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Authors: Karin Kallmaker
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There was no room for
sloppiness. And then she had to draw a water sample from Well B-A-146, a well she had installed herself the first week on the job.
The immediate area was barren of any form of life not even a weed or fallen leaf. The soil was cracked and it varied from a pasty gray ash to a coppery clay. When they left they would drive under and next to scaffolds riddled with pipes and conduit. Some of the pipes were flare points, and the flashes of flame created images of hell for Shay. It stretched on for a couple square miles.
She drew the water sample out of the well, completed the label and added it to the Styrofoam cooler, which would maintain an even temperature for all the samples until they were taken to the lab that afternoon. She put her tools away, made sure everything was in place, then stood again, giving the “move out” signal to Harold, who stepped lightly forward and lifted the cooler easily. Shay had no trouble believing that he had, as he said, played football for the USC Trojans.
Harold grinned at her after he put the cooler in the truck and held up one finger. Shay nodded vigorously and pantomimed wiping her brow. Only one more sample, and it was the least contaminated spot on their trip. They repeated procedures again at Well B-B-146. As she drew the water sample, she asked herself if NOC-U could have found a more confusing way to label the wells they were just asking for mislabeled containers. When she was finished, they went back to the truck, drove past the hydrogen disulfide boundary, and stopped again. Shay bailed out of the truck and yanked her breather off.
“Air. Honest to goodness polluted air.” She sucked in a couple of rapid breaths and felt her nerves calm.
“I think this is how they get us to believe this is clean air,” Harold said. “I’m always so glad to breathe in this shit that I think it’s clean.” His last words were muffled as he pulled the top of his Tyvek suit over his head.
Shay knew that nine in ten women would be going ape for Harold. He was a cross between Roger Craig and O.J. Simpson, with all of their good looks and engaging smiles. He had flawless deep brown skin, close-cropped hair and eyes that always said, “I’m listening, you’re important.” Shay liked him a lot but her feelings were based on the way he approached life and treated people, not his looks.
She’d been at this stage suit removal with lots of other field “buddies.” It didn’t matter that she had clothes on underneath. It felt like undressing and after some of the other men had watched her taking her suit off she’d learned to stay on her side of the truck. She’d had enough leering. And she was always glad when she was paired with Harold because Harold treated her like a human being. Nor did he ignore her gender and race, just as she couldn’t ignore his. When two people are getting to know each other, gender and color are facts of life. When it came to taking well samples and borings they didn’t matter at all. Now that they were spending a lot of time together, enough to approach friendship, Shay was trying to find a way to let Harold know she was a lesbian. If she could tell Mrs. Giordano, she could tell Harold. She wondered
if she’d ever tell Anthea. Maybe. She couldn’t really picture herself being friends with Anthea.
They filled the decontamination pool, actually a child’s plastic wading pool, with three inches of nonpotable water from the decontamination station faucet. They waded around until their boots were free of any soil they had picked up. They dumped the water and put the pool and their suits in the back of the truck. Shay took off her boots and added them to the pool, and then padded to the passenger seat again. Harold was already lacing on his Nikes.
“Let’s take the scenic route,” Shay said. “I don’t know about you, but if we never got back to the trailers it would be too soon.”
“I was eating this really cheap
sloppiness. And then she had to draw a water sample from Well B-A-146, a well she had installed herself the first week on the job.
The immediate area was barren of any form of life not even a weed or fallen leaf. The soil was cracked and it varied from a pasty gray ash to a coppery clay. When they left they would drive under and next to scaffolds riddled with pipes and conduit. Some of the pipes were flare points, and the flashes of flame created images of hell for Shay. It stretched on for a couple square miles.
She drew the water sample out of the well, completed the label and added it to the Styrofoam cooler, which would maintain an even temperature for all the samples until they were taken to the lab that afternoon. She put her tools away, made sure everything was in place, then stood again, giving the “move out” signal to Harold, who stepped lightly forward and lifted the cooler easily. Shay had no trouble believing that he had, as he said, played football for the USC Trojans.
Harold grinned at her after he put the cooler in the truck and held up one finger. Shay nodded vigorously and pantomimed wiping her brow. Only one more sample, and it was the least contaminated spot on their trip. They repeated procedures again at Well B-B-146. As she drew the water sample, she asked herself if NOC-U could have found a more confusing way to label the wells they were just asking for mislabeled containers. When she was finished, they went back to the truck, drove past the hydrogen disulfide boundary, and stopped again. Shay bailed out of the truck and yanked her breather off.
“Air. Honest to goodness polluted air.” She sucked in a couple of rapid breaths and felt her nerves calm.
“I think this is how they get us to believe this is clean air,” Harold said. “I’m always so glad to breathe in this shit that I think it’s clean.” His last words were muffled as he pulled the top of his Tyvek suit over his head.
Shay knew that nine in ten women would be going ape for Harold. He was a cross between Roger Craig and O.J. Simpson, with all of their good looks and engaging smiles. He had flawless deep brown skin, close-cropped hair and eyes that always said, “I’m listening, you’re important.” Shay liked him a lot but her feelings were based on the way he approached life and treated people, not his looks.
She’d been at this stage suit removal with lots of other field “buddies.” It didn’t matter that she had clothes on underneath. It felt like undressing and after some of the other men had watched her taking her suit off she’d learned to stay on her side of the truck. She’d had enough leering. And she was always glad when she was paired with Harold because Harold treated her like a human being. Nor did he ignore her gender and race, just as she couldn’t ignore his. When two people are getting to know each other, gender and color are facts of life. When it came to taking well samples and borings they didn’t matter at all. Now that they were spending a lot of time together, enough to approach friendship, Shay was trying to find a way to let Harold know she was a lesbian. If she could tell Mrs. Giordano, she could tell Harold. She wondered
if she’d ever tell Anthea. Maybe. She couldn’t really picture herself being friends with Anthea.
They filled the decontamination pool, actually a child’s plastic wading pool, with three inches of nonpotable water from the decontamination station faucet. They waded around until their boots were free of any soil they had picked up. They dumped the water and put the pool and their suits in the back of the truck. Shay took off her boots and added them to the pool, and then padded to the passenger seat again. Harold was already lacing on his Nikes.
“Let’s take the scenic route,” Shay said. “I don’t know about you, but if we never got back to the trailers it would be too soon.”
“I was eating this really cheap
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