Written in the Scars(72)

Cord looks up and smiles, fastening the last snap of his bibs. The mine tape that lays horizontally across the material reflects the lights above. “About time you showed up,” he jokes. “Someone’s gonna have to play nice with Pettis. They don’t pay me enough for that.”

“Fuck off,” I say, swallowing hard. I stick my lunch in my locker and start going through my gear.

“The Pre-Shift Report is in your inbox,” Jiggs says, testing the batteries on his flashlight and helmet. They last one ten-hour shift, maybe a little more. We learned the hard way to make sure they’re good and bright before you head to the shaft, otherwise you’re fighting a shitty light for ten hours in a place that’s as dark and damp as your worst childhood nightmare.

I nod, acknowledging the existence of the report, and step into my bibs. The guys chatter around me, easing into a role we’ve played most of our adult lives, good naturedly ribbing each other, and I say a little prayer that it holds. Pettis isn’t usually on our crew and I’m not sure why he is this time. He’s a poison to every team he’s on, and nearly every Foreman, myself included, has demanded he be removed at one point or another.

“How long is he gonna make it?” Jiggs mumbles as he walks by. I shrug, knowing he means Pettis, but I don’t know. I wonder the same thing. After this shit at Thoroughbreds, there’s no way I’m keeping him with me.

The crackle of my radio breaks my concentration. It brings a bolt of realism to the moment.

“Whitt, this is Percora. You get the report?”

“Yeah,” I say into the radio. I swipe it out of my box and scan it quickly. “I see the equipment locations. Ceilings are bolted for the first half mile. We’re mining the top and south ends.”

“Yup,” Percora confirms. “Good to have ya back, Whitt. Try not to get crushed tonight, will ya?”

“Go to hell, Percora,” I say, shaking my head.

The radio falls silent and I grab my flashlight. “You boys ready?”

A chorus of mumbles rings out and we all make our way to the door. The wind picks up, a cold undertone to the breeze shearing across the parking lot as we head to the opening of the slope.

Cord takes a big breath of air. “Ah, there’s nothing like the smell of shit in the evening.”

Jiggs laughs. “The smell of that direct deposit next Friday is gonna be worth it.”

“The things we do for money,” Pettis chimes in.

“Pettis,” Cord says, looking at me and waiting for some indication that he should be quiet. I don’t give it to him. “The next ten hours are gonna go a whole lot fuckin’ easier if you shut the fuck up.”

“I didn’t say anything to you, McCurry,” Pettis fires back.

“See, that’s the thing,” Cord says, standing tall over Pettis. “It doesn’t matter if you speak to me. Just hearing your voice is enough to make me want to break you in half. So until Ty figures out how to get you off this crew, let’s operate under the understanding that I have no problem busting you in the face. Again. And you won’t do shit back.”

Pettis straightens his shoulders, but wobbles. “What the fuck did I do to you?”

“Think about it,” Cord winks. “I’m sure somewhere inside that dense head of yours, you’ll figure it out.”

The air around us sizzles, the mood changing. The mine does that to you. Something about staring down a black abyss that leads you hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the earth in a slot just big enough to stand in will sober up the goofiest of men. Doesn’t matter how many times you do it. Repetition does not help. It’s an unnatural motion, a trip to hell every damn time.

“You okay?” I ask Cord. His outburst was a little over-the-top, even being that it was directed at Pettis.

“Yeah. Just a lot of shit I’m thinking about. You know how it goes.”

“What about you?” I ask Jiggs. “Your head on straight?”

“I haven’t slept in two nights. I’ve fought with my wife for about fifty-two hours straight. Yeah, I’m great.”

“Is she still talking about moving?”

“Fuck, she’s on the phone with realtors, her mom, going through ads trying to find me a job down there. I just can’t get through to her.”

“Her heart is in the right place,” I say.

“I know,” he mutters, his head hanging. “I just feel like everything is falling apart.”

The rails of the buggy scream as it hits the top. We greet the first four men to make it out before we look at each other. As foreman, I go first. Cord, Jiggs, and Grunt, a guy that doesn’t speak in words, just grunts, join me in the buggy.