Car Pool (7 page)

“You’ll be good for me,” Anthea said. “I very often forget what we make at the NOC-U hell hole.”

“Now, now,” Shay said in a mocking tone.

“Remember that National’s image is important even among ourselves.”

Anthea couldn’t decide if Shay was serious. She smiled noncommittally. Either Shay had been to too many safety meetings or she had no illusions about NOC-U’s relentless cheerleading. Anthea had forgotten how annoying she had initially found the meetings, just like she’d forgotten they were supposed to say National, not Knock-You.

To fill the silence, Anthea said, “I’m having a horrible time with my computer.”

“What’s it doing?” Shay’s voice alternated between sleepy and alert.

“Parity check. I’ve replaced my batch files, the command.com and autoexec.bat and I think I’m going to have to reinitialize and lose all my files.”

“Don’t do that,” Shay said. “Use Norton to recover a file … any file. See if that helps.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“It might reset the root directory.”

Anthea started to gape, but turned her head away to wave at the guard at Gate 12. What did a field technician know about computers?

Anthea looked at the car clock as she turned off the engine. “Sixty-five minutes, not bad if I say so myself.”

“Definitely,” Shay said. Anthea watched as Shay scrambled out of the low seat with a lot less fuss than Anthea did. Shay was … lithe. There was no other word for it. Anthea picked up her satchel and promised herself to lose five pounds as soon as possible. Then she mentally erased the promise — trying to lose weight was the surest way she’d found

to gain it. She was better off promising to exercise, but then she reminded herself she was concentrating on quitting smoking. She realized she hadn’t wanted a cigarette during the entire drive, which gave her a really good feeling. She waved goodbye to Shay, who headed for the outbound shuttle stop, and then walked toward her inbound shuttle stop. She could see the little bus chugging its way toward her.

When she got to her computer she remembered Shay’s advice. Well, maybe a field technician had unknown skills. She booted off her Norton recovery disk and recovered a small file. She turned the computer off again and crossed her fingers. “Look, you piece of junk, my life is improving. You load or I’m getting a Macintosh.” She flipped the power toggle.

After a lengthy amount of grinding disk noise, she was able to get a directory and backup her files, then reinitialize her drive. She would have to tell Shay they were even over the nasty truck incident. It would take the better part of the day to reinstall Windows and her software, but she was well on her way. She shared her morning muffin with Adrian when he joined her for a congratulatory cup of coffee.

“You’re just lucky,” he said. “Better call RTS and cancel the call or they’ll show up and break the thing again.”

“Good idea. What do you think of the muffin?”

“Love,” he said gently, “I know the cooking is therapy, but what possessed you to put pearl onions in a cranberry muffin?”

Anthea was devastated. “Well, you don’t have to eat it. Buy your own.”

“Can’t afford it,” he said. “I’ll just pick out the onions. Did you cut the recipe out of the paper or something?”

Anthea sniffed. “Gourmet Magazine, if you please.” She took another bite, then picked out an onion. “I do think they’re … an acquired taste.”

“Tell you what,” Adrian said. “When payday finally rolls around I’ll treat you to blueberry muffins from paradise. I get them at a little bakery on Castro.”

Anthea finished her muffin and threw away her accumulated pile of pearl onions. “I have to get back to the Castro someday.” Maybe it’s time I did.

“You make it sound like you have to see a travel agent to do it. I’d be thrilled to be your guide,” Adrian said. “You do smell faintly of mothballs.”

Anthea pursed her lips at him, adding her best glare. He went away.

Shay carefully stepped to the very edge of the plywood plank. She knelt slowly, maintaining her balance. Today’s field buddy was her cube mate, Harold. He was on the other end, providing stability for the plank. Even though she was in a Level D protective suit with breather, and would not step directly on the soil underneath the plank, Shay was feeling paranoid. She tried to work quickly, but the soil sample had to be perfect. There was no room for

sloppiness. And then she had to draw a water sample from Well B-A-146, a well she had installed herself the first week on the job.

The immediate area was barren of any form of life — not even a weed or fallen leaf. The soil was cracked and it varied from a pasty gray ash to a coppery clay. When they left they would drive under and next to scaffolds riddled with pipes and conduit. Some of the pipes were flare points, and the flashes of flame created images of hell for Shay. It stretched on for a couple square miles.

She drew the water sample out of the well, completed the label and added it to the Styrofoam cooler, which would maintain an even temperature for all the samples until they were taken to the lab that afternoon. She put her tools away, made sure everything was in place, then stood again, giving the “move out” signal to Harold, who stepped lightly forward and lifted the cooler easily. Shay had no trouble believing that he had, as he said, played football for the USC Trojans.

Harold grinned at her after he put the cooler in the truck and held up one finger. Shay nodded vigorously and pantomimed wiping her brow. Only one more sample, and it was the least contaminated spot on their trip. They repeated procedures again at Well B-B-146. As she drew the water sample, she asked herself if NOC-U could have found a more confusing way to label the wells — they were just asking for mislabeled containers. When she was finished, they went back to the truck, drove past the hydrogen disulfide boundary, and stopped again. Shay bailed out of the truck and yanked her breather off.

“Air. Honest to goodness polluted air.” She sucked in a couple of rapid breaths and felt her nerves calm.

“I think this is how they get us to believe this is clean air,” Harold said. “I’m always so glad to breathe in this shit that I think it’s clean.” His last words were muffled as he pulled the top of his Tyvek suit over his head.

Shay knew that nine in ten women would be going ape for Harold. He was a cross between Roger Craig and O.J. Simpson, with all of their good looks and engaging smiles. He had flawless deep brown skin, close-cropped hair and eyes that always said, “I’m listening, you’re important.” Shay liked him a lot — but her feelings were based on the way he approached life and treated people, not his looks.

She’d been at this stage — suit removal — with lots of other field “buddies.” It didn’t matter that she had clothes on underneath. It felt like undressing and after some of the other men had watched her taking her suit off she’d learned to stay on her side of the truck. She’d had enough leering. And she was always glad when she was paired with Harold because Harold treated her like a human being. Nor did he ignore her gender and race, just as she couldn’t ignore his. When two people are getting to know each other, gender and color are facts of life. When it came to taking well samples and borings they didn’t matter at all. Now that they were spending a lot of time together, enough to approach friendship, Shay was trying to find a way to let Harold know she was a lesbian. If she could tell Mrs. Giordano, she could tell Harold. She wondered

if she’d ever tell Anthea. Maybe. She couldn’t really picture herself being friends with Anthea.

They filled the decontamination pool, actually a child’s plastic wading pool, with three inches of nonpotable water from the decontamination station faucet. They waded around until their boots were free of any soil they had picked up. They dumped the water and put the pool and their suits in the back of the truck. Shay took off her boots and added them to the pool, and then padded to the passenger seat again. Harold was already lacing on his Nikes.

“Let’s take the scenic route,” Shay said. “I don’t know about you, but if we never got back to the trailers it would be too soon.”

“I was eating this really cheap ice cream last night — chocolate chip. There were about six chocolate chips in the entire half gallon and that’s when I realized that I’m a chocolate chip in this cheap vanilla company.”

Shay laughed. “Does that make me toffee?”

“There’s more of your people than mine in this place,” Harold said with a shrug. He started the truck and it slowly moved down the roadway.

“Yeah, but I’m the only one not doing statistics and accounting. They hire Asians at NOC-U but only to do things that Asians are supposedly so good at. There aren’t any Asians in product development and no team leaders.”

Harold chewed his lip. “I hadn’t noticed that. You’re right. So why do we put up with this place?”

Shay laughed. “How much do you have in your savings account?”

“What savings account?”

“Exactly. I had thought that the old boys’ network was dying out, but it’s alive and well here.”

Harold stopped to let a truck filled with soil cross in front of them. Shay stared after it, then shook her head. They moved a lot of soil around on this refinery.

Harold said, “It is there, isn’t it? I thought it was me. I’ll be walking along and get the feeling I’ve crossed a line I wasn’t supposed to cross —”

“Like a force field or something. I feel it too. You just know you’re an alien being. Around here anyone who isn’t a straight white man over fifty is an alien — oh, women who wear skirts and type and file all day aren’t aliens either, as long as they call their boss Mister. And believe me, I noticed the only black women in this place are clerical workers.”

“You’d think after working on a refinery for twenty-five years, some of these guys would have died off. Let’s hope they’re not breeding.”

“Actually, it isn’t an age thing,” Shay said. “Look at Scott. He’s what, thirty-five? Mr. Roger Ramjet. And you’re the only guy who so far has asked me if I wanted to drive. The rest just assumed I would be the passenger — even the guys who are my age.”

“My momma’d slap me upside the head when I got out of line. She always said a son of hers would learn respect for women or die young.”

“That accounts for that pointy head you have.”

“Who are you calling pointy? That’s rich coming from a pee-wee like you.”

They happily traded insults about each other and then about the more obnoxious people at the trailers as Harold wended their way back to the main roads. They could talk freely here, unlike in their cube

where every word they said could be heard by a half dozen other people.

Harold pulled into the cafeteria lot since it was close to lunch. Shay felt a warm wave of relaxation and realized she’d been walking around tensed up every day. Maybe she’d sleep deeper and better for knowing someone shared her views of the place.

“Wait a second,” she said, when Harold started to open his door. “Since I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, I want you to know that I’m gay.”

She was sure Harold would be fine about it — screw him if he wasn’t — but his response floored her. He flashed her a brilliant smile and said, “Did you think you were the only one? It’ll be nice to have a real buddy.”

She smiled back — a long, slow smile that didn’t fade until well after lunch.

“Do you think that all used Volvos are shipped straight to Berkeley?” Shay slowed for a school crossing. Anthea was sitting quietly in the passenger seat, something Shay took for confidence in her driving. Anthea didn’t brake reflexively, which was also nice. In spite of Anthea’s complete lack of understanding about what actually happened on an oil refinery, her flawless elegance, easy charm and obvious financial means, Shay was beginning to like her.

“Actually, I’ve often thought that.”

Shay’s Horizon gathered itself and managed to pass a yellow Volvo that Shay privately thought was

the color of a baby’s used diaper. “I mean, you never see brand-new Volvos in Berkeley, do you?”

“Never.”

“Only used Volvos.”

“Only used.”

Shay peeked a look at Anthea as she braked for a light. Anthea was grinning. “What’s so funny?”

“I thought I was the only one who saw it. The Volvo Conspiracy. I think it’s something in the water.”

“Nah, it’s just that the owners don’t want to be thought snobs, but a Volvo is politically correct. So they buy a used Volvo.”

“Maybe they buy them new and hide them in a garage for a couple of years, then dent the passenger door with a blunt instrument — No, no, you jerk!,” Anthea exclaimed.

“I knew it,” Shay said. “Another used Volvo.” The green car made a hurried right turn in front of them, Baby on Board sign swaying, forcing Shay to slam on the brakes. The Volvo then slowed to thirty miles an hour. “I know it’s the speed limit, but it’s rush hour.” Shay moaned. “That means you’re supposed to rush!” She squeezed between a bus and a garbage truck, both of which were outstripping the Volvo by about two miles an hour. Another inch, another inch — she yanked her Horizon over in front of the Volvo and sped down University to the freeway onramp.

The Volvo honked. Anthea applauded. With precision timing they both gave the Volvo the finger. Shay looked over at Anthea and they giggled like teenagers.

Anthea said, “Have you ever noticed you’ll do things in your car that you won’t do anywhere else?”

Shay gave a stifled shout of laughter as she merged into the slowly progressing traffic. “I figured that out in high school. I’ve done things in the back of a car I don’t think I’ll ever do anywhere else.” She laughed more and looked over at Anthea.

Anthea laughed too, but Shay realized she had sounded … like she’d been … easy. She frowned at herself. What a horrible high school word, she thought. Making out with another girl in the back seat of a car had been anything but easy.

“Me too. I have fond memories of back seats,” Anthea said unexpectedly. She turned her attention back to her book. Something by Jane Austen — Shay hadn’t been able to catch the title. For the last month it had been Proust, but before that she’d been reading a sci-fi series Shay had also enjoyed, so Anthea wasn’t completely stuffy. She liked Star Trek, for instance, which gave them something to talk about besides the weather. Anthea had her moments.