Bittersweet Sands

by Rick Ranson

  This fight wasn’t finished, Pops grumbled. Over the years he had acquired a good understanding about how groups react to situations. So, Pops thought, you just have to create a situation.

  Fort McMurray moves on buses. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, buses pick up and drop off workers either at work or back home at the end of the shift. Thirty-bus convoys are not uncommon and one-way bus journeys can run as far as a hundred kilometres. Highway 63 can have twenty-kilometre traffic jams. Buses play a vital part in keeping McMurray running efficiently. The smooth operation of the buses dovetails into the smooth operation of the refineries. If the bus arrives minutes late or minutes early, it is noticed.

  Like ants on an oak tree, the buses climb from the city of Fort McMurray in the grass thirty kilometres all the way up to Suncor, then Syncrude, sitting like silver gatekeepers on either side of the highway. Suncor can’t be seen from the road, but the bus traffic looks right down on Syncrude as they pass.

  After Syncrude and Suncor, Highway 63 branches out in three directions. Off to the west is CNRL, so massive that it has its own airstrip. Another branch juts straight north and leads to Fort Hills and Aurora. The silver buses wander up another branch that is called Conterra Road, passing another airstrip then Albian Sands, Jackpine, and Kearl Lake refineries. Finally there’s a branch off Conterra Road that eventually reaches Firebag almost a two-hour bone-jarring bus ride from Fort McMurray.

  Around those refineries, like leaves on those branches, sprout white tin construction camps. Buses feed the refineries from all those camps. There’s Borealis, Millennium, Lakeside, Barge Landing, Albian Village, and on and on, all sounding like exotic resorts, not the sprawling white trailer villages they actually are.

  All those refineries and all those construction camps suck up transport and finally disgorge thousands of workers with an efficiency and timing that puts the meat processing of an abattoir to shame.

  For the first week of the shutdown, the crew had stood at the bus stop and stared silently at a passing yellow school bus filled with non-union workers. When sports teams play too many games against each other, insults get remembered, animosity builds, hurts get compounded. So it was with bus number 32.

  Night after night, the crew—Pops, Stash, Dougdoug, and the rest—waited stone-faced at their bus stop as bus number 32 passed, always five minutes earlier than theirs. Oh, how they begrudged those minutes. That five minutes meant that the non-union workers were first to the camp, first to get the hot water in the showers, first at the dinner table, first to the telephones after the meal, first, first, first. Resentment filled the union members like the taste of pewter on their lips.

  The coker just happened to be the first stop after the buses entered the front gates, and the last stop before the buses left the refinery. There was no use explaining to the crew that there wasn’t some ulterior motive that determined their schedule; it was simply geography.

  The feud had started with a skinny, pimply-faced little sucker who barked the loudest, caused the most fights, and never seemed to be around when the big boys went toe-to-toe. It was just a sneer the first day. But, like a tongue in a toothache, the crew couldn’t stop searching him out as bus 32 rumbled past.

  The next few days it was a giggle, a sneer, a one-fingered salute. The insults were reciprocated in kind.

  Bus 32 was the enemy. Bus 32 was the lightning rod for all the real or imagined slights between the union and non-union workers. Bus 32 was going to learn a lesson in union solidarity.

  After the foreman’s warning, Pops called the crew together. That night, when bus 32 drove past, the entire crew turned their backs, just as Jason had ordered. Then, as one, they dropped their pants and mooned the bus. Pops was the only one who stayed upright, watching out for any company officials or cell-phone cameras on the bus. If he spotted any, he was to immediately call off the freezing of a dozen pink union buns.

  Early next morning at the Toolbox Talk, the crew loudly complained to Jason about the obscenities inflicted upon their gentle union souls by bus number 32. No mention was made about the exposure of a dozen boilermaker buns to the cruel eyes of Bus 32 or the Fort McMurray winter. Too Tall, who had learned the welding trade during two years less a day in one of Canada’s finest institutions, declared that he was shocked, yes, shocked and appalled.

  A formal complaint was made. Pops the union steward made sure that the complaint was delivered late enough in the shift so that there would be no time for the accused to register a counter-complaint. Pops and the union crew could honestly say that they had warned the people on Bus 32. He just made the warning too late.

  Pops made a special request to the Safety Nazi. “Stand with us at the bus stop,” he said. “See what kind of dirt they inflict on us poor, innocent tradesmen.”

  At 5:15 sharp, Jason, the Safety Nazi, and several other foremen stood amongst those poor, aggrieved assault victims. Pops nodded to several of the workers as Bus 32 came into view. The crew aimed every cell phone camera they had scrounged that day at the passing vehicle.

  As Bus 32 rumbled past the assembly, window after window on their side was filled not with grim faces scowling down at the union workers, but with the pressed hams of a dozen bald, pink, non-union rear ends.

  “Isn’t it beautiful when a plan comes together?” was Pops’ only comment. His foreman suppressed a smirk.

  Their plan didn’t change the bus schedule one iota, but for days thereafter when it drove by, Bus 32 was empty.

  ( Email Day Fourteen )

  From: Doug

  To: Dad

  Subject: Fort McMurray

  Hi, Dad.

  At lunchtime today, we discussed and planned the perfect heist. Modesty prevents me from telling you which worker was voted by the other welders as coming up with the next-to-perfect crime.

  Last week, a young worker was killed on the highway between the refineries. His crew welded together a cross made of four-inch channel iron, took his hardhat, and drilled it onto the top of the cross. Then they took that cross and hammered it into the frozen ground with the blade of a front-end loader. It’s about six feet into the ground on the side of the ditch where he was killed. That cross ain’t ever coming out, not by human hands it’s not. I counted five crosses in a four-mile stretch between refineries. It’s a shame the government doesn’t make enough money from the oilsands to construct a better highway.

  A worker lost the tip of his finger when a pipe guillotined his hand. The report put the accident’s cause down to a “blonde moment.”

  The time to leave Fort McMurray is when you have a favourite restaurant.

  In one of the refineries in Fort McMurray, an X-ray company inadvertently exposed a group of welders to a dose of X-rays. It happens occasionally, and normally it’s not a big deal. But it did happen, so an “incident” was declared and reprimand letters were sent out to the X-ray company. In their defence, the X-ray company stated that the exposed workers only received the equivalent of a head-to-toe X-ray.

  One welder brought the incident up at the next union meeting and announced that he was going to seek counsel and was going to sue the X-ray company. Even though he was nowhere near the incident, he claimed that he was feeling the effects of radiation. When the union president asked him to describe his symptoms, the man stated that he noticed that his feet were glowing.

  “It was so cold today, I got nine-inch nipples!”

  There’s a guy, “Ratboy,” in the next construction trailer from us.

  Ratboy went to a bar in Fort McMurray. At the bar he reached under the table and pinched the ass of the long-haired beauty in front of him. Longhair turned out to be a guy, who turned around and proceeded to punch out Ratboy.

  Later that night, Ratboy picked up a girl and a case of beer and took her back to her apartment, where her husband quickly relieved Ratboy of the beer and then punched him out.

  Hitchhiking back to the construction camp, Ratboy was picked up by a couple of locals who t
ook him down a gravel road, relieved him of his money, and, oh yes, punched him out.

  “You know, if I had to live it over...

  I’d be living it over the liquor store!”

  I’m getting tired Dad, real tired. I’ll be glad to get home.

  Take care,

  Doug.

  Day Fifteen

  ( Jason by the Radio )

  “Jason.”

  CRACKLE.

  “Jason Navotnick, come in.”

  CRACKLE.

  “Jason Navotnick, come in, please.”

  CRACKLE.

  “Come in, Jason.”

  CRACKLE.

  “Are you by the phone, Jason?”

  CRACKLE.

  “Jason, are you by?”

  CRACKLE.

  “Jason, are you by?”

  CRACKLE.

  “Jason, are you by?”

  CRACKLE.

  “Aww, Jason’s not by, but he can be really, really friendly.”

  CRACKLE.

  ( Double Scotch’s Issues )

  “I brought you in today to talk about these X-rays on your last batch of welds.”

  “What of them?” Double Scotch asked defensively. Jason, her foreman, knew that within this small, quiet woman beat the heart of a tigress, a tigress with a bad tooth. Looking into the face of death the foreman plunged in.

  It had been Jason’s experience that whenever he was faced with giving someone bad news, he wished to God he were giving it to a man. “Hey, buddy, you screwed up your weld test. If you screw up one more time, you will be fired. Deal with it.”

  For a foreman, giving bad news to a woman can have one of two consequences: either she’ll cry or she’ll wait until she gets back to her bunk. Then she’ll cry. Either way, the foreman knew for the next couple of days he was going to feel like a puppy beater.

  The only married couple in the crew were also welding partners. Scotch and his wife Double Scotch travelled the world welding for six months a year; for the rest of the year, they lay on some exotic beach. They had welded in Broken Hill, Australia, Kimberly, South Africa, and now Fort McMurray, Canada. They made their money in the First World and spent it in the Third World, where it would last the longest.

  It was a rock star lifestyle that afforded them money, travel, and adventure. But you had to be very good welders or that lifestyle would come to an abrupt halt. Scotch and Double Scotch were good welders, very good welders—except now.

  “Well, the test...,” Jason began, trying to lighten the blow. “It’s not baaad. But you were always the best. And these tests are borderline. You see here...” The foreman held up the X-ray of the weld. “There’s slag inclusion on top of this horizontal weld here, and here. And right here on top, there’s just a touch of lack of fusion. Not much, but it’s... there.”

  Double Scotch’s eyes flickered up at the X-rays, her cheeks glowing.

  “It’s like you’re having a hard time reaching the top of these welds. I’ve seen your welding before, and you’re better than this.”

  Double Scotch’s hands started to shake. Jason looked at her hands. He hoped to God she wouldn’t cry.

  “You’ll just have to settle down and...”

  Double Scotch jumped up, ripped off her leather welding coat, exposing her impossibly small denim shirt, and cupped her breasts. “It’s because of these!”

  Jason didn’t know whether to shit or wind his watch. “Pardon me?”

  “It’s because of these! These!” She continued to cup her breasts, aiming them at her foreman, making her points.

  “Gwen!”

  “I told him I didn’t want them! I told him they were...”

  “Gwennnnn!”

  “I told him they would get in the way. But oh no! He said it was like running his hand up the wall to turn off a light switch, and I said...”

  “For Chrissakes! Gwen!”

  Gwen skidded into the doorway. Double Scotch continued her rant, all the while cupping her breasts. Jason, half-sitting, half-crouching, mostly cowering behind his desk, threw up his hands imploringly between Double Scotch and Gwen.

  “I can’t get in there close enough! I have to keep my elbows out instead of tucked in. I have to work around them all the time. My arms get tired!”

  “Implants?” Gwen said.

  “Like two traffic cones!” Double Scotch nearly shouted.

  Jason opened his mouth, decided against it, and sat, his head against the wall.

  “And when I can get in close, I burn them!”

  “Okay,” Jason said. “We’ll take you off the delicate stuff and give you some pad welding until you, ah, adjust.”

  “I’ll never adjust! I’ll never adjust! That bastard may like them, but he’ll never get to touch them!” Double Scotch exited, slamming the trailer door behind her.

  The room was heavy with the tiny woman’s bitterness. The foreman and his secretary stared at each other. Then she sniffed, and walked back to her desk. The foreman blinked at the empty doorway. Gwen’s voice echoed into the large outer office:

  “All men are pigs.”

  Day Sixteen

  ( Lobotomy’s Final Phone In )

  “Golden and Fliese, Gwen Medea speaking.”

  “Hi, Gwen.”

  “Hi, Lobotomy.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “You know, Lobotomy, Tim, you can’t just keep on doing this, phoning in sick every second day.”

  “But I’m really, really sick.”

  “Well, how sick are you?”

  “I’m fucking my sister, how sick is that?”

  “Tim, that wasn’t funny in the seventies and it’s not funny now. You come into work now!”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, Timmy.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now.”

  “Alright, alright, I’ll be there. Besides, I don’t have a sister.”

  “Now.”

  “You know, Gwen, you sure are sexy when you’re mad.”

  “Lobotomy! If you’re not on that bus in fifteen minutes, I’ll knock out your one good tooth and all that will be left of you will be cocaine and hooker spit!”

  Lobotomy gasped.

  Gwen slammed the receiver down.

  Then giggled.

  Day Seventeen

  ( Lunch Break )

  “I was watching this iron worker try to pick up an eight-hundred-pound piece of scrap.”

  Pops paused to open an aluminum lunchbox covered in stickers from several unions and various brands of bananas. What small part of the lunchbox that wasn’t covered in logos was covered in grime. His hands dug into the box and extracted an egg salad sandwich. The humid egg-and-onion smell wafted over the two hunched men.

  “Did he do it?” Stash asked.

  “Well, he got his fingers under it.”

  “Too bad. If he crushed his fingers, his nose would never be the same.”

  The grizzled man stopped for a moment and focused on Stash. A small smile broke through his dusting of day-old white beard.

  “So,” he continued, “as I’m watching him trying to lift this thing, the ironworker foreman is watching too. So I figured I’d hang back and see what happens. After the foreman watches him wrestle for a bit, he walks over to the ironhead and says to the iron worker, ‘You can’t solve all your problems with brawn. One day, you’ll have to break down and use some brains. But I don’t think that’s possible.’ Then the foreman turns and walks away.”

  Stash grunted.

  “So I wait until the foreman is gone and I walk over to the guy and say, ‘I think your boss just insulted you.’”

  “What’d the iron worker say?”

  “Nothing at first. Then he looked where the foreman had gone and said, ‘Yeah.’ But he drew it out like ‘Yeeeaaaahh,’ like he had just discovered electricity.”

  “Never mind,” said Stash. “I was working up north with a guy, and I asked him what time it was. He looked at his watch and said, ‘We’re gettin’ there,
we’re gettin’ there.’ Then he walked away.”

  The two men munched sandwiches made from the construction camp kitchen. The choice of bread today was white with bland egg or white with bland ham, and a pickle. Spice was used sparingly, but refined sugar was plentiful. The construction workers could always tell who had been in camp the longest because the worker was probably fat. Fat, like no-longer-able-to-see-important-parts-of-his-body fat.

  “What’ve they got you doing?” asked Pops.

  “Right at the top of the coker.”

  “How’s the view?”

  “You can see McMurray.”

  “You know, the first time I climbed one hundred and ninety feet, I thought somebody was squeezing my nuts. I sweated right through my gloves. My mouth was dry, but every other part was soaked.”

  “You piss yourself often?”

  “Every time I climb.”

  Stash poured himself a coffee from a worn green metal Thermos bottle, the kind of instrument that gets splashed down every week or so with the understanding that hot coffee acts as its own sterilizer.

  “How’s Baker?” he asked.

  “He says he can feel the backs of his hands. Below that, it’s all numb, like going to the dentist.”

  “Is he off the ventilator?”

  “Yeah. They had his head in that hula-hoop deal with screws going into his skull to hold his neck steady.”

  “I hear Ralph is taking it hard.”

  “Yeah. He was off most of the summer. Didn’t leave his house once.”

  The men munched in silence.

  “See that guy over there? No, the guy in blue.”

  “What about him?”

  “That’s the guy Jason talked about at the Toolbox Talk.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Tried to line up a twenty-foot steel beam with his finger.”

  Both men grunted.

  “You tried the carrots? Kinda tasteless.”

  Pops, ignoring Stash’s carrots, started in on another story. “Down home, there was a guy at a welding shop that was into the casinos for $100,000. The shop he worked at gave the workers $40,000 for each lost finger. I guess the guy figured, three fingers he’s outta debt and $20,000 ante for the next game.”