Fat Joe

A long time ago I worked for a local drilling contractor; it was a small company and at the time had only six rigs and I did stints on three of them. For a few weeks I worked on the smallest rig they had, a triple like the rest, but with the smallest sub-structure and in fact, it was the "junkiest" rig of the six.

At the urging of a guy I had worked with before, I went to work for his cousin, Joe. Now Joe was a big man...not a large man in size, but he was FAT. I've worked with guys who weren't in the best of shape, with guys who had beer bellies, but a truly fat guy is hard to find on drilling rigs due to the physical nature of the job.

Joe was the exception, both in size and "the physical nature". He never did much, instead preferring to point at what he wanted done. Sure, a driller is a step up from a floor or derrick hand, but they're still expected to get their hands dirty now 'n then. I think Joe had gloves that lasted years, never needing washing.

Joe was so fat, we called him "Joebba the Hutt"

To top all that off, Joe wasn't a fun guy like many fat guys are; basically, he was a despicable S.O.B. without much of a sense of humor, nor much good sense. For a work vehicle, he drove an old orange Dodge pickup with tires showing a dangerous amount of cord (and I've always said the drive killed more roughnecks than ever did the drillers) and that P.O.S. truck was lucky to hit on 6-7 of the 8 cylinders. I don't think the heater worked, but if it did, it wouldn't have mattered because there were holes in the floorboards big enough to throw a hardhat through.

(that's no exaggeration; I lost a good lunch box when it vibrated out the largest hole, the one on my side of the cab. Joe, being the despicable S.O.B. as I previously said, wouldn't even stop to go back and get it. I probably would've insisted, but I expect it didn't survive the fall and besides that, I was probably somewhat addled from the exhaust fumes coming up through the holes)

It was in the middle of the coldest winter in years when I worked for Fat Joe and normally, when there wasn't much to do, the hands would congregate in the top doghouse to get warm. Since Joe very seldom left it, we dressed as warmly as we could and stayed away...otherwise ol' Fat Joe would grunt and point to something he thought we should be doing that we really SHOULDN'T be doing during sub-zero weather, like painting or scrubbing the derrick.

I was down in the mud house, huddled around a propane torch with the rest of the hands when we heard a whistle; it was Joe at the top of the back steps, waving. His cousin started up the steps but Joe shook his head (and several rolls of neck fat shaking in tandem, his triple-chin wiggling like Jell-O) and pointed towards Yours Truly.

Oh crap, I thought, and headed up the stairs. As soon as I got to the top, Joe said "Get me a clean bucket." I figured I was going to be set to scrubbing something during that frigid night, just great.

I looked, but couldn't find a clean bucket, so I opened up a new bucket of pipe dope (a graphite-based lubricant for the drillstem) and scraped what was left of a nearly empty bucket into it. I then had to get some diesel and wash out the dregs, then used soapy water to finish cleaning it. I put some more soap in it, filled with water in anticipation of having to wash whatever it was Fat Joe wanted washing. I figured he might very well have me wash his truck, that's what kind of S.O.B. he was.

I lugged the bucket into the doghouse, set it down and backed up to the stove for a bit of warmth, hoping he was only going to have me clean up the floor or better yet, wipe down the doghouse. At least I'd be warm while I scrubbed.

I barely had time to get out of the way of the sudsy deluge as he kicked over the bucket in the general direction of the door. Astounded, I couldn't help but just look at him, wondering if he'd gone crazy.

"You gonna stay in here?" he asked. I shook my head, not understanding. "You gonna stay in here while I take a ****?" he elaborated.

Oh gag. I shook my head in disgust and left. I made my way back down to the mud house where I told the guys what had just taken place. They told me he did that to all the new hands and that I would be required to go dump it.

I stared at them in disbelief. "You're kiddin', right?" I asked. "The fat bas***d is too lazy to go out to the outhouse at the edge of the location....and he expects US to dump....???" I couldn't even finish, I was so flabbergasted. "Yep." said his cousin. "I'm glad yer here or else I'D have to keep doin' it." he said.

"Well, I ain't doin' it." I informed my smirking crewmates. "Oh, I bet you will if you wanna keep your job." the derrick hand told me.

"I wouldn't have a job where I had to do something like that." I maintained, looking in their faces for traces of "the big tease". "You're BS'in' me, aintchoo?" I went on.

About that time we heard another whistle and there was Fat Joe again, waving for me to come back up to the rig floor. With growing trepidation , I started up the steps, following Joe as he waddled back into the warmth of the doghouse. "Dump this out." he informed me, pushing the bucket towards me with his foot.

"You're kiddin', right?" I had to ask. New guys get pranks pulled on them all the time. "Nope." said Joe, sucking in his huge gut, puffing out his chest, trying to intimidate me. "Thass yer job."

"You can stick that bucket and what's in it back up where it came from." I told him with a cold rage I'd never felt before. "You lazy fat ****, you can dump your own ****."

"I'll run yer ass off." he told me. "Fine." I retorted. "I've been fired by better men than you, that's for sure."

"You'll have to walk home." he told me. "Nope," I replied, taking a step towards him. "You brought me out here, you're gonna take me home." and advanced towards him with clenched fists.

I guess Fat Joe had never had the threat of violence directed to him before. "I can fire you if I want." he said with much less assurance in his voice than he did when he directed me to dispose of his bodily waste.

"Yep, you can." I told him, taking off my glasses so they wouldn't get broken in the fight. "I can also get rid of THAT" kicking the bucket with my foot "by making you eat it. "

Fat Joe frantically glanced around, looking for something to put between him and me for protection. The only thing that would have saved him was that bucket.

"You can fire me." I said through my clenched jaw, looking at Fat Joe through a haze of red. "But I'm ridin' home with you and as soon as you let me off I'm jerkin' yer fat ass outta that truck, THEN I'm going to go see ******* (the owner of the drilling company). Handlin' yer crap ain't part of the job description."

I said more, but nothing that's fit to repeat in this blog. I did absolutely nothing the rest of the night and dressed into my street clothes an hour before relief got there, packing my stuff then sitting in the truck until time to go home. I was going to make sure that fat S.O.B was going to give me a ride back to town. He couldn't throw me out, but he COULD file charges against me for kickin' his fat butt.

To make this long, distasteful story short, his cousin had to go dump the bucket. I wasn't fired, because I was quitting. Fat Joe probably lost some sleep that day, rustling up another hand, or I expect, being the lazy puke that he was, he had his cousin find him someone.

His cousin was killed a few years later; he fell asleep while driving home from the rig. The derrick hand was knifed to death when he made a drunken pass at a lesbian's girlfriend. I don't know what happened to Fat Joe but the next time I worked for the company he was no longer employed there.

I expect he asked someone else to dump the bucket, someone who hadn't the kind and gentle nature I possess.