He held up a pantyhose. He stretched it out so you could see it had a couple holes in it, and makeup was applied around the holes to give it a look like a human face — mascara around the eyeholes, lipstick around the mouth, blush on the cheeks. “This is the mask. Those of you who’ve worked here before know how it works. You can explain it to the newboots.”
It wasn’t until that night, after lights-out, that Lem explained how the mask worked. If you put the pantyhose on, people could pay to ramrod you up the poop-chute or in the mouth. Standard payment was a full flask of liquor. You “couldn’t tell” who was wearing the mask — really, you could, even if you couldn’t see their face, cuz there was height and weight and tattoos and hair — they all showered together, there wasn’t any hiding who it was.
But it was a rule, Lem said, that every fool on the rig gotta pretend they ain’t recognize whoever wear the mask. You was sposedta call him “Sheila” and pretend you was making sweet love to Sheila’s pussy.
It was not until a few days later that Lem revealed the mask didn’t gotta be a choice. If somebody could force it on you, you had to do it just the same. The rule was that you could plow whoever wore the mask, if you paid the price of a flask — that was it, don’t matter if the masker was begging you to stop or even if the masker managed to take it off before you were done. If the Sheila did get it off, then that “you gotta pretend you don’t know who it was” rule got cancelled — you could call that man a bitch for the resta his life.
So mostly, nobody fought it. If you could force the mask on someone and then get your dick in their butthole, they were better off keeping the mask on.
Category: Winston Steel
It proved Mister Chow don’t know nothing about black men. Or bwack men neither.
He poked out a line of incomprehensible syllables, and Steel and Lem nodded along like agreeable eggplants.
The rig bossman Mister Chow was half a dumpling high, but he shouted loud as soybeans, swear to God. He came rampaging like a Mongol into the corridor when a brawl went boom-a-boom-boom. Steel and Lem done throw down like a dogpound at some Haitian niggas, who got liquor they ain’t share. Lem proposed a transaction, and the Haitians was receptive, till the truck ‘tween them and he and him turnt truculent.
But only a paltry packa punches got dealt on both sides before Mister Chow chopsticked in like a miniature monsoon. He carried a cricket bat. “You bwack men-ooh you ooh-shoo choo-woo-moo-choo-” or some shit. Steel couldn’t understand Mister Chow when he wasn’t batting the butter outta Haitian booty and he damn sure ain’t catch a word now. He did pick up the oughty-notty that Mister Chow thought all the black men shouldn’t fight each other.
That had a certain logic to it, but it proved Mister Chow don’t know nothing about black men. Or bwack men neither.
Soon enough, Mister Chow arrived, furying up a storm of stewed plums. He jabbed his fat little fingers in the air, and he said buncha words that Steel ain’t quite catch — Mister Chow got one helluva Chinaman accent. He poked out a line of incomprehensible syllables, and Steel and Lem nodded along like agreeable eggplants.
From Steel the Roughneck
Occupational conventions are the devil’s pot roast
Steel said he had to come along because “occupational conventions are the devil’s pot roast”. Avery had never thought about pot roast like that.
Steel said he had to come along because “occupational conventions are the devil’s pot roast”. Avery had never thought about pot roast like that.
The fourdained road
That’s yo’ addiction layin’ its toll on yo’ mind, like a toll road on yo’ mind, chargin’ a toll… in yo’ mind. Yo’ mind is both the road and the destination. And the toll.
“You gonna be,” he said. “Is it makin’ you sick? Real work sickenin’ you? That’s yo’ addiction layin’ its toll on yo’ mind, like a toll road on yo’ mind, chargin’ a toll… in yo’ mind. Yo’ mind is both the road and the destination. And the toll. You still gotta puke. Prolly got booze in yo’ belly still, and it’s brewing up a pot of lazy liver. It’s tellin’ you you don’t gotta improve yo’self, you just fine the way you is.” Steel clapped his hands, so high-energy now that spittle flecked his lips.
Avery quaked about it and shrank away from him, no longer even trying to lift the bar. Steel kept looking down at him and moved up the bench press to stay alongside him. “It’s wrong! You ain’t fine — life is a struggle to remain on the Christian road, you feel me? A struggle of brotherhood is another good, y’all! If you ain’t workin’ on improvement, you drifting off the foredained road.” He paused. “Foetained? Foretained. The foretained road.” He scrunched up his eyes. “The frodained road?”
Like a fish denying water is real
He flapped his hands at his ears — presumably his impression of a fish’s gills — Avery suspected Steel did not know what gills were.
“You like a fish denying water is real, and you gonna keep denying it till you finally flop onto land and find yo’ gills don’t work no mo’,” Steel said. He flapped his hands at his ears — presumably his impression of a fish’s gills — Avery suspected Steel did not know what gills were. “You look queasy. You gonna go pukey-ookey, whiteboy?!”
Wine is how the devil corrupts the grape
“You as dis’ppointing as that movie — that dumb one, wit’ the wine — got that Asian chick who look like a horse — you ever see that one? — Nevermind, I can’t remember — you done dis’ppoint me, son.”
“Whatchoo doin’, whiteboy? You little snotrag. You oozin’ disappointments right now. You as dis’ppointing as that movie — that dumb one, wit’ the wine — got that Asian chick who look like a horse — you ever see that one? — Nevermind, I can’t remember — you done dis’ppoint me, son.” He paused. “Wine is how the devil corrupts the grape.” He looked to one corner of his eyes as he considered whether that was profound or dumb. He couldn’t decide, so he took out his phone and said it again into his voice-recognition note-taking app.
The fence-post of your brain-yard
“That metaphor got away from me, Avery, sorry ’bout that. But I can help you wit’ any of them succumbations.”
“So if you need help with any of that, with gang stuff-” He flashed gang signs and a grave mien. “-with money troubles, with getting horny and needing to get yo’ dingaling dirty, I understand how it goes,” Steel said. He kissed the air. “I am gonna support you, my brother. I be like the fence-post for the chain-links… of yo’… yo’, yo’ fence-brain. The fence, of, yo’ — if yo’ brain was a yard, and it got a fence.” He paused and blinked a few times. “That metaphor got away from me, Avery, sorry ’bout that. But I can help you wit’ any of them succumbations.”
Arabs got good hat game
The Lebanese barrack was dappled with sheets and them nightgown-like things they wore. It smelled of obscure spices, like some sorta stank potpourri, like grandma’s kitchen if yo’ grandmama was a hairy sailor.
Waaaay too much body hair for Steel’s notions. The UN oughta shave all the Muslims. All they body hair is like pubes too. That’s what distinguishes Arabs from Persians. Persians got nice silky body hair. Arabs was like if steel wool got turned into a real boy. A unpleasant and aggressive real boy.
The Lebanese barrack was dappled with sheets and them nightgown-like things they wore, Steel don’t know what none that’s called. All them clothes was hung up to dry. It smelled of obscure spices, like some sorta stank potpourri, like grandma’s kitchen if yo’ grandmama was a hairy sailor. Steel ain’t like it one bit. And goddamn was the place a forest of chest hair. Steel could taste it from the doorway, like a copper penny baking on a sandy beach. Makes a nigga’s fillings wiggle.
One of ’em got that bristly body hair going over his shoulders and all the way down his back, like he was slowly turning into a carpet. One of ’em was wearing an Aladdin hat too, a real nice one. Arabs got good hat game. He gotsta to give ’em that one. They hat game was on point.
From Steel the Roughneck
Portugal’s a fucked-up place
Lem got theories on why Italians was so awful, and he explainified them to Steel till Steel told him to get on with it.
Lem got theories on why Italians was so awful, and he explainified them to Steel till Steel told him to get on with it. Steel got no distruck with Italians. He could eat the fuck outta some pizza too, the Portuguese cooks on the rig make pizza, but they makes it weird as Chinese beards. It’s on like flatbread or something. And they don’t even put pepperoni on it! Portugal’s a fucked-up place. Anyway, Steel got no hate for Portuguese crackers, nor Italians, but Lem got reasons to hate on every race. Every reason was unique to that race, but he got a million of ’em. Lem was an anthopplist of stereotyping.
From Steel the Roughneck
If it ain’t Christ, it ain’t right!
They was something, and whatever they was, it wasn’t right.
“Ohh-zshoo-woo-joo!” One of ’em said, or sumpin’ similar, Steel don’t listen to no Haitian voodoo. If it ain’t Christ, it ain’t right! But Steel did watch the video about respecting diversity on the oil rig, and he ain’t tell the Haitians they was some devil-worshipping pagans. Maybe. Steel don’t actually know what “pagan” means. But they was something, and whatever they was, it wasn’t right.
From Steel the Roughneck