been afraid I'd die on them. As it was-
I'm a little blank on a lot of things. But I wound up, eventually, as a night watchman on a pipeline that was being built from Iran to the Gulf. On the night that my high-school class graduated I was seated on a generator, far out on the Texas plains, and on the ground below me a huge rattlesnake listened raptly as I screamed and cursed and raved at him.
I'd never been particularly afraid of crawling things before. But after that, after those two years, a roach or an ant made me cringe, and, if I was not on guard, scream.
I had no rest from them, you see. While I tossed on my cot in camp, during the day, they were with me- the ones that were worse than the real ones. They ringed me in, the rattlers, the tarantulas-the great black-and-white tarantulas as large as saucers and with fur like rabbits-the ten-inch centipedes, the scorpions, the vinegarroons, and gilas. I say they ringed me in; everywhere I looked they were there, at my head, my sides, and feet. And then, before I could leap over them, always before I could leap over them-the thing happened to me ten thousand times, a dozen times in a day, but I could never bring myself to leap until it was too late-then, then, as I say, another ring would come up to reinforce the first. It would climb and slide and crawl on top of the first ring. And then another ring would climb and crawl and slide on top of it. And then there would be another and another and another and ANOTHER! ANOTHER! ANOTHER!
Oh, Christ…
They rose to the top of the cot. They mounted higher and higher around me. And as they mounted the rings drew in to form a sort of beehive. Drew in. Drew in. And, finally-finally-there was only a speck of light left (they always left enough light for me to see by). And then the pile began to sag, sag down.
I pleaded with them. I told them funny stories. I sang to them. I pleaded and sang and told funny stories all at once. And then they dropped down on me in a mass, and their weight stopped my heart and I ceased to breathe…
Whatta they keep that crazy bastard around for?
Ahh, he's a good kid. I been through this myself. Come on, Slim. Snap out of it.
He needs a drink. Anyone gotta drink?
Got a can of heat he can have.
Well squeeze it out for him… Slim, goddam yuh, get this down your gullet. Huh, huh! Don't yuh know it's bad luck to die in a tent?
At night, when I went out on the line, they were still with me, the real ones, and the others, and I could never be sure which was which. I had thirty generators to oil, gas, and water; a ditcher and a dragline; so I needed to keep moving. And I did not know when it was safe to walk through the things in front of me and when it was not. Sometimes, most times, my feet would melt through their bodies. But- sometimes a diamond-shaped head would lash out at my eighteen-inch boot, or a great furry mass would leap straight toward my face. And then I would stumble backwards, run, knocking over fuel cans, tripping over pipe, battering myself against the generators; run and run and run until I could run no more.
Good men were scarce in those days; that's probably obvious. I was getting fifty cents an hour for twelve hours, seven days a week, with only a dollar a day out for board and flop. So I stayed on after I got well; after homesickness was beginning to take the place of the other. A hundred and fifty dollars a month clear to be sent home; so I stayed.
After two years-something more than two years- a few days before Thanksgiving, we put the button on the job, and I beat my way home. I got there Thanksgiving Day. The folks were over at Marge's for dinner, and I was broke, and there wasn't anything to eat in the house. I got cleaned up and put on some other clothes. An hour later I had bought back my job on the installment plan and was hopping bells again.
Yes, as the lawyers say, I'm going to connect all this up. I've laid the groundwork for it, or am laying one for something
I'm a little blank on a lot of things. But I wound up, eventually, as a night watchman on a pipeline that was being built from Iran to the Gulf. On the night that my high-school class graduated I was seated on a generator, far out on the Texas plains, and on the ground below me a huge rattlesnake listened raptly as I screamed and cursed and raved at him.
I'd never been particularly afraid of crawling things before. But after that, after those two years, a roach or an ant made me cringe, and, if I was not on guard, scream.
I had no rest from them, you see. While I tossed on my cot in camp, during the day, they were with me- the ones that were worse than the real ones. They ringed me in, the rattlers, the tarantulas-the great black-and-white tarantulas as large as saucers and with fur like rabbits-the ten-inch centipedes, the scorpions, the vinegarroons, and gilas. I say they ringed me in; everywhere I looked they were there, at my head, my sides, and feet. And then, before I could leap over them, always before I could leap over them-the thing happened to me ten thousand times, a dozen times in a day, but I could never bring myself to leap until it was too late-then, then, as I say, another ring would come up to reinforce the first. It would climb and slide and crawl on top of the first ring. And then another ring would climb and crawl and slide on top of it. And then there would be another and another and another and ANOTHER! ANOTHER! ANOTHER!
Oh, Christ…
They rose to the top of the cot. They mounted higher and higher around me. And as they mounted the rings drew in to form a sort of beehive. Drew in. Drew in. And, finally-finally-there was only a speck of light left (they always left enough light for me to see by). And then the pile began to sag, sag down.
I pleaded with them. I told them funny stories. I sang to them. I pleaded and sang and told funny stories all at once. And then they dropped down on me in a mass, and their weight stopped my heart and I ceased to breathe…
Whatta they keep that crazy bastard around for?
Ahh, he's a good kid. I been through this myself. Come on, Slim. Snap out of it.
He needs a drink. Anyone gotta drink?
Got a can of heat he can have.
Well squeeze it out for him… Slim, goddam yuh, get this down your gullet. Huh, huh! Don't yuh know it's bad luck to die in a tent?
At night, when I went out on the line, they were still with me, the real ones, and the others, and I could never be sure which was which. I had thirty generators to oil, gas, and water; a ditcher and a dragline; so I needed to keep moving. And I did not know when it was safe to walk through the things in front of me and when it was not. Sometimes, most times, my feet would melt through their bodies. But- sometimes a diamond-shaped head would lash out at my eighteen-inch boot, or a great furry mass would leap straight toward my face. And then I would stumble backwards, run, knocking over fuel cans, tripping over pipe, battering myself against the generators; run and run and run until I could run no more.
Good men were scarce in those days; that's probably obvious. I was getting fifty cents an hour for twelve hours, seven days a week, with only a dollar a day out for board and flop. So I stayed on after I got well; after homesickness was beginning to take the place of the other. A hundred and fifty dollars a month clear to be sent home; so I stayed.
After two years-something more than two years- a few days before Thanksgiving, we put the button on the job, and I beat my way home. I got there Thanksgiving Day. The folks were over at Marge's for dinner, and I was broke, and there wasn't anything to eat in the house. I got cleaned up and put on some other clothes. An hour later I had bought back my job on the installment plan and was hopping bells again.
Yes, as the lawyers say, I'm going to connect all this up. I've laid the groundwork for it, or am laying one for something
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