A full-time job was hard enough with just one child—she couldn’t imagine doing it with two.
Recently, she’d tried to convince Jacob to come home. Financially, she argued, they could break even. He could attend the Knight School of Welding in Louisville, a program that promised graduates “$40K a year!” He could work a welding job and she could supplement. They could lower their cost of living by not paying for two separate households 1,300 miles apart. She could garden and raise chickens to cut back on food expenses, she reasoned.
But Jacob said he wasn’t ready to return home yet. He didn’t want to quit a good job—$63,000 a year was less than before but still more than he ever made in Kentucky. And he knew it could be difficult to find employment in Louisville. They had some savings, but not much, and Jacob still had about $30,000 in student loans to pay off.
Chelsea was no longer blogging for Real Oilfield Wives. Her final post was at the end of October. “I don’t know if I ever felt comfortable with the label of ‘oil field wife’ to begin with,” she said. For one, she didn’t like feeling defined by her husband’s profession. “I have all these other things about me that I do, that make up my personality—is this really how I want to identify myself?”
The New Wild West Page 27
