Cautionary Tales

Russ and the Magic Bus

I’ll never forget the day Russ tried to kill a busload of screaming, airborne oilfield workers.

The job was out in the sticks just like usual. When I first heard about where we were headed, I would have backed out of the job. Everyone knew the living conditions at Camp Cruella. That was the nickname that everyone called this shithole at the end of the earth.

But we had a baby on the way and I needed cash. I said goodbye to my honey and made the long trek out to the location.

This wasn’t a dry camp. It’s a good thing because the only way to live through living in it was by drinking your face off. That made the delivery driver, Russ, one of our best friends. He was a rock truck driver by day and a hotshot driver by night.

When Russ was in that dirt-moving truck, he was an unstoppable madman who went full throttle all day long. A rock truck is just a giant all-terrain dump truck that could squash you flat if you got in its way. It can crush a pickup truck as easily as a frat boy crushes empty beer cans on his forehead. We all steered clear of Russ and his daytime activities, for fear of getting run over.

Russ seemed a lot more reliable on the road than in the equipment. The closest town was two hours of rough logging roads away. So when we needed any supplies, like darts or booze, Russ was our man. For a small fee, he could get you whatever you needed.

You might wonder what it was about Camp Cruella that made it worse than the others out there.

Let’s start with the fact that it was condemned, but they decided to open it up after three years of it sitting empty. Just for us.

Imagine what kind of vermin can get into a camp with no humans around. Bettles, mice, maybe a bear? I know the mice and beetles got in for sure because they were still there when we arrived.

I saw my first mouse in the dining hall. I was standing in line holding my tray, waiting to sample some fine work-camp cuisine. The sign said today’s entrees were beef stroganoff or mac and cheese. I saw sudden movement out of the corner of my eye at floor level.

“Look, a mouse!” the guy behind me said loudly.

Then the line moved forward and we loaded up our plates with food prepared in an extra sanitary fashion, by what looked like institution escapees.

Later, as I lay there trying to fall asleep, I heard suspicious rustling noises coming from the end of the room. I lifted my head off of the stained pillow and looked. There was my new buddy, Mickey, checking out my duffel bag.

I jumped up and he ran for it. Bending down to look closer, I saw the tiny hole that Mickey or one of his tiny ancestors had chewed into my tiny room. I wadded up some paper towel and stuffed the hole tight, then went back to bed.

A few days into our shift, it was minus thirty-five Celsius with a stiff wind. It was cold out there. The dormitory they had me in was cold. The furnace barely worked, so we were all wearing our long johns and touques to bed just so we could wake up alive instead of like a popsicle.

I was on my way back to the dorm after an exciting meal of instant mashed potatoes and turkey log.

If you haven’t had a turkey log, what a treat you’re missing out on. Here’s how it works. First, one of those big meat factories scapes all the leftover turkey parts off the floor and drops them in a big hopper. The machine squeezes and glues them back together in a long, log-shaped meat bundle of wonder. The turkey billionaire pats himself on the back for inventing a way to sell leftover garbage and gets busy dreaming up more evil atrocities to sell to the unsuspecting.

After languishing in deep freeze storage for a few years, this meat rollup gets shipped by truck to whatever institution you are forced to eat at. It might be the funny farm or a prison. Or maybe it’s a place like Camp Cruella, which is the best of both the funny farm and the prison combined.

Next, it gets overcooked in an industrial fashion and placed on a steam table to marinate in its own bacteria until mealtime for several hours.

And finally, the jolly camp server carves you off a few hunks, as many as you want. Why not, they basically got this golden goodness for free! Then they slap a few scoops of instant mashed on the tray, slather it with mass-produced gravy, and off you go.

Anyway, my belly was full of instant mashed, turkey log and gravy. I saw Russ leaving the hallway.

“Hey, John. I rigged you guys up with some auxiliary heat! Stay warm,” Russ slapped me on the shoulder as I went by.

I was apprehensive yet hopeful as I opened the door of the bunkhouse. There was a muffled roaring noise. I couldn’t believe it.

Russ had a steel bucket sitting on a steel chair in the middle of the hallway. Inside the bucket was a tiger torch, burning bright. The thirty-pound propane tank was nearby. This couldn’t be safe!

But, it was warmer in there that night.

Taking the Bus

We had a forty-five-minute ride out to the pipeline right-of-way. Forty-five minutes of blissful bumping and bouncing in a yellow school bus. The biggest struggle was that the seats were designed for students, who are typically shorter and thinner than working guys. Some of the lovely men I spent time with on that bus were overweight and over six feet tall, so they didn’t fit well in those seats.

Our bus driver, Shelley, did double duty as a rock truck driver after we arrived on site. She parked the bus near our work area and left it accessible so we could warm up and have coffee inside. All day long, Shelley went back and forth with loads of dirt. She was an active lady. Then she drove us back to camp.

The other rock truck drivers didn’t have to work nearly as much. No one wanted to do double duty, but Shelley never complained.

Her bus driving skills were impeccable. A friendly demeanor, smooth stops, appropriate turning speeds, and absolute professionalism. We didn’t realize how spoiled we were.

One night, Shelley had an incident at the parking lot, just as she pulled into the parking spot. She collapsed on the steering wheel and had to get an ambulance ride to the hospital. It was a blood sugar problem. We all hoped she would be able to come back to work soon.

The next morning, we all arrived at the bus, wondering who would be the new driver. Russ sat behind the wheel with a big smile on his face.

“Good morning, fellas! Let’s get out there and get back to work!”

We all piled in and found our cramped little seats. No one was surprised when he started to drive that yellow piece of shit just like he drove his yellow rock truck.

The bus lurched out of the work yard as if it had Tourette Syndrome. The driver swore at the traffic on the way out like he had Tourette’s too. He locked up the brakes at every stop sign. We were feeling like milkshakes. That didn’t stop the usual suspects from falling asleep like the worn-out party animals that they were.

The Train Tracks

Halfway to work, there was a train track crossing. It was at the bottom of a huge valley, with a steep hill on the way down. Every morning we crested the hill and could see those tracks at the bottom. It was easy to see both ways for a mile or so, so we always knew if there was a train.

On average, a train would be coming about half the time. It was a busy crossing.

There were no lights, just a stop sign. Our usual driver would calmly pull up to the stop sign, look both ways, and proceeded when safe. If we had to wait, we waited. What’s the rush anyway, on the way to work?

Apparently, Russ never got the message that safety is the number one priority when you’re driving a crew bus with twenty-odd souls on it.

We came to the top of the hill that morning, and Russ saw a train about a mile away. He must have done the math and decided that we needed to beat that train. Russ floored the pedal and the bus lurched down the hill.

All of us who were awake suddenly became even more awake.

“Russ! We aren’t gonna make it!” One of the guys yelled.

Russ just leaned forward in his seat, steely determination in his eyes, as he willed the bus to go faster.

The train bore down on us like a big boy at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It looked like we were all going to die.

As we picked up more speed down that hill, we went faster than a yellow school bus should ever go. The back end bounced so much that every little bump had us airborne.

There was the crossing. And there was the train, speeding towards it. Its horn blared as it tried to put on the brakes, but there was no stopping that monster.

The bus started across, and I looked without blinking out the window at that train. It got bigger, faster, and closer. I could feel death approaching. It was like a scene from a movie, but not a happy flick. It was from one where everyone dies, like Final Destination.

We made it across. The hump at the rail crossing launched the entire bus what seemed like feet off the ground, and we all floated past that train in weightless freefall. Then the bus slammed back to Earth. The train missed us by a few inches at most.

Those who had been sleeping were now awake, probably because of all the screams, the yelling, and that huge plunge that pounded us into the seats like a plane coming in for the worst landing ever.

“Ha! Ha ha ha ha!” Russ cackled with glee. He sounded like that deranged uncle you never leave alone around small children or old people. Everyone else was completely silent for the rest of the drive. Russ grinned like a maniac all the way there.

We all appreciated life more than usual that morning. The air smelled sweeter and the laughs were louder. But we all dreaded that ride home. Were we going to live and make it back to see our loved ones? Only time would tell.

Russ moved dirt all day like a possessed man, roaring back and forth with his yellow truck. We eyed him uneasily from a distance.

Late that afternoon, Shelly got chauffeured out and got behind the wheel of the bus. We all let out a sigh of relief. As we piled back on board to journey home, we thanked her from the bottom of our hearts for showing up. She smiled and said hi, and proceeded to drive uneventfully and peacefully to town. Russ wasn’t with us.

Back at Camp Cruella, I headed straight for the smoke pit before supper. I was in no rush to go back inside that dilapidated pile of mold and mouse-infested junk we were living in.

Russ was there, by himself. I lit up a smoke and headed over to him.

“Russ! They didn’t let you drive the bus back to camp.”

“Drive it? They wouldn’t even let me on it!” He said with his madman’s grin.

And then I realized that Russ never wanted to drive the bus, ever. He just made sure it would be the last time he would have to do it.