canyon fodder, chapter 2

Jefferson White was born at the Santa Ana Veterans' Hospital to John and Clara White in the fall of 1950. For the first 14 years of his life, he lived in Huntington Beach, in the shade of the imposing oilrigs clustered along Pacific Coast Highway, and in the longer shadow cast by the City of Los Angeles, some 25 miles up the road.

John White had fought in the Philippines during the War, serving as a bombardier in the 21st Airborne. He was the only survivor when the Japanese shot his plane down over the Island of Leyte, but he parachuted right into the heart of enemy territory.

“The Japs put me to work at the point of a riffle,” he told Jefferson when the boy was eight years old. “Think about what it’d be like to have some slant eyed jap pokin’ you with a sharp stick every time you try ‘n rest for a minute or two.”

After V-J day, John received a medal for valor but then quickly devolved from war hero to just another one of the thousands upon thousands of faceless servicemen returning home to civilian life. He wanted to go into business for himself as a contractor in his hometown of San Diego, but he had no capital, nor anything to put up as collateral, and he could not obtain a loan in spite of everything the GI Bill promised.

“You put your life on the line for your country, for God, for all that crap they preach about,” he told his parents. “But in the end, all they do is piss on ‘ya and then tell ya to go fug yourself.”

"You won a medal for bravery,” his father said. “The country is very appreciative of everything you’ve done. And we’re all very proud of you.”

“The medal don’t mean nothin’ if I can’t earn a living, pop. You want me living in your house for the rest ‘o my life?”

Tom Hendrix, a guy John had known in the service, looked John up and found out things weren’t going so well for him. Hendrix was originally from San Antonio and now lived with his wife and baby girl in El Segundo, a sleepy little seaside town just on the outskirts of L.A.. Hendrix worked in regional management at the Standard Oil Company and had connections in the industry. He set John up with a good job at one of Standard Oil's contractual partners, Pacific Industrial Oil and Exploration. John had no experience to speak of outside the Airborne Division and no credentials other than a high school diploma. But he was a quick study and in a few short months he was supervising 40 men on two small offshore drilling rigs, about a half-mile out from the Huntington Beach Pier.

On an overcast afternoon in February of 1950, John made the rounds at rig no. 2 and approached four men talking amongst themselves when they should’ve been working. He had a pretty good idea what they were talking about, too. In company parlance, the men were ‘problems’. Sources had informed management that these men and others like them were having regular pow wows with pests from the Oil Workers Union, which was looking to gain recognition from Pacific Industrial, one of the last open shop hold outs in the oil industry on the West Coast. Even the mighty Standard Oil Company had signed a union contract. But Pacific Industrial, a relatively small firm with tight profit margins, was determined to keep the union out at all costs, a company directive communicated loud and clear to all supervisory personnel, and one to be backed up with force if necessary. “You wanna slack off, do it on your own time,” John barked as he approached the four troublemakers. “We’ll dock ‘ya if you don’t get back to work. Now!”

For a brief moment, the sun broke through the heavy clouds and fog, streaming down in a thin shaft onto one of the four men, Dexter Bodine, a stocky, silver haired worker who had been with the company for more than 15 years. “Get a load ‘o this, fellas,” Bodine said as he glared disgustedly at John and slowly placed a yellow hard hat back on his head. “Big time war hero likes to tell us all what to do.”

“You said it Dex,” another one of the workers added. “Maybe we should all stand at attention.”
The four of them stood up straight and gave John a mocking salute. John’s eyes narrowed and darted from one man to the next.

“At ease,” Bodine said. “It’s only Colonel White. He don’t have the balls to do nothin’, ‘cept tow the company line.”

The four men laughed derisively. John’s temples pounded with growing anger. The sun became completely obscured by the clouds again and the moist breeze stiffened. A motor sounded from out in the ocean. John turned his head momentarily and saw a transport boat approaching the rig, which meant he couldn’t beat the shit out of Bodine because his boss would be coming aboard momentarily. Still, he wouldn’t let the present conflict rest.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say to me?” John said, turning his attention back to Bodine.

“I’ll settle the score with any of you, any time you want.”

The motorboat docked at the base of the rig.

“Fuck you, White,” Bodine said. “I’m not scared of you. You’re just a pathetic company stooge.”
The four workers dispersed, leaving John standing by himself. For the rest of the day, John’s head seethed with rage and revenge fantasies. He replayed the confrontation with the four workers, and with Bodine in particular, over and over again in his head.

He don’t have the balls to do nothin’, ‘cept tow the company line…
Big time war hero likes to tell us all what to do…
Just a pathetic company stooge…

At the end of the work day, John rode back ashore in a transport boat with a dozen workers, including Dexter Bodine. The two of them made toxic eye contact several times as the boat rocked and bobbed along the waves. When the boat docked, John thought about pulling Bodine aside and doing something, but then he remembered his bills, his mortgage, his wife…

…just a pathetic company stooge…

That night, after serving John a dinner of roast beef, mashed potatoes, carrots, and peas, along with homemade apple pie and coffee for desert, Clara White stood at the sink, rinsing pots and pans, losing herself in the caress of the Valium she swallowed right before dinner. John stood behind her, leaning on one side of the entrance to the kitchen. He held a J&B on the rocks in his left hand. A cigarette hung from his lips. His end-of-the-day stubble shadowed his shiny, sun-baked face. His black hair, combed back for much of the day, now fell freely over his right eye.
When Clara smelled the cigarette smoke, she turned around and faced her husband. She noted to herself that, although he kept the innate scowl on his face very much intact, John looked quite handsome this evening, fit and muscular in his white t-shirt and chino pants. They hadn’t made love in several weeks. They looked at each other for a few moments in silence. When John spoke, the running water drowned out his words.

“Say again?” Clara said, turning the faucet off.

“I said, it takes you a long goddamn time to clean those dishes, Clara.”

“W-what do you mean, honey?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?”

“I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

“What do you mean?”

“There you go again! What do you mean? What do you mean? Do you know how stupid you sound when you ask me what I mean, especially since you know what I mean.”

“I’m almost done with the dishes, darling.”

John took a long, squinty-eyed drag from his cigarette. He jingled the ice cubes in his glass ominously and then killed his drink. Clara returned to her work at the sink and put the faucet back on. But in turning her back to her husband, she tripped a wire in the darkest part of his mind. In a sudden explosive motion, John threw his whiskey glass against the wall just beyond Clara and the sink. Clara started, but the sedative coursing through her body muted her response to the breaking glass. She turned again to face her husband. He walked towards her slowly, menacingly, until he was right next to her, staring her in the face with a razor sharp sneer.

“I’m so sick of you avoiding me, Clara.”

“Avoiding you? I don’t know—“ He slapped her face before she could finish. “Don’t—“

“Do you know what it’s like for me, Clara? Do you?”

“John, no I—“

He grabbed her by the arms and tossed her to the floor. “You’re not gonna avoid me anymore, Clara.” She looked up at him from the floor as he undid his belt. “I’m the man in this house, and you’re gonna pay attention to me from now on.” He had her trapped against the wooden door of the cupboard under the sink. He looked at her on the floor and unzipped his pants. As he began to take his pants down, she rose up and tried to dart through him to get away, but he caught her and he threw her back down, and then pinned her to the floor. “I’m the boss in my house,” he said.

“John, you’re hurting me!”

“This is what married couples do, Clara.”

“Stop! Please!”

“Shut up! Shut the hell up!”

John pressed her down on the kitchen floor and lifted her dress up around her waist. He pulled down her stockings and jammed himself in her with hard thrusts. “No, Please stop!” she cried.
When John looked down, Dexter Bodine was struggling on the floor. John thrust harder and harder. Bodine screamed and started to cry. John's cock moved forcefully, in and out and in and out, with unholy abandon. When John looked down again, Bodine’s head knocked loud and rhythmically against the cupboard under the sink.

“I’m not a company stooge!” John yelled. “I’m not! Do you hear me?”

He smacked Bodine with the back of his hand and stabbed him with his dick, again and again, and again, and again, and again…

When John came, he collapsed on top of Clara, and he lay on top of her with all his weight. He caught his breath for a few moments and then lifted himself off his wife. Clara stared up at him with haunting vacancy. He pulled up his pants, fastened his belt, and left the kitchen with his wife on the floor. The water continued to run out of the faucet.

Clara gave birth to Jefferson White on November 21, 1950.