by Geoff(rey) Line
Trucks are a rigger’s temple. I am in a temple, a Chevrolet I-don’t-know-what, trying not to nod off to Ozzie Osbourne’s yells fused with metal guitar. “Let me hear you SCREAM like you WANT it.” Leonard, the driller takes one of the four turns on the fifty minute drive—a hasty brake and thrust to accelerate. “Let me hear you YELL like you MEAN it.” I strain my eyelids open. Leonard steers through the sunrise—premature crow’s feet round his Oakleys. In the passenger seat, Nate our goliath derrick hand, holds a coffee mug with a massive calloused hand on his knee. Beside me, Muscles, the other roughneck, rolls down the window he’s used to ash his butts past a slit, and lobs the first of three empty Red Bulls to the deserted Alberta highway. Artificial wind blusters through as Leonard rips 140 K to the site. Oil awaits.