maybe five minutes and out of the night came the Pit. It was lit up like a football field for a Friday night game: an open pit some 300 acres across and over 900 feet deep, a huge cavern that had been sliced down layer by layer at Hobart for the past sixty years.
During the daytime, Boyd figured, if you flew over it in a plane it would have looked like some massive impact crater from a meteorite, except that it was cut square and even like the sides of a box. The whole thing was fenced in with a walkway encircling it, massive crane booms rising overhead that brought equipment down and hoppers of ore and crushed rock up to the surface. Everything, even the cranes and shacks perched on the edge, were lit up with spots and security lights.
The crew stood by the fence and looked down into the abyss.
A road snaked around its edges, circling slowly downward to the very bottom.
It was night above, but daytime far below. The pit was bright and busy and congested. There were buildings and warm-up shacks, great piles of slag and heavy equipment running back and forth. Lots of men scurrying about. It was like kicking over a rotting stump and exposing an ant colony, all that industrious motion and enterprise. While Iron City slept, the mines went on non-stop.
The crew rode an elevator down to the bottom of the pit. It was little more than a cage with fifty men packed asshole to elbow in it. If you didn’t care for heights, you had no business on it. Boyd watched the lights as they descended. They were set into the rock face every thirty feet until the cage touched bottom. Then he climbed out with the others and Maki steered him around and made sure he didn’t step into a hole. The entire way from the elevator platform to the rock face, he kept his hand on Boyd’s shoulder. Good thing, too, because it was big down there, heaps of rock taller than two story houses scattered around. Shacks and trailers and the booms of cranes swinging overhead. Lots of big machinery-crawler loaders and rippers, scrapers and automated conveyors, 300 ton dump trucks that could have squashed you flat without feeling so much as a bump and immense electric mining shovels with buckets so big you could have parked six or eight full size pickups in them and still had room to walk around.
Maki brought them to a tunnel that had been shot through solid rock. Its mouth was vast; you could have driven a Greyhound bus through it. The rough-hewn ceiling overhead was set with incandescents like a subway tunnel. The lights continued on and on until they were lost in the haze, which was a pretty good indication of how far it went.
“This is the Main Level, cookie. That would be Level Number One,” Maki said. “There are seven of ‘em and an eighth they’re cutting right now, some two hundred feet below Seven. With that one, this mine reaches down over 2500 feet. You’ll want to remember that. It’s a long way down. Any questions?”
“Yeah. Why you keep calling me ‘cookie?’” Boyd said.
Maki turned and looked at him, shook his head, his face plunged in shadow from the brim of his miner’s helmet. “You in the Union?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. Cookie.”
Boyd chuckled and Maki didn’t seem to like that.
It wasn’t part of the game.
See, they were playing a time-honored blue collar tradition called WHOSE GOT THE BIGGEST BALLS? It was Maki’s game and he made the rules. He was the old hand, the working class sage, and Boyd was so green his nuts looked like limes. He didn’t know shit. He didn’t know enough to wipe his own bottom unless Maki handed him a rag and pointed out his asshole to him. That’s why he had to tell Boyd how deep the shafts were, because a guy like him, shit, he was so dumb he’d fall down the first hole he found.
At least, that’s how Maki saw it.
Thing was, Boyd had played the game before. He was thirty years old and he’d played it in the army and in lumber yards, on docks and in mills down in Milwaukee. No big deal. Maki was trying to make him feel uncomfortable, to assert his dominance on the working class food chain right off the get go. He was trying to intimidate Boyd, but it wasn’t working.
And he didn’t like that.
“You think something’s funny, Boyd?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
They came to a supply shack and were outfitted with rain gear and rubber boots, gas detectors and emergency breathing kits. Maki gave Boyd a quick overview of them, but you could see he didn’t have much faith that a guy like Boyd would remember any of it.
They joined up with the rest of the graveyard crew at the elevator cage that led below. As they stood there, everybody grabbing a quick smoke before the big plunge, the insults and off-color jokes started flying like rice at a wedding. A guy named Breed started picking on Maki and Boyd was loving it. Breed was a big boy, looked like maybe he could crush rock with his bare hands. He had a black ponytail down his back and a bushy mustache, looked dark like he might have some Indian blood in him. He was always smiling and joking around. Boyd liked him right away. He didn’t play the game; he just made fun of the guys who did.
Finally, Corey, the shift boss, called out names and checked them off on a clipboard. He was a heavy guy who looked pretty soft from sitting on his ass eight hours a day. But Boyd figured he was okay…as far as foremen went.
Corey came over and said, “You’re Boyd?”
“Yeah.”
“Good deal. We can use you. It’s not so bad once you get the swing of it. You’ll do all right. Maki’ll show you the ropes.”
“Yeah, just don’t turn yer back on him or you won’t be a virgin come morning,” Breed said.
A bunch of the miners burst out laughing. Boyd wanted to, too, but he had to work with Maki. No sense pissing him off this early on.
Maki slapped his lunch bucket against his leg. “What’s with you, Breed? Why you got to start that queer business all the time? You like that kind of stuff? Is that it?”
Breed elbowed the guy next to him. “Hell no, Maki. I like girls just fine. Just ask your wife.”
“You better watch it,” Maki warned him.
“No, Maki,” he said, “I think Boyd there better watch it. We all saw the way you been looking at him. Callin’ him ‘Cookie’ and all.”
“Sure,” said another guy. “You’re his type, Boyd. A big vanilla cookie that he can take a bite out of.”
They all burst out laughing, even Corey.
In fact, Corey laughed so hard he started to cough. It was just the typical working class ribbing. These guys always made with the gay stuff to see how thick your skin was. Maki couldn’t take it, that’s why they rode him. You work in a mine or a foundry or any blue collar situation, you had better be able to take it. Maki couldn’t. He was thin-skinned and because of that, he went around with a target stuck to his back, spent his free time yanking arrows out of his spine. And once guys like these found your soft white underbelly, they’d never stop hitting you.
Maki, true to form, waded in like he was going to take a swing at Breed. Breed just laughed. Corey got in- between them and told them to quit clowning around. Breed just smiled, then blew Maki a kiss when Corey wasn’t looking.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Corey said. “Jesus Christ, Maki, he’s just riding you. Lighten up. That goes for both of you. Especially you, Breed, you fucking degenerate.”
“I can’t help it, Mr. Corey, sir. Maki just turns me on. Lookit that mouth on him, will ya? That mouth was made for loving.”
“All right, Breed,” Corey laughed.
“You better shut up,” Maki said, his cheeks red as cherry tomatoes.
Breed laughed. “You gotta love his mouth,” he said to the other miners. “He’s got the whitest teeth I ever came across.”
More laughter and jibes.
Maki, however, did not see the humor in any of it. “Do I have to put up with this? You better do something about him, Corey, or I will.”
