Nives Darezzo

Coils of Guts

Hebron. ExxonMobil. Few years. Money’d get them outta St. John’s, set them up on the road to Calgary. Calgary. The promised land. And him, here on a metal island, with its long, long legs. Leeching coil at its trunk thirsty for liquid money. Got in on a contract. Knew this kind of work. Hard work. Hard on the body. Bottom work. That’s what they called it. Tanks on the back, loose in the suit, pressure protected. Through the moonpool on the umbilical. Bellman up above. Then the pigging, marine risers, pipes and down to the BOPs and mattresses. Don’t get the bends. Nasty sickness. Tingling pain, rashes all over, numb toes and fingers and spasms. Coughing up your guts. Not him. Knew what he was doing. But not right now. Shift was twenty-one days long, started next day. Ocean was dark as the inside of a closed casket. Is he dead. We could all be dead. Like Bruce Willis. Moonlight winked on the surf like the shiny scales of some huge inky fish. Peeked behind, over the shoulder. The drill made a racket as it twisted, coiled into the bed of the sea. You could always hear the rig working. It never stopped running, even Christmas day. It thumped like a heartbeat as it turned, sucking up its tar-black blood from the guts of the world. Guts. He missed her to his guts.