Free Bittersweet Sands by Rick Ranson Page A

slightly.
    Within an hour of the young beauty’s firing, the Safety Nazi’s truck was taken into the refinery’s maintenance shop for repairs, and no temporary vehicle was issued. He immediately had to either walk or borrow someone else’s truck.
    Acastus went back to his office, where he was met by a red tape of his own across his doorway bearing a tag that stated the room was being painted. He wasn’t issued a new office. He now had to share a desk with a secretary. Then his computer suddenly needed debugging. He now had to write his never-ending reports on the secretary’s computer. The secretary wasn’t happy.
    The crew would put money on the fact that the Safety Nazi gives a shit now.
    â€œLet’s get back to ladders,” Jason said, smiling at Acastus’ discomfort.
    So the Toolbox Talk went on. The safety bulletin was finally read, the day’s work allocated, “hot work” permits issued for anyone welding or cutting with torches. Lobotomy was in Jason’s office with Pops, the job steward, waiting to be given a verbal warning about missing time and not phoning in.
    The day had started.
    â€œIs that true about the Trinity?” Pops asked Jason when he arrived.
    â€œHell,” Jason said over his shoulder as he entered his office “I dunno, but I’ll bet we’re going to find out.”

Day Eight

( Party )
    The boilermaker crew was staying on the second floor of a local hotel. Much to the construction workers’ delight, a troupe of traveling strippers moved in directly across the hall.
    Every evening after dropping their laundry on the tiny white round stage downstairs, the pole dancers would come back to their hotel room and sit in their silk housecoats for hours watching soaps on TV, doing crossword puzzles, or talking on the telephone. Who knew that being the sexual fantasy of a couple of dozen semi-housebroken orangutans could be so boring?
    The boilermakers, however, were in construction-worker heaven. In Fort McMurray, there are thousand-man construction camps with fewer than fifty women in them. Any woman is a rarity, and a woman for whom clothing is non-compulsory is a dream.
    The four welders left their door open across the hall from the working girls, and whenever the ladies’ door would open, immediately four heads would peek out of the boilermaker’s door to deliver a chorus of:
    â€œMorning.”
    â€œMorning.”
    â€œMorning.”
    â€œWanna get naked?”
    The ladies would always giggle and wave and it was an uncomplicated encounter—in one form or another, everyone in that hallway was busy hurrying off to work.
    This went on for several days until there was a change in work rotation for the welders. For the next two weeks, they had their evenings off. It was time to make their move.
    First things first: the men topped up their hoard of fresh liquor. They even went so far as to buy white wine, because isn’t that what women drink? They stacked cases of beer in clear sight of the door as a lure, liquid breadcrumbs for the bunnies across the hall.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œThrowing out these cups.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWomen get really upset when they see cups half-filled with tobacco juice lying all over the place.”
    â€œI guess.”
    They all washed, sort of. They changed into their cleanest blue jeans, checked their breath, and then, with an anxious last look around and a final kick to the underwear under the sofa, the boilermakers went a-courting.
    The welders screwed their courage to the sticking place, marched across the hall, and pounded on the strippers’ door. When a vision of loveliness dressed only in a housecoat opened the door, a bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio was thrust towards her cleavage.
    â€œYou guys wanna have a drink?”
    â€œWith us?” another welder quickly added.
    They might as well have added, “Oh gawd, please, please,