Lawrence Hittle
04-20-2012, 10:18 PM
WAZEER AND THE ELK
If it is true that each culture has its own lifestyle and set of ethics, it would also make sense that the journey from one culture to another is bound to have its share of surprises. The journey of one geologist from the plains of India to the mountains of Colorado would be no exception.
The servants in his household, his advanced education, and the ability to travel would attest to the fact that Wazeer Ahmed had been born to wealthy parents of India’s middle class. His marriage, an arranged curse that had been made between his parents and the parents of his wife at an age before either of them were old enough to have a say in their destinies, had given him two children and the responsibility of their care. So he packed his wife, packed his kids, packed his rock hammer and set off for America where he would join fellow geologists in the hunt for wealth and glory. His journey would lead him to Colorado and link him up with a small oil and gas outfit that ran a subsidiary mining operation. Its staff was small and full of guys with similar dreams of wealth and instant riches. They had the gold bug and were digging holes, blasting dynamite, and sifting the sands of dried river beds around the country in their search for the yellow metal. In truth, they were big kids with powerful toys looking for treasure and Wazeer wanted to be one of them more than anything.
The guys in the mining end of things were a little different from the folks who ran the oil and gas operation. For one thing, the folks in oil and gas all wore suits and had secretaries who dressed like they were making a million bucks a year. Each day seemed like a competition between the women to see who would be crowned queen of the fashion parade as they served coffee and doughnuts to visiting oil tycoons from Texas and Louisiana. Things were different in the hard rock end of things. There was one secretary for six guys and the dress code consisted of whatever dirty muddy things you happened to be wearing when you emerged from the end of the tunnel at the end of the day. That’s probably why miners were given office space in the basement of the building instead of being allowed to mingle with the fancy folks upstairs and as much as they detested their second-rate treatment, the isolation, and the buffer it offered, it allowed the people in the basement to build stronger friendships and have a lot more fun in their jobs than the folks who took themselves too seriously. It was this kind of atmosphere that would welcome Wazeer with open arms and make him one of them.
Wazeer got to know his fellow workers over the next few months and found that life in the United States was quite a bit different from what he had been accustomed to. He got along with everybody, especially Dave Rife, Larry Hittle, and a wily prankster named Tom Hayward. These three guys seemed to have a great working relationship and a lot of fun and Wazeer wanted to be part of it. The first thing Wazeer would learn was that he was a part of a team of independent people. That meant that he would have to carry his own rock hammer and clip board out in the field. In his homeland, he had porters to carry his equipment. The second thing he would learn was that when working in the field, it was not all work and no play where Tom was concerned. Tom had the uncanny ability to work like a mule all day and still have fun doing it. He was a lover of great practical jokes and a master fisherman who would get the chance to show his skills in the months to follow. Wazeer lived through a sort of hazing period as the new guy in the basement. Tom would routinely glue his pencils to his desk and wait for the automatic “Tom, you s**t!” to roll off Wazeer’s accent-heavy tongue and echo down the hallway. Rubber bands slipped into Wazeer’s lunch sandwich was standard procedure and was always rewarded with a good “Tom, you s**t!” sometime during the afternoon. And bare asses pressed against Wazeer’s office window was a gesture that brought a toothy response from their dark-skinned friend. Wazeer was different from all of his new cohorts but had been accepted as one of them.
Spring would fade into summer which usually signaled a heavier schedule of field work. This season would be no different. A drilling project was scheduled for July that would require two drillers and a geologist to be onsite for the entire month. It was a chance to be out in the boonies and away from the office to do a job without having to worry about who was looking over their shoulder. It was also a chance for Wazeer to get away from the curse he was married to and to just be one of the guys. And it would most definitely be a great opportunity to catch some trout.
Base camp was located along Sheep Creek in northern Colorado and consisted of an ugly pink trailer parked next to a picnic table nestled in the willows at water’s edge. The nearest neighbor lived 40 minutes away if you drove like a maniac and the only sounds heard during the day were the chirping of small birds and the chug of the diesel engine that powered the drilling rig. It was Tom and Larry’s job to run the rig while Wazeer did the logging, mapping, and general geologizing. Nothing had really changed. Tom was still faithfully loading Wazeer’s sandwiches with rubber bands but was usually too far away to hear Wazeer’s response, and it was not unusual for Wazeer to find his favorite drafting pencil glued to the picnic table as Tom’s pick-up vanished from view in a morning’s cloud of dust. Even at that distance, Wazeer could feel the stupid smile on Tom’s face.
It didn’t take much to keep Tom happy. As dusk approached, Tom’s interest turned from drill holes to trout fishing and he was usually pretty quick about making the transition. In the half hour of light that remained, he teased those trout into jumping at everything he threw at them and usually returned to camp with enough fish to fill the bellies of everybody. Wazeer was especially fond of fresh fish and smiled his pearly grin from behind the closed eyes of a sated man retired in his hammock. It was great being one of the guys and having the chance to get away from the wife, the kids, and the pressures of constant scrutiny at the office. He was a Hindu in Nirvana, bloated, relaxed, and smiling in his hammock beneath a clear dark sky full of twinkling diamonds and pleasant memories.
The following morning began with scrambled eggs and rubber bands, a robust “Tom, you s**t!” and a visit from our neighbors who had shown distant curiosity up until now. Today, they were everywhere … rummaging through the garbage, playing tag on the roof of the trailer, and threatening to snatch what was left on Wazeer’s plate. They were small and furry with stripes down their backs and they ran around with their tails sticking straight up in the air. Wazeer was amazed and amused by the chipmunk’s antics and sat grinning in befuddlement as they went through their routines. “Tom, my friend, what is the name of these animals who are running all over the trailer and picnic table?”, Wazeer would ask. Tom was busy putting the finishing touches on a fly pattern he was anxious to try that night, and without looking up from the task at hand he grinned to himself and replied, “Why, those are elk, Wazeer.”
“Oh, thank you Tom. I am being very happy to know this, my friend. Thank you.” was the happy reply from Tom’s new friend. He was apparently pleased with the new information and scribbled something down in the daily journal he kept in his pack. Larry stuffed another spoonful of breakfast into his face and smiled as he chewed. Tom just sat there at his work bench and pulled the brim of his straw cowboy hat a notch lower to hide his eyes then lit up a Marlboro to help conceal the liar’s smile on his face. Tom continued, “Ya know, Wazeer, I think it’s time we gave you a nickname, something’ a little smoother like Jim, or Bob, or Hank. Somethin’ more American so I don’t feel like I’m talkin’ to a genie all the time, ya know?” He took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke skyward, squinting, as if in thought. Wazeer was all for it. It would surely make him one of the guys if he had a nickname. Larry shooed away a nosey elk, then mumbled, “How about Wes?” An immediate wide-eyed grin of acceptance swept over Wazeer’s face as his head turned to Tom for final approval. Wes it would be. “Thank you, Tom, thank you my friend. I am now Wes”, he would say. To celebrate, Wes clasped his hands together and bowed thankfully to his friends then threw crusts of bread to the elk running on top of the trailer. He was now a most happy dude, surrounded by good friends and elk out in the middle of nowhere … and getting paid for it. America was a good place to be.
July passed by quickly, a lot of trout were eaten, a lot of holes were drilled, and a lot of data were gathered. It was time to return to the office, time to face the wife and kids again, and time to assemble all the maps and numbers into a presentation for the guys in their suits and all the overdressed women who attended them. It was big doin’s. Time for the dog and pony show that would justify our employment and our expense account and hopefully convince the investors to continue funding our treasure hunt. It was time for shirts and ties instead of boots and mud for the boys in the basement. It was time for field hands to mingle with the big boys and show them what they could do. Wes did a fabulous job assembling all the data they had collected. His maps were precise and accurate and hung, framed, along the west wall of the spacious conference room. A well-organized report was in his hand and he looked great wearing his perfect toothy grin, cowboy boots, and gaudy western belt buckle he had purchased for the occasion. The place was loaded with Texans and damn, if he didn’t look like one of the good ol’ boys. Wes was ready to make a lasting impression on the boys upstairs and pretty soon he’d get his chance.
At one o’clock the conference convened in a sunny room on the second floor. The atmosphere was overly congenial but acceptable. A lot of wine flowed into cheap plastic glasses and shrimp, pate’, and little hunks of filet mignon on toothpicks were consumed in a feeding frenzy by all who attended. Lots of smiles and good ol’ boy pats on the back were passed around like a game of tag-you’re-it. A convention of seasoned used car salesmen could not have laid it on any thicker and it seemed that the gaudier the cut of your suit or the bigger the brim of your hat, the more important you were. It was an acceptable show of pecking order among Texas millionaires. Everybody was having a good time and getting pretty loose when the big boss from upstairs made his way into the room with some guy wearing a real big Texas hat. He must have been real important because even the big hats who were already in the room and commanding their own attention stopped what they were doing and migrated toward the 20X Stetson now standing in the doorway. The boys from the basement stayed in a little group by themselves on one side of the room as the big boys impressed each other. That was OK, all the food was on their side of the room and the boys from the basement put a real good dent in it. Eventually, they would get a chance to make their presentation, but for now, it was time to eat as much as possible before the others returned.
One by one they paid homage to the big hat and gradually returned to their mingling and glad-handing. Gifts had been exchanged as an offering of friendship between heads of different companies. Silver inlaid, matched goose guns were swapped for thumb-sized gold nuggets sifted from the sands of a long-dried Arizona river bed, and big sweaty handshakes ensured that a spirit of cooperation between the businesses would last a lifetime. It was then that the big hat and the big boss from upstairs made their way among the crowd to be with the little people. Tom and Wes withdrew from their front row positions at the buffet table and assumed a station along the west wall where their presentation was hung. It wouldn’t be long before the Gullivers of the afternoon would rub elbows with the Lilliputians.
Wes straightened his tie, hiked up his pants, and gulped nervously as the two big men approached. The guy with the big hat easily stood six feet six and had steely blue eyes that were the color of cornflowers. His face was lined and leathery from too many hours in the Texas sun and his hair was swept in silvery waves between the tops of his ears and the brim of the brushed beaver skin he wore on his head. At five feet eight, Wes’s eyes were level with the gold and jade slide on the man’s bolo tie. They were as different as night and day but had one thing in common; both wore huge gaudy buckles that drew their belts together. Their eyes finally met and Wes extended a welcoming hand along with the words, “Hello there big cowboy, sir, I am Wes.” Tom assumed a sheepish grin and extended a hand to both of the big men. The big boss introduced the guy with the big hat to both Tom and Wazeer and struck up a friendly conversation about mining, fishing, and hunting. Tom got the chance to steer the conversation away from strictly business and into the more enlightening topic of fishing which was met with immediate approval and renewed interest by the guy with the big hat. He moved in a half step closer and began a genuine conversation with Tom that eventually lead to exaggerated fish stories and outright lies. The dog and pony show was in full swing when the big boss turned from one of the maps Wes had prepared and asked if anyone had seen signs of big game while up on the drilling site. The big hat chimed in that he would truly like to return for the hunting season if there was a chance he could bag an elk.
Wes broke into a cold tingly sweat. His eyes turned as big as saucers and his grin was as wide as it had ever been. It was his chance to make big points with the big guys and get some much desired recognition. He literally jumped up and down in place and rubbed his palms together while gushing, “I know! I know! I know the place in Sheep Creek where there are thousands of elk!!” The interest of both big men piqued simultaneously as they looked at each other and closed in on the map Wes had prepared. Tom’s eyebrows arched, his hands disappeared into his pockets and with shoulders hunched, he did his best to disappear into the crowd and become invisible. It was probably a good time to hide in his office and wait for the inevitable. Wes was in the limelight. He had them hanging on his every syllable. The two big men peered at the map, one over each of Wes’s ever-broadening shoulders, as Wes’s finger zeroed in on the exact bend in the road where he had spent a month with his good friend, Tom, had eaten fish, and swapped stories in the light of the campfire. “Here it is! Here it is! This is where we had our wonderful base camp. There are thousands of elk at our base camp!” The two men leaned in even closer to fix the coordinates in their minds. Their eyes narrowed to take in the lay of the land and familiar landmarks in the area. Smiles of expectations and anticipation curled along the corners of their lips as the big hat asked how close the elk had come to the camp. Wes swelled his plump little chest to bursting size and proclaimed, “They came very close to the camp. Every day they were running around on top of the trailer playing tag with each other and eating eggs off our breakfast plates with their little tails standing ever so straight in the air!” His grin could not have been bigger. The big boss looked down at the floor and pursed his lips in a brief moment of polite thought. His left hand reached out and clasped the shoulder of the big-hatted guy in a friendly but apologetic manner. Their eyes met and a knowing look was exchanged, no words were necessary. At the same time, his right hand gracefully patted Wes on the back in a way that might be construed as “understanding” and he mumbled an almost inaudible “thank you” to the geologist before moving on to his next group of guests. Wes’s toothy smile melted. Tom was nowhere in sight. A few seconds passed. The boss turned to look back at where he had just left the geologist, but Wazeer was gone.
At the far end of the conference room was a set of concrete stairs that lead to the basement. The fire door at the top of the stairs had almost closed, but somewhere off in the distance, from the ever-diminishing crack that remained between the door and its jamb, the clatter of hastily descending footsteps could be heard as a fading but thickly-accented voice bellowed, “Tom, you miserable s**t!”
True story.
Rewritten: March 11, 2012
If it is true that each culture has its own lifestyle and set of ethics, it would also make sense that the journey from one culture to another is bound to have its share of surprises. The journey of one geologist from the plains of India to the mountains of Colorado would be no exception.
The servants in his household, his advanced education, and the ability to travel would attest to the fact that Wazeer Ahmed had been born to wealthy parents of India’s middle class. His marriage, an arranged curse that had been made between his parents and the parents of his wife at an age before either of them were old enough to have a say in their destinies, had given him two children and the responsibility of their care. So he packed his wife, packed his kids, packed his rock hammer and set off for America where he would join fellow geologists in the hunt for wealth and glory. His journey would lead him to Colorado and link him up with a small oil and gas outfit that ran a subsidiary mining operation. Its staff was small and full of guys with similar dreams of wealth and instant riches. They had the gold bug and were digging holes, blasting dynamite, and sifting the sands of dried river beds around the country in their search for the yellow metal. In truth, they were big kids with powerful toys looking for treasure and Wazeer wanted to be one of them more than anything.
The guys in the mining end of things were a little different from the folks who ran the oil and gas operation. For one thing, the folks in oil and gas all wore suits and had secretaries who dressed like they were making a million bucks a year. Each day seemed like a competition between the women to see who would be crowned queen of the fashion parade as they served coffee and doughnuts to visiting oil tycoons from Texas and Louisiana. Things were different in the hard rock end of things. There was one secretary for six guys and the dress code consisted of whatever dirty muddy things you happened to be wearing when you emerged from the end of the tunnel at the end of the day. That’s probably why miners were given office space in the basement of the building instead of being allowed to mingle with the fancy folks upstairs and as much as they detested their second-rate treatment, the isolation, and the buffer it offered, it allowed the people in the basement to build stronger friendships and have a lot more fun in their jobs than the folks who took themselves too seriously. It was this kind of atmosphere that would welcome Wazeer with open arms and make him one of them.
Wazeer got to know his fellow workers over the next few months and found that life in the United States was quite a bit different from what he had been accustomed to. He got along with everybody, especially Dave Rife, Larry Hittle, and a wily prankster named Tom Hayward. These three guys seemed to have a great working relationship and a lot of fun and Wazeer wanted to be part of it. The first thing Wazeer would learn was that he was a part of a team of independent people. That meant that he would have to carry his own rock hammer and clip board out in the field. In his homeland, he had porters to carry his equipment. The second thing he would learn was that when working in the field, it was not all work and no play where Tom was concerned. Tom had the uncanny ability to work like a mule all day and still have fun doing it. He was a lover of great practical jokes and a master fisherman who would get the chance to show his skills in the months to follow. Wazeer lived through a sort of hazing period as the new guy in the basement. Tom would routinely glue his pencils to his desk and wait for the automatic “Tom, you s**t!” to roll off Wazeer’s accent-heavy tongue and echo down the hallway. Rubber bands slipped into Wazeer’s lunch sandwich was standard procedure and was always rewarded with a good “Tom, you s**t!” sometime during the afternoon. And bare asses pressed against Wazeer’s office window was a gesture that brought a toothy response from their dark-skinned friend. Wazeer was different from all of his new cohorts but had been accepted as one of them.
Spring would fade into summer which usually signaled a heavier schedule of field work. This season would be no different. A drilling project was scheduled for July that would require two drillers and a geologist to be onsite for the entire month. It was a chance to be out in the boonies and away from the office to do a job without having to worry about who was looking over their shoulder. It was also a chance for Wazeer to get away from the curse he was married to and to just be one of the guys. And it would most definitely be a great opportunity to catch some trout.
Base camp was located along Sheep Creek in northern Colorado and consisted of an ugly pink trailer parked next to a picnic table nestled in the willows at water’s edge. The nearest neighbor lived 40 minutes away if you drove like a maniac and the only sounds heard during the day were the chirping of small birds and the chug of the diesel engine that powered the drilling rig. It was Tom and Larry’s job to run the rig while Wazeer did the logging, mapping, and general geologizing. Nothing had really changed. Tom was still faithfully loading Wazeer’s sandwiches with rubber bands but was usually too far away to hear Wazeer’s response, and it was not unusual for Wazeer to find his favorite drafting pencil glued to the picnic table as Tom’s pick-up vanished from view in a morning’s cloud of dust. Even at that distance, Wazeer could feel the stupid smile on Tom’s face.
It didn’t take much to keep Tom happy. As dusk approached, Tom’s interest turned from drill holes to trout fishing and he was usually pretty quick about making the transition. In the half hour of light that remained, he teased those trout into jumping at everything he threw at them and usually returned to camp with enough fish to fill the bellies of everybody. Wazeer was especially fond of fresh fish and smiled his pearly grin from behind the closed eyes of a sated man retired in his hammock. It was great being one of the guys and having the chance to get away from the wife, the kids, and the pressures of constant scrutiny at the office. He was a Hindu in Nirvana, bloated, relaxed, and smiling in his hammock beneath a clear dark sky full of twinkling diamonds and pleasant memories.
The following morning began with scrambled eggs and rubber bands, a robust “Tom, you s**t!” and a visit from our neighbors who had shown distant curiosity up until now. Today, they were everywhere … rummaging through the garbage, playing tag on the roof of the trailer, and threatening to snatch what was left on Wazeer’s plate. They were small and furry with stripes down their backs and they ran around with their tails sticking straight up in the air. Wazeer was amazed and amused by the chipmunk’s antics and sat grinning in befuddlement as they went through their routines. “Tom, my friend, what is the name of these animals who are running all over the trailer and picnic table?”, Wazeer would ask. Tom was busy putting the finishing touches on a fly pattern he was anxious to try that night, and without looking up from the task at hand he grinned to himself and replied, “Why, those are elk, Wazeer.”
“Oh, thank you Tom. I am being very happy to know this, my friend. Thank you.” was the happy reply from Tom’s new friend. He was apparently pleased with the new information and scribbled something down in the daily journal he kept in his pack. Larry stuffed another spoonful of breakfast into his face and smiled as he chewed. Tom just sat there at his work bench and pulled the brim of his straw cowboy hat a notch lower to hide his eyes then lit up a Marlboro to help conceal the liar’s smile on his face. Tom continued, “Ya know, Wazeer, I think it’s time we gave you a nickname, something’ a little smoother like Jim, or Bob, or Hank. Somethin’ more American so I don’t feel like I’m talkin’ to a genie all the time, ya know?” He took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke skyward, squinting, as if in thought. Wazeer was all for it. It would surely make him one of the guys if he had a nickname. Larry shooed away a nosey elk, then mumbled, “How about Wes?” An immediate wide-eyed grin of acceptance swept over Wazeer’s face as his head turned to Tom for final approval. Wes it would be. “Thank you, Tom, thank you my friend. I am now Wes”, he would say. To celebrate, Wes clasped his hands together and bowed thankfully to his friends then threw crusts of bread to the elk running on top of the trailer. He was now a most happy dude, surrounded by good friends and elk out in the middle of nowhere … and getting paid for it. America was a good place to be.
July passed by quickly, a lot of trout were eaten, a lot of holes were drilled, and a lot of data were gathered. It was time to return to the office, time to face the wife and kids again, and time to assemble all the maps and numbers into a presentation for the guys in their suits and all the overdressed women who attended them. It was big doin’s. Time for the dog and pony show that would justify our employment and our expense account and hopefully convince the investors to continue funding our treasure hunt. It was time for shirts and ties instead of boots and mud for the boys in the basement. It was time for field hands to mingle with the big boys and show them what they could do. Wes did a fabulous job assembling all the data they had collected. His maps were precise and accurate and hung, framed, along the west wall of the spacious conference room. A well-organized report was in his hand and he looked great wearing his perfect toothy grin, cowboy boots, and gaudy western belt buckle he had purchased for the occasion. The place was loaded with Texans and damn, if he didn’t look like one of the good ol’ boys. Wes was ready to make a lasting impression on the boys upstairs and pretty soon he’d get his chance.
At one o’clock the conference convened in a sunny room on the second floor. The atmosphere was overly congenial but acceptable. A lot of wine flowed into cheap plastic glasses and shrimp, pate’, and little hunks of filet mignon on toothpicks were consumed in a feeding frenzy by all who attended. Lots of smiles and good ol’ boy pats on the back were passed around like a game of tag-you’re-it. A convention of seasoned used car salesmen could not have laid it on any thicker and it seemed that the gaudier the cut of your suit or the bigger the brim of your hat, the more important you were. It was an acceptable show of pecking order among Texas millionaires. Everybody was having a good time and getting pretty loose when the big boss from upstairs made his way into the room with some guy wearing a real big Texas hat. He must have been real important because even the big hats who were already in the room and commanding their own attention stopped what they were doing and migrated toward the 20X Stetson now standing in the doorway. The boys from the basement stayed in a little group by themselves on one side of the room as the big boys impressed each other. That was OK, all the food was on their side of the room and the boys from the basement put a real good dent in it. Eventually, they would get a chance to make their presentation, but for now, it was time to eat as much as possible before the others returned.
One by one they paid homage to the big hat and gradually returned to their mingling and glad-handing. Gifts had been exchanged as an offering of friendship between heads of different companies. Silver inlaid, matched goose guns were swapped for thumb-sized gold nuggets sifted from the sands of a long-dried Arizona river bed, and big sweaty handshakes ensured that a spirit of cooperation between the businesses would last a lifetime. It was then that the big hat and the big boss from upstairs made their way among the crowd to be with the little people. Tom and Wes withdrew from their front row positions at the buffet table and assumed a station along the west wall where their presentation was hung. It wouldn’t be long before the Gullivers of the afternoon would rub elbows with the Lilliputians.
Wes straightened his tie, hiked up his pants, and gulped nervously as the two big men approached. The guy with the big hat easily stood six feet six and had steely blue eyes that were the color of cornflowers. His face was lined and leathery from too many hours in the Texas sun and his hair was swept in silvery waves between the tops of his ears and the brim of the brushed beaver skin he wore on his head. At five feet eight, Wes’s eyes were level with the gold and jade slide on the man’s bolo tie. They were as different as night and day but had one thing in common; both wore huge gaudy buckles that drew their belts together. Their eyes finally met and Wes extended a welcoming hand along with the words, “Hello there big cowboy, sir, I am Wes.” Tom assumed a sheepish grin and extended a hand to both of the big men. The big boss introduced the guy with the big hat to both Tom and Wazeer and struck up a friendly conversation about mining, fishing, and hunting. Tom got the chance to steer the conversation away from strictly business and into the more enlightening topic of fishing which was met with immediate approval and renewed interest by the guy with the big hat. He moved in a half step closer and began a genuine conversation with Tom that eventually lead to exaggerated fish stories and outright lies. The dog and pony show was in full swing when the big boss turned from one of the maps Wes had prepared and asked if anyone had seen signs of big game while up on the drilling site. The big hat chimed in that he would truly like to return for the hunting season if there was a chance he could bag an elk.
Wes broke into a cold tingly sweat. His eyes turned as big as saucers and his grin was as wide as it had ever been. It was his chance to make big points with the big guys and get some much desired recognition. He literally jumped up and down in place and rubbed his palms together while gushing, “I know! I know! I know the place in Sheep Creek where there are thousands of elk!!” The interest of both big men piqued simultaneously as they looked at each other and closed in on the map Wes had prepared. Tom’s eyebrows arched, his hands disappeared into his pockets and with shoulders hunched, he did his best to disappear into the crowd and become invisible. It was probably a good time to hide in his office and wait for the inevitable. Wes was in the limelight. He had them hanging on his every syllable. The two big men peered at the map, one over each of Wes’s ever-broadening shoulders, as Wes’s finger zeroed in on the exact bend in the road where he had spent a month with his good friend, Tom, had eaten fish, and swapped stories in the light of the campfire. “Here it is! Here it is! This is where we had our wonderful base camp. There are thousands of elk at our base camp!” The two men leaned in even closer to fix the coordinates in their minds. Their eyes narrowed to take in the lay of the land and familiar landmarks in the area. Smiles of expectations and anticipation curled along the corners of their lips as the big hat asked how close the elk had come to the camp. Wes swelled his plump little chest to bursting size and proclaimed, “They came very close to the camp. Every day they were running around on top of the trailer playing tag with each other and eating eggs off our breakfast plates with their little tails standing ever so straight in the air!” His grin could not have been bigger. The big boss looked down at the floor and pursed his lips in a brief moment of polite thought. His left hand reached out and clasped the shoulder of the big-hatted guy in a friendly but apologetic manner. Their eyes met and a knowing look was exchanged, no words were necessary. At the same time, his right hand gracefully patted Wes on the back in a way that might be construed as “understanding” and he mumbled an almost inaudible “thank you” to the geologist before moving on to his next group of guests. Wes’s toothy smile melted. Tom was nowhere in sight. A few seconds passed. The boss turned to look back at where he had just left the geologist, but Wazeer was gone.
At the far end of the conference room was a set of concrete stairs that lead to the basement. The fire door at the top of the stairs had almost closed, but somewhere off in the distance, from the ever-diminishing crack that remained between the door and its jamb, the clatter of hastily descending footsteps could be heard as a fading but thickly-accented voice bellowed, “Tom, you miserable s**t!”
True story.
Rewritten: March 11, 2012