Cooter and Skeeter

This story begins in the middle of a large field of sand. It is the middle of summer, and the route 24 project is fully underway. The old US 24 was found to be an inefficient route for trucks and other traffic to travel, as it went through several towns, and was full of curves and traffic lights that slowed traffic down considerably. The new route would be a much straighter course, have no traffic lights, and be a much faster way to get from Ohio all the way to Indiana. One stage of this construction involved tearing up all the ground that once was, and leveling it for the new roadway. The next stage of the plan was to backfill the old area with sand which is what they would then build the new roadway on. Between the sand stage and the roadbuilding stage is a stage known as wicking. Moisture from rain, and runoff are huge enemies to a new road, and the solution to this is to install a number of nylon sleeves in the sand. These nylon sleeves, or wicks draw moisture from the surface deep into the ground, and away from the new roadbed. The idea is brilliant, and has worked in practice for many years. Wicking is still a practice used in new road construction.

The idea of, and theory behind wicking is one that I find quite interesting. The practice however is a different story. The process starts with two people, a roll of nylon, and an excavator with a mandril mounted to it. Typically, an excavator is a machine that has a long arm, or boom, and on that boom is mounted a bucket. This configuration is used mainly for digging holes. The boom can be removed, and other implements attached to do different jobs. This was one of those jobs. The mandrel is sort of like a tall, hollow square shaped rack. It measures about 4 feet square side to side, and from the ground to the top, it was about 60 feet tall. Inside the hollow rack is a hollow tube. The rack is attached to the front of the excavator and moves up and down, and side to side with the machine. The operator sets the rack down on the sand, and drives the hollow tube- stuffed with the nylon wicking material into the ground, then withdraws the tube, leaving only the nylon “wick” in the ground. The person on the ground then cuts the wick, moves to the next spot three or four feet away, and the process repeats again. And again. And again. All. Day. Long.

I work out of a hiring hall. In my trade, when employers are looking for help, they call the hall through which I work, and request employees. The hall then sends the next person in line to said employer to do the job. This was one of those jobs, and I was just such a person. I arrived at the job as a second year apprentice, full of good intentions, but completely devoid of any practical knowledge, or experience. Some time after I arrived, I met my two new workmates who introduced themselves as Skeeter and Cooter. They arrived just as you would stereotypically expect with names like that; in a big truck full of mud with a giant lift kit, and huge tires, country music blaring, cowboy hat wearing, mouth full of chaw spitting, cowboy boot kicking kind of fellas. It wasn’t until they got out of the truck to introduce themselves that I noticed they both were wearing a hemp rope as a belt in their well worn blue jeans.

Skeeter stood about 5 feet tall, slightly above average build, with piercing steel blue eyes. He wore a plaid shirt that was so thin, I’m pretty sure if it were hanging on a line, you could see right through it, sleeves cut off, of course. His belt buckle was the only thing on him that appeared any kind of clean, and I was pretty sure he had just finished polishing it on his ride in to the jobsite. It was already sunny out, and it gleamed as bright as the sun itself with a knack for shining right in your eyes regardless of where you were standing in relation to it. Cooter was a solid foot and a half taller than Skeeter, and about 250 pounds heavier. His eyes were blue as well, but were almost dull to look at when compared to his counterpart. He moved in a slow fashion that seemed either extraordinarily calculated so as to squeeze every ounce of efficiency out of each move, or perhaps just to avoid the overexertion of accidentally taking one extra step in the wrong direction.

It was time to start the job, and without a word, Skeeter went to the excavator and Cooter stayed behind to teach me my part. I listened as Cooter tried to explain to me what needed to be done, but his words fell on what might as well have been deaf ears, as his dialect was such that I could understand very little of what he was trying to tell me. My lack of experience in the trade didn’t help the fact that he spoke with a thick, unfamiliar accent using slang words for the equipment that I was altogether new to. Add this to the fact that he spoke through a molasses colored cloud of chaw, and it becomes clear why our communication was sorely lacking. By the time Cooter had told me all he had to say while I responded with little more than a smile, and the occasional nod, Skeeter was ready to go. He lined up the mandrel, shoved it into the sand, retracted the tube, and stared at me. Cooter waited for me to do that which he had likely earlier explained. At least I think that’s what he was waiting for. He stared at me as well, looking as though he was waiting for me to do something. I could do little more than awkwardly look back and forth between them. When it became clear that I had no idea that it was time to act, he then showed me what I needed to do. It wasn’t complicated. When the tube came up, I would cut the nylon, move one step to the side, wait 3-5 seconds- cut the next piece, move one step to the side, and repeat. All day. Cut. Step. Wait. Cut. Step. Wait. All. Day. Long.

Remember it was summer. The sun was hot. Cut. Step. Wait. We were in a giant bowl, so there was no wind at all, not even a breeze. Cut. Step. Wait. A few minutes passed, and it became clear that I had mastered my newfound skillset, so Cooter walked back to his pickup to sit in the A/C. Cut. Step. Wait. Cut. Step. Wait. It wasn’t long before I was absolutely certain that I was going to lose my mind. Cut. Step. Wait. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into days, days turned into weeks, but what’s this?! After a good deal of holes, the nylon roll ran out. It took three to five minutes to change it, but it was a welcome break from the mind numbing monotony of Cut. Step. Wait. I would count the holes between rolls just to give my mind something to do. It seemed as though months had passed when I noticed the mandrel hadn’t moved in its stoic fashion to the next spot. Is the day finished I wondered? Lunchtime maybe, certainly the day is at least half over. But alas, I came to find out that it was first break, around 9:30 a.m. The sun was hot in the sky, and the temperature was already over 90 degrees.

After break, Skeeter wanted to have a turn in the A/C of the pick up, as running the machine was almost as mind numbing as it was outside. This, coupled with the fact that the excavator had no A/C, and as it is a box, surrounded by windows, in the sun, it can get even hotter inside than it is outside. The cab of an excavator is large enough that if an average sized person gets in it, it’s somewhat comfortable, with a little bit of room to spare. I only mention this because when Cooter took his turn, I noticed that there wasn’t much room to spare in any direction. The cab was full in the up, the down, the left, the right, the front and the back direction he didn’t seem to mind though, and he placed the first wick. Down went the tube. Skeeter hadn’t yet made his way to the pickup truck, and was just asking me how I was getting along with the job as the tube went in, I was trying to think of a nice way to respond as the tube came up again. I cut the nylon, and was still considering my answer before I stepped. At just about the same time, we both noticed the rack hadn’t moved.

The whole process of planting a wick only took 15 to 20 seconds, so to have a significant delay in between spots was unusual, it was a thing one notices. The same moment that we realized that something was off, the mandrel picked up off the ground, and slammed right back down in the same spot. Skeeter and I both jumped with shock at the irregularity. Had I been trying to cut the wick, it might have killed me! The mandrel jumped again, this time to the side, then back again. Now up a foot or two into the air, and after what seemed like an eternity of tentative waiting, it slammed back into the ground again. With a mixture of shock, and disbelief on our faces, Skeeter and I looked first at each other, then to the excavator.

An excavator is meant to be operated by a person in a seat, but this is not what we saw at all. Instead, to our horror, we saw Cooter, but standing upright, twisted in a way that would make a gymnast jealous. His lower half was standing facing us, while his upper half was in almost a backbend position- his bare belly pressed firmly against the front glass of the excavator. The extreme pressure of belly on glass discolored his skin to a freakish pallor that made it look almost stark white. Due to his sheer mass and the fact that his head was bent backwards in the most unnatural of positions, it was completely out of sight to Skeeter and I, and we would have both sworn in that moment that it was altogether missing. I was frozen in confusion as Skeeter took a step toward his friend. In the time it took for Skeeter to reach nearly half way to the machine, Cooter turned toward the open door of the excavator, and in one swift movement righted himself, and exited the cab.

Now before I continue this story, let me remind you that it was hot, ungodly hot. The temperature in the excavator must have been upwards of 100 degrees, so, like Skeeter and myself, Cooter was sweating. A lot. Also, it should be noted that the cab of an excavator sits on top of a set of tracks that are used to move the machine around. This particular set sat a little over 3 feet off the ground. Cooter, upon exiting the cab, forgot the tracks, the cab’s height, and gravity. He turned, took a step, and fell three or four feet- face first into the sand.

The machine was about twenty steps or so from where Skeeter and I were standing, and Skeeter had made his way about halfway there before Cooter decided to faceplant in the sand. This event stopped Skeeter dead in his tracks. Cooter, in a feat so athletic it shocked everyone present, jumped to his feet, and in about three steps covered the distance of ten ran, wide eyed to where Skeeter now stood. Cooter, looking positively rabid, visibly foaming at the mouth from the combination sweaty sand and panic- eyes wide as saucers, grabbed Skeeter by the chest simultaneously tearing his thin plaid shirt, and forcibly removing a good deal of chest hair. At this, Skeeter yelped with a sound of equal parts pain and terror. I remained back in my original spot in wonder at the spectacle. I’d never seen anything like this in all my life.

Still firmly gripping Skeeter by the chest, Cooter growled a growl unlike anything I had ever heard before, or since. He said, and I quote; “IT’S IN MEEEE, THE BEE IS IN MY ASS” It was at this point that the friendship between these two was really being tested. Skeeter failed. He put his hands up in the air, and with a resigned, regretful voice, he shook his head, and stuttered “I can’t help ya”.

Now, the situation wasn’t quite as dire as it sounded, but it took a few minutes to figure out just what in the world was happening. It turns out that Cooter is allergic to bees. He had been stung somewhere between his back, and his butt cheek. He panicked, and while still in the excavator, he tried unsuccessfully to remove the stinger, bumping the levers of the machine in the process causing the mandrel to slam about. As his panic accelerated, he forgot himself altogether, overlooked the tracks of the excavator, and fell face first in the sand, his fear increasing, he had a hard time articulating that he was allergic, and needed medical attention. The story doesn’t end here.

After deciphering the fact that Cooter needed immediate medical attention, Skeeter ushered him into the pickup truck, and took off out of the jobsite- tires squealing. This left me, a second year apprentice standing in the middle of a field of sand with no idea what to do. I didn’t have the phone number of anyone in the company, I’d never run an excavator in my life, and I was all by myself in the middle of nowhere, at 10:00 in the morning on a hot summer day. I looked at the running excavator, and figured I’d only make things worse if I tried to figure out how to run it on my own, so I decided against that. I told myself I’d at least try to figure out how to turn it off in case they never came back. I walked around for a bit, and not finding any shade, I resigned myself to the plan that I would just wait until my 8 hours was up, and if I hadn’t heard from anyone, turn off the machine, and go home.

I waited another ten minutes or so before I realized that all of our drinking water was in the pickup truck that was now gone, so I started to worry. Just then, I began hearing the sounds of a vehicle moving fast. There were distant tire squeals, becoming less and less distant. It wasn’t long after I noticed the sound that I saw the pickup on its way back, and in a hurry! At first, I thought it was Skeeter trying like crazy to return so that we could get back to work, I didn’t even notice the way from which he came.

Seconds later, the truck could be seen sliding back into the jobsite sideways with Skeeter’s entire upper half hanging out the window, yelling “which way is the hospital”? I didn’t even have a chance to answer further than a pointing finger before he peeled out again, and took off going the other way leaving a trail of dust behind him. Fortunately, this time at least he went in the direction of the hospital. I didn’t see either one of those guys for the rest of the day.

I was unsure about just what to do the next day, I couldn’t just not show up if they expected me to be there, and I couldn’t call the hall to ask what to do, because they would wonder why I was asking, and I couldn’t tell them the story, as I didn’t want them thinking I was nuts, So I just showed up in the morning, and so did they. They said nothing about the day before, and I didn’t either. At lunch that afternoon, I said “how’s it going” to each of them, they both answered alright, and that was that. I finished the job a couple of weeks later with no further incidents, maintaining my sanity thanks to a radio that I duct taped to my hardhat. These were the days before smartphones and bluetooth earbuds and the like. We never spoke of that day the whole time I was there, and I often wondered if they even remembered that it had happened.