Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/151

 being made to pull a huge stone block; had seen long black whips, lashed across their naked backs when they stumbled and lay exhausted in the path of the moving boulder. The pyramids, surrounded by burning sand, spinning and gnawing into the blood-soaked backs of the half dead men was the sound the long pipes made as they whirled into the revolving hole, vanishing from sight in the middle of the derrick floor; the huge boulder silently moving on, crushing the body of a screaming man, rolling noisily on, not feeling the bones or flesh under its large rollers. He remembered the muddy-like slush pit on the side of the derrick; the small stream of water and clay that had filled the large dredged out hole until it ran down the sides of black earth like flowing lava from an erupting volcano; covering the bottom of the pit and slowly rising to its brim, killing everything, leaving a white scum behind that cracked from the heat of the burning sun. Deep canyons and flat top mountains; nothing living; nothing growing.

His imagination had run on a wild rampage while waiting for his father. He had roamed around the boilers; looked into the flabbiness of the slush pits soon to turn a hard crust; had tried to talk to the men under the deafening noises; the loud wild noises ever present.

Gaylord now looked at his father. He must try … he must not let his father know he'd rather be with Blake than with his parents. "I thought it would be nice to have someone to run around with in New Orleans, Dad. Then I wouldn't have to tag along with you and mother. And Bob knows New Orleans."

"Sure," his father started saying … "hell, yes … take Bob with you. That's a damn good idea … Take anyone you like son … I want you to have a good time."

It was a lovely afternoon, not too warm, not too cool and the sky built a vault clustered with drifting clouds above the rustling tall pecan trees around his home. It sounded good to Gaylord squatting by the side of a camellia bush pulling out tiny blades of grass. What made the earth so many different colors? How did these delicate stems find their way between the coarse pitted soil? He had held part of the world in his hand and allowed it to fall through his open fingers, 141