Horizon of Silver

Horizon of Silver
By
Bear Trap

“Hey! Slow down there Fireball!”
The voice of Steve Patterson cut through the hot summer air like a rock crashing through a stained glass window. He came running across the long stretch of highway currently under construction.
“You keep working like that you’ll have yourself a fit before the day’s up.”
Scott was the new guy on the team; the rookie. He had been ordered by Steve to break up large chunks of rock using a warped sledge hammer with a handle that was slowly splintering more and more with each labored strike. A quiet, yet well-spoken man of 22, Scott hardly fit in with his co-workers. He frequently felt like his situation was the elephant in the room. A college graduate with unlimited opportunity in front of him stuck in a dead end construction job on a lonely stretch of road outside of Sarcoxie, Missouri. Truly, no one could blame the other members of the crew for whispering suspicious thoughts about him regardless of whether or not he was in earshot.
“I can’t break these rocks with this shabby hammer sir. They’re too large and I’m not strong enough.”
“You’re a funny son of a bitch!” Steve cackled. “Look at you. You’ve got 30 pounds on me and you’re about 30 years younger. Let me show you how an expert in the field does it.”
Steve made short work of the rocks in front of him. They easily broke into distorted fragments. Debris from the miniature display of carnage shot wildly into the air and struck Scott’s face. He backed away gingerly, not wanting to let on that he was bothered by anything.
“You see your problem Fireball,” Steve huffed. “Is that you were starting in the middle. That’s the strongest part of that damn rock. You hit it on the edges, you can slowly chip away at it until the middle eventually splits. It’s like earthquakes and shit. I’m sure you know all about that Fireball.”
Scott was given the name Fireball within two hours of his first day on the job. He couldn’t determine if the moniker was bestowed due to the fact that he worked really fast, or really slow. It probably wasn’t worth asking in any case. He considered himself fortunate even to have a nickname to begin with. With the exception of Steve, who happened to be the foreman, every member of the crew had one. There was Big John, who wasn’t big and wasn’t named John, Swampie, a 74 year old black man from southern Louisiana whose Cajun accent was so strong he was nearly unintelligible, and Two-Feather, a Native American man whose parents belonged to different tribes.
Minutes crept by at a snail’s pace on the desolate road. While the labor was overwhelmingly difficult at times, the crew was generally merry. Scott tended to stay to himself as much as he could. Irrational as he may have felt for it, he was afraid of these hardened, blue-collar men. Even at his most comfortable, the only feeling he could muster was intimidation.
Union rules stipulated that a half-hour lunch break was mandatory for everyone at 12:30 PM on the dot. Steve was a true stickler when it came to this rule and he made everyone eat together. This break came five and a half hours into the day and while it was certainly welcome, this event quickly became Scott’s most dreaded time. He would try in vain each day to avoid too much conversation for fear of coming across the wrong way to his fellow crew members. This attempt routinely ended in failure.
“Hey guys, can you believe Fireball doesn’t even know how to break rocks?” Big John chuckled. “All them brains he’s got and he don’t know how to break rocks!”
“I didn’t know the right technique I guess.” Scott blushed uncontrollably. He realized as soon as he sat down with his lunch pail that this conversation was bound to come up. “I guess that you learn something new every day.”
“You’re a trip Fireball.” John retorted. “Back in like, ancient times, breaking rocks was just something you did. You probably had ancestors that was good at it or they wouldn’t have survived. Nowadays, nobody knows how to do man’s work.”
“What are you talking about?” Two-Feather chimed in. “You don’t know anything about ancient times. Probably can’t even remember yesterday.”
“I was out here yesterday.”
“Yesterday was Sunday. None of us work on Sunday.”
Big John paused and wrinkled his brow. He seemed to go into a state of deep thought.
“I guess the days kind of bleed together sometimes.” Big John admitted. “But that doesn’t prove that I don’t know my shit about ancestries and shit.”
“How could you know anything about anything?” Two-Feather laughed. “I don’t even think you was born. I think some cocksucker spit on a rock and you hatched!”
Scott laughed under his breath. What did that insult actually insinuate? It made sense in an off beat way but the unexpectedness of it was refreshing. The work day came to a close at five o’clock. As Scott was gathering his things and preparing to leave, he was approached by Two-Feather.
“All us guys are going to the titty bar tonight Fireball. You should come along.”
“I don’t think so.” Scott replied. “Since we have to work tomorrow morning it just doesn’t seem like a good idea for me.”
“Never met the man who didn’t think it was a good idea to see some titties. That’s your problem though Fireball.”
Scott got into his car and drove off. He had at least a half an hour drive in between here and home and that was if traffic wasn’t congested. As he was getting near his house, he noticed that Big John was following right behind him in his pickup. Scott felt a sense of dread build up in the pit of his stomach. Big John was probably going to pressure him into going out with the rest of the crew that night and Scott was in no mood for an argument. He didn’t really have a good excuse other than he was tired and didn’t feel comfortable with his co-workers.
Suddenly, an eerily troubling thought occurred to Scott. “Do I really want any of these guys to know where I live?” Instead of heading straight home, Scott took a sudden turn and headed toward the main strip of town. He desperately looked back and forth in an effort to find a place he could duck into. He settled on the local coffee shop, Half Way There. On the patio of the coffee shop were three teenagers. Two of them were trying their best to look rebellious by wearing their punk rock leather jackets with studs and pins. The third was wearing an Argyle sweater and didn’t seem to match the others in taste at all. Scott entered the shop and tried his best to appear calm and casual. The woman behind the counter would have been strikingly attractive in Scott’s eyes if she had been wearing about ninety percent less dark eye makeup. She was wearing tight, red spandex pants and a loose-fitting sweater with a hopelessly stretched out neck. Her name tag read “Amanda”.
“What can I get for you?” She asked in an uninterested tone of voice.
The door to the shop opened behind Scott and the sound of heavy foot steps filled the room.
“Thought you were going home to sleep or something.” Big John’s voice was intrusively loud in the small room. The door swung shut behind him and the small chimes on the handle nervously sang out. Scott hadn’t noticed their sound when he had entered before.
“I am.” Scott replied. “Just thought I’d get some java first. Thought you were going to a bar.”
“I am going to a bar. A titty bar! Get it right Fireball. You’re coming with me.” His voice was still embarrassingly loud.
“Can you keep it down?” Scott whispered shrilly. “Do you want everyone in town to hear you?
Big John walked up close to Scott, their faces were inches apart. Big John lowered his voice to a soft, serious, and menacing tone. “You want all the boys to think you’re some kind of fag? That’s what they were all saying after you left. That you didn’t want to look at tits and that you were all quiet all the time because you’re some kind of a fag.”
“I’m going home.” Scott said defiantly.
“So, either one of you fine strapping men going to order anything?” Amanda said with a tone of boredom as thick as syrup.
“I don’t need anything.” Scott responded as he walked out.
“What are you doing tonight honey?” Big John said to Amanda. She rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen.
The next morning, Scott awoke in a terrific mood. Although his run-in with Big John the night before had been awkward and confrontational, he felt fantastic that he was strong enough to stand up to someone. He hadn’t done anything of the sort in years. He arrived a few minutes early to work that morning. A few of the crew members were standing around sharing victory stories from the night before. Scott leaned against his car and lit a cigarette. Steve arrived seconds after and parked next to Scott.
“Those things will kill you.” He sneered at Scott.
“I’m not really concerned about it.” Scott answered. “A lot of things will kill you.”
“That’s true, but it wasn’t just anything that killed my son. He died of lung cancer at 26 years old. Smoked like a damn chimney that kid.”
Scott was taken aback. This was the most personal thing anyone on the site had ever shared with him. He really didn’t know how to respond. He simply stared at his feet at a complete loss for words.
“You’re going to need your lungs in good shape today.” Steve finally said. “I need you to dig a big-ass hole over on that stretch of open grass. Doesn’t have to be perfect, but try to make it about five-by-five feet or so. It needs to be deep.”
“How deep?”
“I’ll let you know. There’s a new shovel here in the back of my truck. Grab it and that step ladder. I’ll keep the water cooler close by so you can stay hydrated. This is a shit job I’m giving you, but since you’re the new guy and you’ve got a strong back, I’m forced to give it to you. You’ve got about six hours to do it. Don’t screw off either. You’ll need that time.”
Scott walked to the designated area and began digging. Initially, he found that digging a hole isn’t as back-breaking as he’d imagined. He managed to dig down about a foot before he knew it. As he dug, he glanced down the road off into the horizon. The hot sun was beating down mercilessly and silver bands of heat-induced ribbons seemed to shimmer and dance across the plains in the distance. At twelve thirty, everyone gathered around their vehicles for lunch. Scott had made fine progress in his work and was about four feet down. On previous days, he would have eaten on his car outside of the social circle. Today he decided to sit closer to the rest of the team. No one acknowledged him initially until Swampie walked up to him and said something to Scott that he couldn’t understand. After several attempts to decipher the thick Louisiana accent, Two-Feather stepped in to lend a hand.
“He wants your sandwich. He wants to make a trade with you.”
“Oh, well what does he want me to give him?”
“He’s eaten everything he has by now. I wouldn’t give him anything that you still want for yourself.”
Swampie grunted at Two-Feather and raised his fist comically, as though he were about to sock him in the arm. The crew laughed for a bit over this. Scott felt as though he was getting closer to being accepted by his peers. However, he was doing it on his own terms. After lunch, Scott lit up another cigarette. He was quickly interrupted by Steve, who snatched the enticing cylinder away from him and stamped it out on the ground.
“I told you!” Steve shouted. “You’re going to need your strength for this. It gets a lot harder digging the deeper you go. You also only have about two hours left so get to it and try to stay fresh and alert.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m not a sir. I am your boss though, so get to work.”
Scott climbed back down into the hole. Steve was right. Although the first few feet down hadn’t presented much of a challenge, the layered soil was quickly giving way to clay, which was much more difficult to dig up. The walls were too steep to scoop out the debris with the shovel so Scott would have to break it up in clumps and use his hands to throw it out. Based on his own height, about five feet eight inches, Scott concluded that this hole was nearing seven and a half feet deep. He found that it was eerily quiet in his growing natural solitude, yet the air was still hot and muggy despite the lower elevation. He sat down for a moment and closed his eyes. He was losing feeling from the tips of his fingers to the small of his back. He remembered the time he hid in the crawl space of his parents’ house when he was five years old. They called for him for hours and he never replied. Finally, his grandfather came over and started threatening him with a spanking if he didn’t come out of hiding immediately. This had done the trick and he received a healthy spanking regardless.
The sound of rustling pulled him away from his memories. Someone had pulled the ladder out of the hole. Scott jumped to his feet. It was Two-Feather.
“Hey! What’s the deal here?” Scott shouted.
“Just following orders Fireball.” He chuckled.
Steve appeared at the edge of the chasm. He peered down at Scott with an expressionless look. Scott tried to jump up and out of his prison, but his legs and arms were too tired to grab the top, much less pull himself up to safety.
“You’ve done some mighty fine digging here Fireball.” Steve exclaimed. “Too bad about the ladder. Looks like you may need to find an alternate way out of there.”
There was no other way out that Scott could see. If he had time to rest then he could probably make it out. However, at this point there was no guarantee that the crew wouldn’t throw him back in. Swampie appeared next, eating the remaining food from Scott’s pail. He laughed hysterically upon making eye contact with Scott.
“Well my boy,” Steve exhaled. “Looks like you aren’t going anywhere until I decide.”
“Let me out of here! This isn’t funny!” Scott shouted.
“Oh it’s damn funny to be sure. You’re like the kid who fell down a well.”
“Well, since I’m not going anywhere for a while, I might as well enjoy myself.”
Scott lit up a cigarette. The look on Steve’s face changed drastically. He transformed instantaneously from a man of triumph to one of frustration. Steve waved his hand in the air. Big John drove up to the edge of the hole in a bobcat, the type of machinery used to plow large amounts of dirt. The plow was full at the moment. Scott’s heart dropped down to his feet. They were planning on burying him. Why would they? How could they? Was it because they believed him to be gay? Did they simply hate his guts? Were they all out of their minds? Regardless of their intentions, they had laid their trap perfectly, and Scott had walked, or dug, right into it.
“Put out that cigarette boy.” Steve growled.
Scott took the cigarette out of his mouth, took a deep breath, and put it out on his inner arm. The pain penetrated every sense, every nerve. Scott kept his composure. He wanted to cry. He had wanted to cry for a long time but never brought himself to do it. He declined this opportunity also. He never broke eye contact with Steve.
“Here I thought I was a crazy son of a bitch.” Steve said. “You’re really a weird kid Fireball. You know that right?”
He signaled to Big John again. Big John pulled a lever and the plow dropped dirt and clay and roots down into the small hole. Scott covered his head. This was it. They were really going to kill him. The bobcat pulled away, its engine died down. The small crew was laughing so boisterously that they could probably be heard all the way to downtown Sarcoxie.
“Get out of that hole idiot!” Steve cackled.
Scott opened his eyes. The debris was dumped in such a way that it formed an incline tall enough for him to step up and out of his trap. Upon freeing himself, Scott was greeted with slaps on the back and handshakes from everyone and a high five from Swampie.
“Consider yourself initiated.” Big John laughed. “You should have come out to the titty bar man! We were going to initiate you there but all we wanted to do was get you so drunk you couldn’t walk. We had to improvise since you wouldn’t come out.”
Scott’s mind was miles away. He heard what was being said to him, but internalizing everything was a different matter entirely. He sheepishly thanked the crew for not killing him, and walked to his car to leave. No one followed him on the way home this time. It would be nice to sleep for hours on end. The weather was violent that night and rain smashed itself into the windows and walls with the reckless abandon of a rabid hound. Scott would have no work the following day and he considered staying in bed until the day after. He was safe at home. He felt secure knowing that while he was there, no one could find him.