I Do Government Work on an Oil Rig That Doesn't Officially Exist | Part 1

Talk to nicely. Certain jobs are hard to come by. That's what my pappy always said. My pappy looked out for me when I was younger, knowing that I might not be the same as others. He would say that I might not be cut out for the rat race like the rest of the world. That my temperament needed more structure, but also freedom. I didn't understand it at the time, but I do now. I've had a few years to think it over. One thing my pappy said I needed to find was a good job, something that took care of my needs, but also fulfilled me. Somewhere I can be myself and not have to worry about fitting in. Just put my head down and do my work as well as I can. A job well done for the rat reasons can be as important as food and water and air. He'd say, What pappy? I'd ask, Well, government work is good if you can get it. Steady pay, decent benefits, retirement plan, all the things a job should provide. That's what he said. Get a government job and you'll be set for life. So that's what I did. Went and got me a government job. 13 years it's been since I signed on the dotted lines and pledged these hands to the good of my country. 13 years, yet it feels like yesterday. What was it? A Tuesday? Yeah, yeah, Tuesday. In December. That part I definitely remember because there was Christmas music playing in the lobby of the recruitment office. Not that they called it that. No, the sign outside said Malcolm's accounting and tax services. It was confusing. But the address on the piece of paper in my hand matched the address of the accounting business. So I went inside. Good morning. The pretty receptionist said, and she was pretty too. Unlike me, my ugly mug can scare the freckles off a redhead. I smiled at the young woman and to my surprise, she didn't flinch. Usually when my wide lips pulled back to show my scraggly ass teeth, the ladies looked the other way. She only smiled with me then asked, what can I do for you today, sir? I tucked the piece of paper into my pants pocket and looked about the office. I was told to come here for a job. I said, studying the place. Along with the pretty receptionist's desk, there was a side table with a coffee maker and all the fixings. An empty desk set in the corner next to a single closed door and a water cooler that looked dicey. It had a small plastic food container on the floor beneath the spigot. It dripped once, then twice, while I stared at it. A folding chair sat next to the water cooler. It looked so old and rickety that I suspected that if the wall wasn't behind it, it'd just fall over. Sir, what job are you applying for? I looked back at the receptionist. Uh, yes. Sorry, I think I'm in the wrong place. I was told I could get government work, but this don't look like any government office. Her smile didn't falter. May I ask who referred you to us? Um, no. That's alright. I got it wrong. Stupid me. I'll be going now. I nodded at her and turned on my heel. Certain there'd either been a mistake or someone was playing a joke on me. I'm used to that. Getting jokes played on me. Since I was a tyke, others been poking fun at me because of how I look and how I think different. Even the teachers were less than considerate. You look like an over-baked head of cauliflower. My gym teacher said when I was in middle school. This class is an example of when recessive genes combine in unhealthy quantities. My high school biology teacher said, making me stand in front of the class so we could point out my jug ears, my bulbous nose, my sharp cheeks, and my thick low brow. More like when cousins marry. One of my classmates shouted. Everyone laughed. My biology teacher didn't tell them to stop. He might as well have laughed too. As I reached for the accounting office's front door, the receptionist said, Sir, I think you are in the right place. What job are you applying for? If you tell me, then I can check our listings. I paused and looked back at her. Then glanced around the office again. I laughed a little. Nah, just someone having fun with old Chuck. I said shyly, shrugging my shoulders up to my big ears. Thank you though. Have a nice day. Mr. Grimly, don't leave. The receptionist called out as I started to step through the front door. I don't need to tell you that her saying my last name took me more by surprise than walking into an accounting office when looking for government work. With the front door held open, I looked at her over my shoulder and frowned at the pretty lady. How do you know my name? I asked, feeling like a rabbit about to spring the trap that seals its fate. I didn't say my last name. No, Mr. Grimly, you didn't. She shuffled some papers around, then pulled a single sheet out of a thin file folder. But we've been expecting you. We? Who's we? The government, of course. You said you came looking for government work, right, Mr. Grimly? I did. Yeah? Well, you were in the right place. She studied the single sheet of paper. Charles Wilford Grimly prefers to be called Chuck, born in Utica 38 years ago. Her eyebrows shot up. Oh, and look at this. She smiled at me. You're a legacy. Your grandfather worked for us, too. She returned her attention to the paper and frowned. Oh, I'm sorry to see he passed away. Lived to be 88. He was a good man, I responded, confused even more. But my pappy didn't work for the government. He was a security guard at a scrap metal yard. She looked up and her smile was blindingly kind. That's right. He was. She gestured to the single chair against the wall. Please, Mr. Grimly, have a seat. I'll let the preparer know you are here. The preparer? Yes, the preparer. We are a tax office, after all. She gave me a sly wink, and I couldn't help but grin. I took a look at that rickety chair, then nodded and stepped back from the front door. I don't think that thing will hold me, I said. I'm the old chair. Then I waved my hands over my bulk. I ain't small, that's for sure. I'll stand. Looks can be deceiving, Mr. Grimly, she said, and pointed at the chair. The preparer will see you shortly. It was all a lot to take in, but I needed the job. Guys like me don't get offered the good breaks. I ain't gonna be selling cars or working retail with a mug like mine. I'd scare off half the housewives who looked at me. So I sat down and waited. And waited. And waited. Coffee? Water? The receptionist asked me. No, thank you. I stared at the water cooler until it dripped. I'd been watching it, studying its leak. I can fix that, you know. You can? Well, that'd be lovely. I am sorry that the preparer is taking so long. As you can see, it can get hectic around here. I didn't see, since no one else was in the office. And the phone on her desk hadn't rung once since I'd arrived. But I smiled and nodded as if I understood. She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a small toolbox, then held it out to me. I hope this has everything you need in it. I took the toolbox and opened it. I looked up at her and she smiled at me. There's... there's a gun in here. I said and held the toolbox out away from me, hoping she'd take it back. She blinked at me like I'd said something silly. Yes, there is a gun there. And a screwdriver set, a variable size wrench, a small hammer, and a roll of duct tape. Do you need different tools? I assumed between the screwdriver set and the wrench, you could fix the water cooler's spigot. Uh, yeah, I can, sure. But why is there a gun in here? I asked, still holding the toolbox out to her. In case a gun is needed? She stated, as if it were the most normal thing ever. She didn't take the toolbox back, so I set it on the floor by my feet and pulled out the wrench, making sure my fingers didn't brush the gun. The thing gave me the creeps. I'm not a fan of firearms. As I got up and knelt in front of the water cooler, one hand on the spigot, one hand holding the wrench, the front door opened, and two large men walked in. How you doing this morning, sweet stuff? One said, looking fine, miss, looking fine. The other said, can I help you, gentlemen? The receptionist asked, and I could tell by the tone in her voice that she wasn't happy the men had walked in. Do you need accounting help? Do we need accounting help? The first one asked, the second one. Then they both pulled out very large pistols. Yeah, I think we do. My pal and I are a little light on funds. How about you help us out and give us everything you've got in this place? The receptionist froze. I hadn't seen terror like that on a face before. What you staring at, you ugly freak? The second guy said to me, aiming his pistol in my direction. Unlike the receptionist, I didn't freeze. I threw that wrench straight at him. What the? He yelled as he ducked. Before the words were out of his mouth, I snagged two screwdrivers from the box, one for each hand. Then I was up and tackling both of them. I threw myself into their bodies, and all three of us crashed back against the floor. I was the first one up out of the pile, which was too bad for them. By the time hands were pulling me back, I'd caved in half the first guy's face, and the second guy's chest looked like he'd been attacked by a porcupine, while the screwdrivers each stuck out of his eye sockets. I was panting hard and half blind from the blood, dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. It wasn't my blood. Oh, what a mess. That's enough, Chuck. A steady boy said. I whipped around my fists up. Standing there was a middle-aged man in a nice suit, but not too nice. Looked like J.C. Penney. He held his hands up, a big smile on his face. Whoa there, Chuck. I'm on your side. When I didn't move or say anything, he lowered one hand and held it out. I'm the preparer. Thank you, Chuck. The receptionist said as she got up and went and locked the front door. That was very brave of you. Very brave, Chuck. The preparer said, then gestured to the open door in the back wall. If you'll step into my office, we'll get this interview started. My apologies for the wait. He glanced past me at the bloody mess I'd left. Although, looks like things worked out as they should, right? The shoes were the same deal. Clean look, super comfortable, and they feel like something that should cost a lot more. They worked directly with top factories, cut out the middlemen, and focus on premium materials that actually last. No flashy branding, just well-made apparel that gets the job done. Right now, go to quince.com slash DNS for free shipping and 365-day returns. That's a full year to build your wardrobe and love it. And you will. Now available in Canada too. Don't keep settling for clothes that don't last. Go to quince.com slash DNS for free shipping and 365-day returns. That's quince.com slash DNS. I look up and squint into the gloom. What kind of problem? Grease trap is overflowing. My shoulders slump. Damn grease trap. I've been telling them to empty it twice as often. I grumble as I set my mop into its bucket and wheel it toward the small wire cage lift on the far wall, placing the mop and bucket in their little stall before stepping onto the lift. Once on the lift, I punch the six button and wait as the thing slowly rises into the air. The wall I'm against is an outside wall, and I can hear the weather brewing big on the other side. Supposed to be a whopper of a storm coming. But not to worry. As the guy in charge of all custodial and janitorial duties on the echo, I'm always prepared for the weather. When you're thousands of miles out to sea, in frigid and dangerous conditions, you stay prepared. Especially since this old oil rig ain't on no maps, and no one will be coming to help us if things go south. Echo station, an old, abandoned oil rig that the government fixed up to use for. Well, that's classified and above my pay grade. I don't know precisely what they do here or why. I just keep things working and clean up the occasional mess, so the government scientists can do the great work that they do. A couple folks say hello to me as I get off the lift and make my way to the mess. The stench of rotted grease reaches my nose before I hear the general chatter coming from the large room. There he is, thank God! Someone shouts when I walk into the mess. My hands stuffed into my cover all pockets. Where you been, Chuck? Oh, you know, cleaning. I say in shrug, my hands still in my pockets. Smells like a heap of trouble in here. A chorus of voices from those desperate to eat their meals without the stink of oil gone rancid answers me. I smile, nodding at everyone as they make my way back to the galley. What we looking at, Norris? I ask the cook, when I shove through the swinging door and step into the rig's kitchen. Damn thing is overflowing! Norris, a crotchety old cook, says, pointing to the far corner of the galley. Can't figure it out. We dumped it last week. Last week or the week before, I ask, making my way to the grease trap's small hatch set into the galley floor. Because that don't smell like weak old oil, Norris. If I say it was dumped last week, then it was dumped last week. Norris snarls, pointing a finger at me. Don't forget your place here, Chuck. Your job ain't to argue. It's to clean up. That's true. I reach the grease trap and squat down, studying the hatch. Black grease seeps out from the seams, and it smells like a dead whale's ass. Well, ain't you gonna open it up and see what the problem is? Norris snaps. I gotta get lunch going in the next 15 minutes, and I want your ass here for as short a time as possible. What's for lunch? Huh? Lunch. What we havin'? Nothing if you don't get that cleaned up. Anything I cook is gonna smell like that putrid ship, so fix it and get outta here. I nod at him, no point in arguing. Norris, don't listen to no one. Especially not me. Ain't no point in arguing with any of the Echo's crew, either. Like I've been told by more than a few folk. I'm just custodial. I'm to do my job, and that's it. Preferably with my mouth closed and opinions to myself. I stand up and study the hatch for a moment, then pull a short pry bar from my tool belt. What you need that for? The damn thing as a handle. Norris scoffs, just in case. In case of what? I shrug. You may want to get a mob. You get a mob? I got work to do. Norris snarls, then storms off to continue chopping what looks like half-moldy onions. I squat again and grab the hatch's handle, my pry bar at the ready just in case. In case of what? Well, on the Echo, you simply never know. It's like what the preparer said to me those 13 years ago. You seem like a man who can handle anything thrown at him. Am I right, Chuck? Do you mind if I call you Chuck, Chuck? He said, that's my name. I replied with a smile and a nod. And yes, sir, I can handle anything thrown at me. That's what I thought. He shuffled some papers on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. I happen to have the perfect job for you, if you are interested. Oh, yes, sir, I'm interested. Thank you. Don't thank me yet. This won't be a picnic. Never been on a picnic, sir, so I don't know what I'd be missing. He eyed me for a moment and laughed. You remind me of your grandfather. You knew my pappy? For little, yes. Mostly by reputation. But we crossed paths a few times, and he was always pleasant. He was the best. Speaking of family, you aren't married, correct? I shook my head. Good. Children? I shook my head. Very good. Any personal attachments or friends you'd miss? No, sir, Mr. Preparer. I'm what they call a lone wolf. I almost howled to emphasize the point, but I held back. I was in a job interview. Howling wasn't appropriate. Perfect. He flipped the piece of paper around and slid it across his desk to me. Then he pulled it back. I can trust you, right, Chuck? Of course, Mr. Preparer, because what I'm about to tell you is classified. If you tell anyone about this, well, I'd be in a heap of trouble, and you'd end up dead in the river. He was smiling, but I knew right then he wasn't kidding. I shook my head and gave him a serious look. I wouldn't tell a soul, sir. I didn't think you would. He gave me a wink and tapped the paper. Echo station, up in the Arctic. An old oil rig repurposed for government use. The Arctic? Like the circle? Yes, Chuck. Just like the circle. That's gotta be awfully cold. It is. Will that be a problem? No, sir. That's why God made gloves and parkas. Indeed he did, Chuck. Indeed he did. He tapped the paper again. This is a well-paying job with full government benefits, plus retirement after 20 years. Full pay. Retirement with full pay? Wow. Well, trust me when I say that if you want to make it to 20 years, you'll have earned it. He waits for that to sink in. When I realized he said, if, I frown. Oh, I'll make it. I'm not a quitter, Mr. Prepare. Not Chuck Grimly. I know you're not Chuck. That's why you're here. But I have to tell you that this position comes with a good amount of danger. He pulls the piece of paper back, and I feel my stomach drop. Danger and one condition that cannot be broken. I can handle danger. I say, nodding hard. I'll take the job. Yes, I saw that you can handle danger, Chuck. But you have to hear the condition before I can let you sign this paper. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Once you step aboard the Echo, you cannot leave. Ever. Not for any reason. Not medical or personal. For the next 20 years, you live on the Echo only. Do you think you can handle that, Chuck? Yes, sir. I replied without hesitation. And if I make it 20 years, then I can retire and leave the Echo, yeah? Or do I stay on when retired? You can leave, of course. It's just... He turns and stares at a poster of a giant sun, smiling down on a cartoon meadow with the words, Have a sunny day! on it. Well, Chuck, I'll be straight with you. No one has made it 20 years. I will. Again, I said it without hesitation. Mr. Preparer laughed. You know what, Chuck? I actually believe you. Need anything from Tesco? Like Tesco Finest Hot Cross Buns. Any, too, for just £3 on selected packs this Easter with your Tesco Club Card. Because every little helps. Majority of larger stores selected Finest Buns end 6th of April Club Card or app required. 13 years. When I yank, the greases traps hatch open. I have to blink a few times before I realize what I'm looking at. Sorry, Norris. I owe you an apology. I say to the cook, Yeah, you do. He responds as he continues chopping moldy onions. What for? The grease trap's not filled with old oil. What's it filled with? Uh... I study the thing. Looks like First Mate Stanley. Although, I can't see ahead, just a body. So I'm not 100% sure. But the body has a signet ring on its right hand, which is the same as what Stanley wore. Norris hunches over to me, stares down in the grease trap where the headless corpse is stuffed, which was causing the grease to overflow, then spins and hurries to the sink so he can throw up. I just scratch my cheek and wonder how someone managed to get the body in the grease trap. It's a tight fit. Yeah, sure. It'd be easy to get it out. Simply because it's all greased up, and the mess is already made. But getting it in without spewing used oil everywhere must have been a bitch. I'll tell the captain, I say and stand up. I point my pry bar at the open grease trap. Keep an eye on Stanley, will ya? Norris pukes again, and I shake my head as I walk out of the galley. Damn, Chuck! It stinks worse now! Someone shouts, Yo, your damn job in cleaning that stench up, man! Other calls. Don't you worry, folks. I'll make sure this is all cleaned up in the end. I say. I smile at everyone until I'm out in the corridor. Then I turn and head for the stairs that lead to the command center. I could call Captain Oritz with the walkie on my tool belt, but I'm being cautious with the first mate stuffed into a grease trap and all. It feels like an in-person conversation. When I reach the command center, Captain Oritz is slumped in his chair, staring at a tablet in his hands. He's alone, which is unusual. The command center should be staffed with at least three other members of the crew. But then, I suppose one of those members is down in the galley, so... Captain? He doesn't turn away from the tablet. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his features, turning them nasty and cruel. Captain? Slowly, like he's fighting his own muscles, he swivels his head on his neck, his eyes tracking everything inch by inch along the way, until he finally is able to focus on me. Chuck? Oh, hello. He mumbles in a strange, raspy, thin voice. It's not his normal bluster and confidence coming out of that throat, that's for sure. How can I help you? Captain, sir. I'm sorry to say that I found first mate Stanley in the grease trap. He doesn't respond and just stares at me like he's waiting for more. Um, sir, he's dead, I add. Hoping maybe he'll understand the situation a little faster. Dead? Yes, sir. In the grease trap? Yes, sir. That's an odd place to die. He returns his attention to his tablet. After 13 years on this rig and working under three different captains, I know when I'm dismissed. Even without words, captains have a way of telling you to get lost, without telling you to get lost. Right now, Captain Oritz isn't telling me anything. It's like he's forgotten I'm even here. Sir, did you hear me? Should I call security chief Lowe? I heard you, Chuck. And no need to call Lowe. Thanks. I glance about the command center and notice some things I should have noticed immediately, but was a little distracted. Walking over to the comm station, I frown at the dark, wet stains coating the controls. My nose tells me what the stains are, but I still dip a fingertip in to be sure. I sniff and frown some more. Sir? I ask the captain over my shoulder. Did someone get hurt? No response. Sir, this is blood. I look about, and the rest of the stations are covered in it too. It's splashed everywhere. Sir, what happened here? We needed a new Stanley. Captain Oritz says right by my ear, I jump and spin about, bringing my arm up just as he tries to slam the tablet against my head. The screen shatters across my arm, and bits of glass and plastic fly everywhere. One large shard embeds itself in the captain's left eye. Ow. He says, but doesn't mean it. There's no pain in his voice at all. Ow. I shove the captain back and pull a large crescent wrench from my tool belt, holding it out toward him off. I don't know what's gotten into you, captain, but you can't go around attacking folks like that. I brandish the wrench, making sure the captain knows I mean business. Sorry, Chuck, but the crew is all wrong. None of them are what they should be. None have reached their full potential. None have become the best versions of themselves. He angst the shard of glass from his eye, and I gulp as thick yellow pus oozes down his cheek and drips off the edge of his jaw, plopping wetly to the command center's deck. I laugh. The captain cocks his head. Is this funny, Chuck? No, sir. I say and shake my head. I was just thinking that it's a good thing I'm the right version of me, or who would clean this mess up? With his one eye, he looks about the command center. Then he looks back at me and laughs too. That is funny. He says, just as he races straight for me. I tuck my shoulder and lean into his charge. When he hits me full on, I straighten up, sending him flying up over me. He lands on his back on the comm station, and I can tell by the loud crack and the way he slides to the deck that he ain't getting back up anytime soon. Except he does. Oh, the captain's back is broken. That's obvious by how crooked he is when he stands up. But it's also obvious that a broken back isn't a concern to him no more. Not with the way his skin bubbles or pops, or the way his limbs get all long, then get short again. We need a new Chuck. He says, and one of his arms shoots out at me, stretching way longer than any arm should. I battered away with my wrench, and the captain hisses at me. New Chuck, yes. New crew, yes. New world, yes. The captain hisses. Sorry, captain. I say, and take three steps towards him. He tries to grab me with his left arm, but I duck under the limb, jabbing the end of my wrench into his guts. It barely bothers him at all. He makes an oofing noise, but that's about it. No matter, it was all for distraction anyway. In my other hand is my utility knife. I slice across his belly, aiming for the same spot where my wrench had just collided. When the blade hits fabric then flesh, what I felt with the wrench shows itself. His guts spill everywhere, but I'm not seeing intestines and stomach and all that. What slides out onto the deck is thick yellow goo, like that slime stuff you buy in a can for kids at the dollar store. That stuff was fun to play with. This stuff ain't so fun. It smells like the inside of the rig's septic tanks, mixed with a chemical sharpness like ammonia, and it can move on its own. The captain's body collapses into a pile of yellow mush. That mush starts slipping and sliding across the deck toward me. Well damn! I say, and back away quickly, until I'm next to the command center's hatch. Without taking my eyes off the pile of jiggling yellow gunk, I put my utility knife back on my belt, then reach over to the side of the hatch for what I really need. Sorry about this. I'm sure it ain't your fault this happened to you. I say as I hold up the red canister and pull the pin. Then I squeeze the handle, and thick foam coats the pile of moving captain mush. The pile of what used to be captain or its recoils. Squishly scooching away from me as I step toward it, the stream of foam never missing its mark. A pain starts to fill my head as a high-pitched wailing fills the command center. I tuck my shoulders up to my ears, but that makes no difference. The wailing keeps piercing my head. When the captain mush wedges itself up under the comm station, I stop spraying it with foam. Before he can even twitch, I drop the canister and pull the small blowtorch from my tool belt, clicking it on and starting a flame with a flick of my thumb. Then I turn the flame up as high as it will go and lunge at the captain mush. The yellow pile of goo screeches as it bursts into flame. Yeah, that foam wasn't a normal fire retardant stuff you spray from an extinguisher. It's kinda got the opposite effect. Oh, what a mess. I sprint from the command center and slam the hatch closed. Then I open a plastic case by the door and press the bright red button. Purging command center. An electronic voice announces in the corridor. I wait, pulling a pocket watch from my tool belt to count down the seconds. Purge complete. Fire suppression measures activated. I count another 30 seconds. Fire suppression complete. Do not enter the command center for three hours. A distress signal has been sent to headquarters. Thank you. You're welcome, computer voice. I say and put my pocket watch away. Then I turn and face the empty corridor behind me. I have a feeling that the captain ain't the only pile of mush walking around pretending to be crew. I should probably have more than a crescent wrench for this job, but I just don't like firearms. So wrench it is. Calm and ready for whatever the day will bring. I head down the corridor to the stairs while I think back on that day at the accounting office.