by Phil Jones

We’ll pull the spine from this mountain all summer long, ripping, blasting, and pushing waterfalls of shattered bone into the valley. I run my dozer across the dark scar of the open pit, marking time, counting loads, counting hours and days.

On lunch breaks I lay out on the sun-warmed rocks near the berm. Though it’s halfway through June, the wind still smells of ice off the distant peaks. This is my daily postcard; the ragged teeth of the coastal range biting into a sky as clear as thought. Folks pay big bucks to gawk at this kind of scenery.

It’s plainly wasted on me.

~

Saturday. Today the floatplane will swoop into the inlet with some very special cargo. In addition to the regular supplies will be a handful of young men. Fresh horses to replace our fallen. We never know just how many. It’s hard to predict in a place where everyone talks about quitting. Also on board, in an unmarked cardboard box, nine bottles of the world’s most toxic legal spirits. The fact that the booze and the boys arrive together is no coincidence.

"God save da Queen!"

Big Serge drains the shotglass, pulls a salute off his brow, and sits back down. We all watch for facial tics, or any other sign of trouble. Nothing. The Frenchman could be a fifth face on Mt. Rushmore. He passes the glass on.

Everclear is 100% grain alcohol. Nasty shit. Smells like turpentine. Tastes about the same.

"Are you gonna pour, Smitty, or what?" The Greek always pulls this crap with me. He wants to be the bartender.

"My room, my pour. You know the rules."

I give him a flat look and toss the empty out the window. A popping sound erupts from below. I spin the cap off a new bottle and squint into the circle of faces.

"Who’s up?"

A barrel-chested Nisga’a leans through the cigarette smoke. I jump a little. The guy’s face has been burned. All red and purple ridges, like the hide of an octopus. He extends the glass. I keep my eyes on his as I pour. He seems to be daring me to look anywhere else. A lightening jerk of his arm and the drink is gone. He’s done this before.

"What’s your name chief?" I ask him. Everybody’s chief, or partner or buddy to me. I can never keep the name’s straight. There’s something in the Indian’s eyes that makes me wish I’d picked one of the other two.

"Chief?" he asks.

A hush falls over the room. Before I can stutter out an excuse he’s off his chair and coming my way. I only have time to throw a hand over my face. He grabs it in his own big mitt and begins shaking.

"Name’s Isaac, white oppressor."

He’s still pumping my arm like he expects water. His smile is as yellow and even as corn against his ruined skin. "Gotcha," he chuckles, then turns and waddles back to his chair I feel a fog of sweat turning clammy under my shirt.

These parties help us to forget where we are, and even who we are, but they can get out of hand. Mostly old crew tonight. We outnumber the fresh fish three to one. It’s a little disappointing. The greenhorns tend to melt down first, but you have to get to them quick. Right off the plane preferably, while they’re still reeling from their first glimpse of the place. If they make those first few days, it gets dicey. But, like anything else that could go one way or the other, we’ll still bet money on it.

Billy is up next. He’s the perpetual greenhorn. A batboy trying to crack the line up. He’s reclining, chair full back, boots up on a beer case. I flip the shot glass to him. He reaches out casually, sees at the last second he’s going to miss, and goes over flailing stubby arms and legs. This is why he’s never made the team. He pulls himself off the floor. His hangdog look sends everyone into fits of laughter.

I pour while Billy holds the glass in both hands. He’s all business now, his big, pink face as stern as a totem.

"Here goes."

He knocks the drink back. In the moment of silence that follows, every pair of eyes swing around to watch. Billy has a bad history with the bug juice. His lips squirm vigorously before settling into a grin. He gives the thumbs-up. The boys go back to mixing their drinks, lighting cigarettes. A few of us though, old Lou and Serge, the Greek and me, we keep our eyes on the kid. We know there’s more to drinking Everclear than just swallowing the stuff. Billy doesn’t look so hot now, shocked actually, like he’s caught his sleeve in moving machinery. His adam’s apple hammers up and down. When he cups his hands below his mouth everyone scatters. He starts for the window.

Serge meets him half way and gives the boy a firm shove. Billy stumbles forward, hits the sill and doubles over. This is as much etiquette as anyone could ask for under the circumstances. While he power-sprays the side of the bunkhouse we all move back into a circle.

"Someone turn up the goddamn music!" the Greek bellows. His dark face twists as he watches Billy part company with one of today’s lunch specials. The pasta, I think, though it’s hard to tell. One thing’s for sure, this won’t make it any easier to keep the greenhorns drinking. I look for Lou in the crowd. He’ll get us back on track.

"You ready old man?" I ask.

He has some new kid’s ear, playing him like a violin. I strain to make out his words over the din. He’s shaking his head slowly, wringing his hands.

"Eight years up here, he says, "I got four grandchildren. God help me, sometimes I forget their names." The youngster looks ready to cry. Lou tosses me an impish grin and says, "Pour."

He takes the drink in a big, liver-spotted claw and rolls it into his mouth. A thin bead quivers across his lips, before he opens up and sucks air in with a whistle.

"They’re right you know, if you hang around long enough, you’ll see everything at least once." He throws a hand up in Billy’s direction, then rakes it back through his thick, gray hair." What the fuck, can you do?" This is Lou’s version of ‘Quest sera, sera..’

He turns back to the greenhorn.

"You don’t got a girlfriend, do ya kid?"

He’ll have this one on the next plane out. That’s an easy five hundred right there.

Lou is a relic. Last of the tramp miners. While we were still rug rats, he was earning his stripes in the copper mines north of Yellowknife. Ran jackleg drills then, two at a time, all day long. They’ve got him watching the rock crushers now.

"Early retirement," he calls it. Lou has been here since the beginning, chasing greasy veins of molybdenum through tons of rock and three different companies. Every six months he grabs his stake, wishes us all luck, and flies south to Vancouver. He checks into the Blackstone hotel. Same room every time. He brings with him a case of Crown Royal and a racing form. In the next two weeks he’ll lose every penny he’s earned at Exhibition Park. Always just in time to climb on the plane and fly back. When anyone asks him where he’s from , "Right here," Lou will tell them, "I’m from here." He means it too.

Billy seems to be winding down. I step up and lay a hand on his shoulder. "Time to pack it in Will."

He shakes his head, but doesn’t fight me when I guide him out the door. After a few steps down the hallway, he stops and turns back. I shoot him the thumbs up. He starts to say something, his finger poised in the air in front of him. Then his hand drops and his shoulders slump. He wheels and staggers to his door, disappearing inside. Billy tries too hard. The men up here will forgive some things, but never that.

The kid’s bad luck reminds me that I haven’t eaten since lunch myself. The kiss of death if you want to keep the hootch down. I head towards the cook shack, bouncing along the hall, down the stairs and out onto the covered walkway. In winter these paths will turn into tunnels under fifteen feet of snow. For five dark months we’ll scratch through them like mice.

A breeze is washing across the courtyard. It carries the smell of salt up from the inlet. Along the pathway, men puff on cigarettes and talk. This is the evening ritual. Mostly killing time, trying to put off going back to their rooms. There’s a knot of guys up on my left, all old crew. I nod as I pass and they nod back. We’ve all run out of things to say about the weather.

I spot a few of the new faces in camp. They’re pacing like inmates, back and forth across the compound like they can’t believe how their world just shrank. This won’t be their last shock either. Tonight, or some night soon, they’ll stumble from their beds, throw open the drapes to find the sun in a terrible skid across the horizon. Then they’ll feel like they're on Mars, or just realize they might as well be.

I know, I’ve been here almost two years myself. Still waiting for that nest egg to hatch. Seems there’s always one more thing to save for, one more reason not to leave. But the clock is ticking louder. I hear it pounding in my blood at night, searching me out even in my sleep.

In this dream I’m standing on the causeway where the floatplanes land. I’m listening to the Twin Otter’s engines buzzing up the inlet, but I can’t see anything yet. Then it drops out of the clouds like a big, yellow bird and bounces across the water towards me. It dazzles, throwing heat like the sun. I step down to the shore to wait, but at the last minute it turns away. I’m screaming and waving my arms as it roars in the other direction and lifts off. Then I’m in the water. It’s cold and my clothes are pulling me down. As I go under, I see the yellow speck of the plane flicker out. Then I stop struggling and watch my own white face turn into the deep.

Morning comes with the certainty that I won’t make it through the day. I sip my coffee, wait for the bus, and go to work. In the pit everything fades. I’m so far gone I can’t remember what I used to think of so I don’t have to think about being here. The people and places I’ve clung to are out of my reach now. There is only the ceaseless movement of the dozer. My machine and I will travel thousands of miles only to arrive in the same place each time.

The cook shack is deserted. I throw buns and cold cuts into a paper bag and hurry out the door. The sun is smoldering out as I cross the courtyard. This is as dark as it gets in the summer. I’m climbing the stairs when I hear a crashing sound. It’s coming from behind the kitchen. Through the dim light I can make out two black bears. A sow and her cub. They’re batting a trashcan around, nosing through the crap that spills out. The bears are a regular thing around here, but the boys are lining up to watch anyway.

The sow rears up to reef at the chain link on the garbage pen. This is something new. Ripples run down her shiny black coat as she pulls. I find myself pounding my own thigh in rhythm. Around me, the other men are doing the same; heads jerking, feet stomping. We’re like some spastic orchestra of mutes with the bear conducting. Finally, the fence pulls away.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Big Serge appears, pumping the air with his fist. The rest of the Everclear party spill from the bunkhouse behind him. They’re hanging off each other, buckling and swaying like a drunken centipede. Lou and the Greek skirt around to where I’m standing.

"Had to get’em out of your room," Lou says, thrusting a beer into my hand. He’s about to give me a damage report when the yard lights snap on. We all move in for a better look.

With the fence gone, the bears have full run of the place. The sow rips open a crate of grapefruits. She puts her leathery snout to the fruit, drops to her butt and begins shredding. When she’s got enough ready, she scoops up the dripping chunks and gobbles them down. It’s the damedest thing I’ve ever seen. Like a fat man in a bear suit.

"That looks like young Billy Rushton there," Lou says. Someone giggles.

"He ain’t that polite," a voice from the crowd answers. Then, like popcorn starting to pop, there’s another burst of laughter. And another, until everyone is doubled over in fits. My chest is busting, tears stream down my face. It feels good. Everything is gone. The dust-choked pit, the counting, the sleepless sun. It’s all gone. The clock has stopped. It’s enough just to be here, holding each other up, somewhere between laughing and crying.

We’re all out of control, rolling on the ground, when a pair of headlights sweep the sky. Seconds later, a pickup roars into the yard. It skids in a long arc through the gravel. The doors fly open and a big man trots our way. His passenger pulls a rifle from the truck.

"You men back up there!"

It’s Wayne Grady and his son. The father elbows his way through the crowd. He’s panting, his face blotchy red from the effort.

"Stand back, I said. Man with a weapon coming through!"

His son is a big, slope-shouldered lad with an even wider, meatier version of his father’s face. I can smell his ripe sweat as he brushes past. Wayne pushes the men back. Some are still laughing as his kid goes down on one knee, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder. He’s monkeying around with the scope, cursing under his breath, when Lou breaks from the group.

He’s waving his arms like a lunatic, running straight at the bears. The cub lights out across the parking lot at a dead sprint. In an instant there’s only a trail of dust and a distant crashing through the bushes. The sow is still eating. Lou has put himself between Wayne Grady’s son and her.

"You get out of the way old man!"

The kid waves him aside. Lou cocks his head, like he’s trying to hear music from far away. Then he starts forward. Not fast, more like he knows just where he’s going and sees no hurry. The kid stays on his haunches, that weapon poking out of him like a stinger. Lou stops when the rifle is almost touching his belly. He reaches down, wraps his hand around the barrel and pulls it to his chest. The circle of men fall silent. The kid gazes up at Lou, manages a trembling smirk and releases the safety.

I’ve seen a few things in my time up here. More than I ever wanted to, but I’ve never seen old Lou do anything by mistake. Then again, it’s likes he’s always said, ‘if you hang around long enough.’

"I’ll have your job for that! I’ll have all your jobs!" the father screams. In the same moment he seems to realize how many of us there are, how close this all is to disaster. The boys look to each other then back at the ground. Half-hearted grumbling gives way to the tick of the cooling pickup, a radio playing deep in the bunkhouse.

Lou stands over the kid. The look on his face is nothing new to me. It could stop a brawl in midswing, make you think flush instead of a pair.

The rifle doesn’t mean a thing.

Wayne’s kid can’t stop blinking. He clicks the safety back on and his head drops. Lou lets the barrel swing away from his chest. When he looks back up, his face is stone. He tips Wayne Grady a two-fingered salute and moves passed all of us towards the bunkhouse. One by one we leave the courtyard, falling silently into line as the father’s threats burst around us.

Near the top of the stairs a boom rings out. It echoes and shatters against the valley wall, taking with it every other sound I turn to see the slumped shape of the sow, a dark pool spreading.

Back in my room I lock the door behind me. I pick my way around the broken glass to lean from the window. The night air is cool now, strong with evergreen. Over our inlet a sliver of moon hangs like an earring in the dying light.

I shut the window and lay back on my bed. I close my eyes. This is when I try to think of the places I’ll go when I get out. Tropical places. The kind with white beaches and blue water. I do this in hopes that I’ll dream about them, but as I drift away tonight the water turns gray and cold.

Sleep is coming in a yellow plane.

Phil Jones lives in White Rock, BC where he splits his time between writing and loafing on the beach. He is currently looking for an agent????? Email: philcoj@shaw.ca.