Writings - "Jasen - Gillette"

Another of the writings I did a while ago - enjoy if you can. It was after I finished this one that I realized that much of my writing takes a "dark"twist. Hmmm? I wonder what that is all about. Anyway, I think this is one of my best - even though it is not my favorite.

Jasen - Gillette

There is not a cloud in the sky. The ground is hot and hard. The air is dry and rests heavily on me with its 95 degrees. The row of power poles stretches off into the distance, each waiting. Technology marches on, like a junior high school perspective art picture. There is a barbed wire fence just beyond the poles. The fence keeps in nothing. No one really wants to be out here. I walk to my next pole.
Behind me is the Jason truck. It just pulled up to the pole I just left. Two weeks ago, I wished it was me working from the truck. It seemed like the cushy job. No digging sun baked clay as hard as city pavement. No constant disappointment with each measurement when it wasn’t the required 36 inches. Just pull up to the hole, put on the patch then fill the hole in. A cushy job is right. But now, the temperature in the truck would be, what, 120 degrees. Jason trucks did not have air-conditioning. And the patch, made of hot stinking creosote, would burn an acrid chemical stench into their clothes and nose. No, now it was better to be digging. At least after the hole you could walk lazily to the next pole while the almost perceptible breeze offered a little cooling.
There were 3 digging teams, each with two people. That meant that when you went to the next pole, it was actually three poles down the line. At each pole you passed, you would try to say something smart and sassy, but by the afternoon, smart and sassy had generally just turned to a grunt. The first team you passed would be cursing their lot. They had dug hard, hard earth for a long while to get their hole, and it wouldn’t be 36 inches yet. Sometimes a whine about why did it have to be so deep, but mostly a curse at why the ground was so hard, or the air so hot, or the world so unfair as to have to treat poles for wet rot in an area of the world where they obviously never got wet.
The next team would be just a little ways down into the dirt. Conversation with them was generally about maybes. Maybe that cloud would cover the sun. Maybe their dirt would be softer after they got through the crust. Maybe a tidal wave would come with refreshing coolness. All were equally possible. There would be no wave, the dirt was rock hard clear to the earth’s core, and the little cloud was so little it would never cover the sun.
Then, you looked ahead to your next pole, the centerpiece of your next hole. And there was dream, that just one patch of good soft fertile earth lay on this neglected desert land. Dirt that could be dug. Dirt that could be turned. But that would never be. Half way to pole, the guardian of your next land, the dream changed. You could see it wasn’t good earth. But maybe it was sand. Sand you could just scoop out with your hands, or clear out by the shovel full. Easy work so when the other teams passed by, you could smile and be smart about how you got the perfect hole. Then you were almost there. For sure it wasn’t sand. You could see the cracks in the sun baked earth. All dreams were shattered. It was just like the last pole and the last hole, and the ones before that. You slam your shovel down at the base of the pole. It rings and just barely chips the surface. Start digging and . . . Do something to take your mind away. Maybe a reflection . . . On where you are . . . And why.
Wyoming. Land of the western. Land of the cowboy. Land of the rattlesnake and the antelope and the prairie dog. Actually, there are some really beautiful parts of Wyoming. The western boundary, where it butts up against Idaho has beautiful mountains. The eastern edge, in the northern corner had just a bit of South Dakota’s Black hills. In the south where it borders Colorado, there are the Laramie Range and the Medicine Bow Range, both reflections of their taller majestic cousins in the Rockies. And of course the north west corner is possibly the Eden of America, with Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. Yes, Wyoming has some gorgeous destinations, but mostly it has badlands.
The shovel hit’s a rock and brings the reflection to an end. Actually, a rock is a novelty. Mostly it is sun baked clay. Scrape the rock out and go back to digging.
I am in Wyoming. I am not in Eden. In fact, if there is a place in the lone and dreary world that is furthest from Eden, it is where I am now. Gillette. A nothing place. Just barren ranch land with not enough grass to really ranch. But those ranch houses need technology. They need the march of power poles. And those power poles need to be treated for wet rot in a land where there is no wet.
The next team is walking past, on to their next pole and their next hole. We talk a little bit about how the ground is going to get softer in just an inch or two more. Heck, we are down 14 inches already. Yea we will really have to hurry so the stench of the Jasen truck doesn’t catch up with us. See ya in a while, and thanks for the break and the chance to lean on our shovels for a minute. We start digging again. No is wasn’t any easier in just an inch or two more.
There is not much of a diversion out here on the dry, hot high-plains. Two days ago, one of the teams cornered a badger in a prairie dog hole. They poked at it with their shovels and made it really mad. In the end they had to killed it so it wouldn‘t attack them as they walked away. It made me sad. It made me think of the kind of people Jasen hired locally. Generally they were high schoolers who just wanted a buck or two. Mostly they were not in the upper 10% of their class. One or two had only lasted a day or two. It was just too much work. Most smoked. They all cussed. And it was good to not have to work in close proximity to their comments about life, love and women.
The next crew was walking by. The Jasen truck was just starting towards their hole. That made them just one pole away from us. Now we are 27 inches down. Our conversation with the passing team was just a grunt. We had to keep digging. We didn’t want the Jasen truck to catch up with us. Only 9 more inches to go. We would probably stop after seven more. Who cared if the creosote patch was 2 inches above ground. It would never get wet anyway.
How did I get hired by Jasen. I had just finished my first year at college. Montana State University in Bozeman, Montana. I did well. I had a 4.0 after the first year, but I was an undeclared major and really didn’t have any direction to my studies. It is easy to get good grades when you can take whatever you want. Summer came and I needed a job so I could pay tuition for the next year. There were no jobs in Bozeman, Montana. Then my brother called. His father-in-law had a company called Jasen Associates. They had a job in Gillette, Wyoming. It was a contract job working for the local electric coop. If I could get to the electric coop by 8:00 AM on Monday morning, they would hire me. They would pay for my motel room. They would give me a per diem for food. I could save everything they paid me. I looked on the map to find Gillette. It was about a 4 hour drive. I could get a ride. Sure, I’d do it. My partner was a similar hire, except he was from Colorado.
The patch was going into the hole one pole back. Do a quick measure. Slam the shovel against the bottom of the hole. Lean it up against the pole. There was a mark 36 inches up on the handle. Did the mark match the dirt line on the hole. It only missed it by 2 inches. Okay, maybe three, but that is good enough. If they guys in the Jasen truck want it 36 inches, they can just dig the last three themselves. They have the cushy job anyway. Get out of the hole and start moving on. We pass the next team. They just grunt, and cuss because this is the worst hole ever. The are only at 18 inches. The truck will surely catch up with them. I think that at least one of them won’t show up tomorrow. We pass on and about ten feet on my partner steps right next to a shallow hole. There is a loud rattling buzz and a rattle snake coils. He jumps. Boy does he jump. And then he literally sprints for the truck. He hates snakes. Both of the other teams converge on the snake. They kill it and cut off it’s rattles. It made me sad. I go back and get my partner. We move on, with him having much more care where he steps. At least we have something to talk about. This could supply topics for the rest of the afternoon.