by Rick Ranson
The brutal laughter from the crew made it very plain that they had grown tired of the simpleton’s comments, and they immediately sided with the young woman. They were as relieved as she was when she fought back. Like a flock of pigeons, they pecked at him, never letting him forget his humiliation.
Primly, Gwen turned and left the men to their merciless laughter. When she was alone in the washroom, listening to her distant phone ringing, her emotions erupted. She held the scratchy toilet paper to her eyes and mouth as her body shook with fear and release. An hour later, she left the cubicle.
She next gathered the other secretaries and together they went not to the foreman, not to the general foreman, but all the way to the supervisor of the entire jobsite.
The supervisor was not a stupid man. Faced with his entire secretary staff standing over his desk and furiously describing Potty Mouth’s antics, and knowing that these ladies could instantly shut his job down if they quit—and make his life miserable in a hundred different ways if they didn’t—it was no contest.
Construction workers are usually laid off in groups of threes and fours as a project winds down. But when there’s plenty of work left and only one man is let go, there’s a reason.
Next morning before work, Potty Mouth’s foreman walked up to him and said, “Get your gear, you’re done.”
They say that his coffee was halfway to his lips and the mug stayed there for half a minute.
Nineteen men sat in that lunch trailer, and not one spoke on his behalf.
Every secretary on that project stamped DO NOT RE-HIRE in red capital letters on Potty Mouth’s personnel file. The same rubber stamp was passed from delicate hand to delicate hand and used over and over to crucify the sheet metal worker. Every one of those files with DO NOT RE-HIRE stamped on the cover went to the Human Resources Departments of all the companies on that Fort McMurray site, and to every union hiring hall. His mouth, and those secretaries, destroyed his career.
Years later, a sheet metal worker told Gwen that Potty Mouth had lost his farm.
“I wonder what happened to his wife?” was Gwen’s only comment.
That was then, this is now.
Gwen handed Acastus a coffee. “Two sugars, two creams, right?”
Acastus stared at her. He looked down at the coffee, then back to the secretary standing in front of him.
“I want some information,” she said.
Acastus opened his coffee-free hand, waiting.
“You’re a knowledgeable guy, Barry. Take me step by step through the harassment policy.”
“Why? Were you harassed?”
“I spent my career working with men, and every one of them thought that the answer to all my problems was his penis. I’ve got good antennae and I have been called a lot of things, and I want to be prepared.”
“Why?”
“Because this man meant it.”
“What’s his name?” Acastus said, setting aside the coffee.
“No.”
“Was he one of ours? What’d he say?”
Gwen stared at Acastus stonily. Finally she spoke. “No.”
“Well, I can’t help you if you’re not up-front with me....”
“No.”
“Well, I can’t help you if—”
“Just answer my question, Barry.”
“What’s the sexual harassment procedure?”
“Yes, Barry.”
“Well, at first, you have to tell the person that his, or her, advances are unacceptable.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not? You should at least—”
“Barry, no.”
“Okay then, you should talk to your supervisor and me as your Human Resources Officer. And we’ll either be there when you talk to this person or we’ll speak for you.”
“That will be four people that know about this.”
“Gwen, I’d lose my job if I talk about this.”
“It’s not your job I’m worried about.”
“Gwen, I think your mind is already made up. You’re going to let this, this... Hell, I don’t even know who we’re talking about. But it sounds like you are going to let this asshole slide?”
“This man is dangerous, and I’m not... Barry, if I go ahead and lodge a formal complaint, what happens?”
“We immediately remove this guy from camp. I’m assuming he’s in camp?”
Gwen nodded.
“He goes to another camp. Like right now.”
“Security? Security will take him?”
“They escort him.”
“How many people will know why he’s being moved?”
“A couple. The main man will get the memo, and the escorts. Once a written formal complaint is made, an investigation will be started, and a formal report will be written. We’ll have to ask a lot of questions. Do you have witnesses?”
Gwen shook her head. “His buddies at the table.”
“Well, we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. After the report is written, a decision will be made and we’ll tell you and this guy what the outcome is.”
Gwen stared out the window. “How long?”
“Week, maybe two.”
Gwen looked at Acastus. “Thanks for the information, Barry.”
Acastus had the distinct impression that he was being dismissed. “We can talk some more... if you like?”
“Thank you, no.”
It wasn’t his imagination—he was dismissed. Acastus picked up his ever-present clipboard and started to leave. Halfway to the door, he spun around. “I have some pamphlets I’ll get for you,” he offered.
Gwen’s eyes never left the computer screen as she said, “Won’t be needing them, Barry. Thank you. Have a good day.”
The office was silent but the sound of the door slamming shimmered like the shadow of an echo.
Gwen sat with her hands on her lap, alone in that empty sixty-eight-foot trailer, squinting at the winter sun.
She picked up the phone. “Hi, Angela? Hi, it’s Gwen over at Golden and Fliese. Say, I had an incident the other day with one of your guys which kinda left a sour taste.” Gwen said his name. “I know he seems like just another loudmouth, but I thought I’d let you know...”
Gwen listened on the line.
“I know he sounds harmless,” she continued, “but he’s....”
Gwen was silent, listening. The late afternoon sun caught her jaw tightening.
“Angela, do me a favour, please...”
Gwen listened more, her fingers rearranged her mousepad in line with the edge of her desk. There was a brittleness in Gwen’s voice when she spoke again. “Angela, Google him. Just Google him. If that doesn’t bother you, don’t call me back. If you want to do something about what you read there, call me back in ten minutes.
Angela called back in five.
( Email Day Six )
From: Doug
To: Dad
Subject: Fort McMurray
Hi, Dad!
Today two scaffolders got into an argument. One pulled a knife and the other pulled a hammer. They were circling each other when the foremen showed up and stopped the fight. They were separated and then fired.
If you get fired on any one of the refineries in Fort McMurray, your name gets blacklisted with them all. It’s something to think about. You could instantly drop from making over a hundred thousand a year to collecting welfare.
Yet some guys still do it.
Lobotomy told me he walked into the local pizza parlour and ordered a meal. They refused to serve him because the last time he was there he caused so much shit they threw him out. Lobotomy said he didn’t remember. I believe him.
Pops said, “It’s hotter’n two rats screwing in a wool sock.”
There was a guy named Scrap Iron who was a bully. He worked on another crew, but every morning when he walked through our trailer he made sure he walked by Stash’s table and slammed his fist down on Stash’s lunch bag. The guys said that
Stash and Scrap Iron had a history.
So this goes on for a couple of days, Scrap Iron walking by Stash, and then slamming his fist into Stash’s lunch bag. Finally, after a couple of days of this, Stash disappears for an hour in the refinery’s machine shop.
Next morning Scrap Iron walks by Stash and his lunch and like every morning, he slams his palm into the lunch bag, right into six inches of needle-sharp welding rod. It went right through his hand.
Pops’ dream is to take a bus trip to Nashville. I asked if once he got there, whether he would get me a date with that singer Sara Evans. He said, “I do believe she is connected, Dougdoug. Besides, I think you are more Minnie Pearl’s speed.”
I said, “Minnie Pearl? Isn’t she dead?”
“That’s right.”
There was a guy down the hall from me in the construction camp who was found hoarding 276 of those breakfast-sized boxes of Raisin Bran. So they fired him for theft. The comment was, “I dunno, he seemed like a pretty regular guy.”
Pops describes the way The Safety Nazi walks is like an arrogant penguin. He doesn’t know the borderline between safety and coercion, or as the guys say, he’s “co-worsting” us. He seems to forget that almost all these tradesmen have transferable skills and if he fires them from this project, they’ll get on the cell phone and be heading for another job by the time they leave McMurray.
Like Pops said, “You get the union you deserve.” Sometimes after the weekly Safety Meeting, and being on that half hour receiving end of one of his “talks,” I think the Safety Nazi would really like to be issued a German shepherd.
Dougdoug
Day Seven
( Morning Warning )
The lunch trailer went still as the foreman and The Safety Nazi entered. Jason looked down at his clipboard.
He nodded to a skinny welder. “Lobotomy, I suppose you missed yesterday because you were sick.”
“Naw,” Lobotomy shot back, “yesterday I was drunk. Today I’m sick.” He laughed loudly as he looked around the room, gauging the joke’s effect.
“You and the Steward, after the meeting, in my office.”
The laughter died.
When Lobotomy was an apprentice, he began signing his name Lobo, which means wolf. He quickly regretted it because immediately everyone else started adding “tomy” to anything he signed.
Lobotomy was a skinny young man of many enthusiasms and body tics and few talents. If Lobotomy were a car, he would be in a lifelong demolition derby, careening from one near-wreck to another.
Lobotomy has been a timid punk rocker, a tattoo and body piercing addict, a skinhead terrified of violence. Recently Lobotomy reincarnated himself one last time. People said that Lobotomy was in the process of slow-motion suicide. When Lobotomy heard those words, in the drug-crusted recesses of his brain an alarm bell finally clapped. It dawned on him that as cruel as the comment was, it was the truth. That’s when Lobotomy found Jesus.
But when Lobotomy found Jesus, he didn’t actually pray. He felt that if he told enough people he’d found the Lord, well, that was good enough.
“Okay, guys,” Jason said, “this morning’s Toolbox Talk is about ladders. Ladders are to be positioned so that there are at least two rungs above the level where it’s leaning. Ladders are for people only. Do not carry equipment up a ladder. Put the equipment in a canvas bag and pull it up by rope.”
The Safety Nazi pointed to Lobotomy, who was waving his hand excitedly. Jason nodded in his direction.
“Do you know why it’s unlucky to walk under ladders?” Lobotomy asked.
“Yes,” Jason said, “I think I do, but I’m sure you’re itching to tell us.”
“Well, that’s the Holy Trinity. Each point is the Holy Trinity.”
The room went silent. Lobotomy smiled angelically. After the extended silence stretched too long, Lobotomy continued.
“Each point the ladder makes is The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost. You can’t break the trinity.”
The room remained silent.
“After the meeting,” Jason said, “you and the steward, my office.”
“No, really,” Lobotomy blurted.
“Yes, really. My office, after the meeting.”
Stash looked at the Safety Nazi and said in a theatrical tone, “Hey, Barry, is it true you fired the maintenance foreman’s daughter?”
Acastus turned purple. “She wasn’t the maintenance foreman’s daughter, and she walked through a red ribbon. Let’s move on.”
Stash was referring to a beautiful young university student who had been hired to work the summer with the crew cleaning the lunchrooms. At the end of the orientation, she met her new foreman. She signed the papers, and she walked out the lunchroom door following three other new workers. All four new-hires walked under a red ribbon. A red ribbon on a construction site is the ultimate “no go” area. There is imminent danger within any area designated by a red ribbon. You do not take a shortcut over or under red ribbons; you go around.
The Safety Nazi fired all four of them on the spot.
The young beauty’s sobs were stifled as she left the office door. The Safety Nazi’s eyes burned bright. Pops, who, as union steward, had to witness this casual cruelty, turned to the smirking Safety Nazi and said, “You know who her father is?”
“I don’t give a shit,” Acastus replied, but his eye was twitching slightly.
Within an hour of the young beauty’s firing, the Safety Nazi’s truck was taken into the refinery’s maintenance shop for repairs, and no temporary vehicle was issued. He immediately had to either walk or borrow someone else’s truck.
Acastus went back to his office, where he was met by a red tape of his own across his doorway bearing a tag that stated the room was being painted. He wasn’t issued a new office. He now had to share a desk with a secretary. Then his computer suddenly needed debugging. He now had to write his never-ending reports on the secretary’s computer. The secretary wasn’t happy.
The crew would put money on the fact that the Safety Nazi gives a shit now.
“Let’s get back to ladders,” Jason said, smiling at Acastus’ discomfort.
So the Toolbox Talk went on. The safety bulletin was finally read, the day’s work allocated, “hot work” permits issued for anyone welding or cutting with torches. Lobotomy was in Jason’s office with Pops, the job steward, waiting to be given a verbal warning about missing time and not phoning in.
The day had started.
“Is that true about the Trinity?” Pops asked Jason when he arrived.
“Hell,” Jason said over his shoulder as he entered his office “I dunno, but I’ll bet we’re going to find out.”
Day Eight
( Party )
The boilermaker crew was staying on the second floor of a local hotel. Much to the construction workers’ delight, a troupe of traveling strippers moved in directly across the hall.
Every evening after dropping their laundry on the tiny white round stage downstairs, the pole dancers would come back to their hotel room and sit in their silk housecoats for hours watching soaps on TV, doing crossword puzzles, or talking on the telephone. Who knew that being the sexual fantasy of a couple of dozen semi-housebroken orangutans could be so boring?
The boilermakers, however, were in construction-worker heaven. In Fort McMurray, there are thousand-man construction camps with fewer than fifty women in them. Any woman is a rarity, and a woman for whom clothing is non-compulsory is a dream.
The four welders left their door open across the hall from the working girls, and whenever the ladies’ door would open, immediately four heads would peek out of the boilermaker’s door to deliver a chorus of:
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Wanna get naked?”
The ladies would always giggle and wave and it was an uncomplicated encounter—in one form or another, everyone in that hallway was busy hurrying off to work.
This
went on for several days until there was a change in work rotation for the welders. For the next two weeks, they had their evenings off. It was time to make their move.
First things first: the men topped up their hoard of fresh liquor. They even went so far as to buy white wine, because isn’t that what women drink? They stacked cases of beer in clear sight of the door as a lure, liquid breadcrumbs for the bunnies across the hall.
“What are you doing?”
“Throwing out these cups.”
“Why?”
“Women get really upset when they see cups half-filled with tobacco juice lying all over the place.”
“I guess.”
They all washed, sort of. They changed into their cleanest blue jeans, checked their breath, and then, with an anxious last look around and a final kick to the underwear under the sofa, the boilermakers went a-courting.
The welders screwed their courage to the sticking place, marched across the hall, and pounded on the strippers’ door. When a vision of loveliness dressed only in a housecoat opened the door, a bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio was thrust towards her cleavage.
“You guys wanna have a drink?”
“With us?” another welder quickly added.
They might as well have added, “Oh gawd, please, please, please.”
The vision motioned them to stop. The door closed, leaving the men to fidget in the hallway. After twenty minutes of giggling, thumping, and muffled conversation, the door reopened. From the room emerged four of the loveliest little girls the men had ever seen. They were dressed, scrubbed, their hair pulled up into ponytails, their teeth white and regular. They looked like a team of cheerleaders.
The men were just happy they had a pulse.
The men sat, their backs stiff, aware of the warmth of the women beside them. They had all seen the ladies buck naked but this was different: the girls were clothed, they smiled, and talked. One of them had even had dimples. It came as a shock that these young women sitting beside them were people—people with thoughts, opinions, and actual feelings.
The men felt a little crestfallen and more than a little ashamed. In unison, the men raised their beers to their lips and took a long, desperate drink. The men had half-expected an instant Roman orgy, but what they were getting was a meet-the-teacher interview.
