A million noons have blazed before this one,
as he drives up Chester Avenue,
sees some rubble sweepers
and rubberneckers, but no looters
looking round for an unwatched
hi-fi dealer or liquor store.
anyway, most of the bottles
got smashed on the floors.
the oil company office, is a cinder
block box with a corrugated steel roof.
it’d be hot as hell without the help of the
overworked swamp coolers on each end.
with no shady spot to park in at noon,
his car will be like an oven real soon.
in the middle of the bulletin board,
thumbtacked between work notices,
sundry couches, bird dogs, shotguns,
and a ’39 studebaker truck for sale,
flyers for laundry and bail bonds,
sits a black grease pencil sketch
of a naked woman kneeling
in front of a man with curly
hair and glasses. with an
anatomically preposterous
penis in her mouth. No names.
But the identities are clear enough.
He rips it down. The tacks pop off the board
like the rivets of a steam boiler explosion.
Grinds the shreds of the crude illustration
into the parking lot gravel with a grimace.
Assholes. Goes inside gritting his teeth.
Charlie the boss looks up warily
from a loose stack of papers.
Good to see you Henry,
I hear you had a little trouble last night.
We need everybody on deck today.
No distractions, right?
No problem. What do you need?
Good. We have an understanding?
The men are all out checking the rigs.
We want to be sure the fields are all
in working order. It’s gonna be a long day,
probably run into the night.
The crews are all signed in.
I want you to keep track of that.
It’s overtime, but nobody gets paid
for hours they don’t actually pull.
Charlie hands him a clipboard.
Here’s the shift. Go out and check ‘em,
then come back here. And Henry? We don’t
need any personal trouble interfering
with operations, you get my drift?
Like what? I’m not looking for any trouble.
Just don’t forget which side of the tracks you live on.
Everybody seems to be real concerned
with my understanding. I got the picture.
Good. Now get out of here. Start looking
out for Company business and forget about any
off-the-reservation adventures.
Henry gives Charlie a questioning look,
was that yet another Fresno Indian crack?
But Charlie already has his nose buried in a stack
of reports. Save it for another day.
Picks up his hardhat and the clipboard.
Five minutes in the sun has turned
the gear shift knob into a branding iron.
Looking like flies stuck on the oil-soaked web of roads,
the oil-stained crews muck and sweat at the pumps.
He marks off names, blue for present and working,
red for signed in, but nowhere to be found.
At the top of the field, Augustus is fussing
with the crank on a horse head pump.
Hey lover boy, whyn’t you take your
sorry ass back to the hut. this’s work
for men. white men. He wraps his hands
around the gleaming sucker rod rising
and falling into the well head.
Lets the oily shaft slide between his fingers.
Remind you of anything, Henry?
Yeah, looks like your night games
in the joint. That’s right Bandyman,
I got a lot of practice. Tell your little
nigger bitch to keep the grease handy.
I’ll introduce her to my specialty.
Gus mimes a pistol with his hand.
bang bang, Fresno Indian. you’re dead.
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