T H E B O O K O F A N D Y
Sparkling water danced with the morning sun and the promise of a new day at the confluence of the Blackfoot and Clark Fork Rivers. The blue-ribbon trout streams split the valley, carved by glaciers through Paleozoic rock layers in the heart of Western Montana. Before Lewis and Clark’s expedition, before the settlers came, and long before roughnecks and lumberjacks dammed the river and built a mill, the Flathead and Salish Indians had named my birthplace and home,Aices’te´m, the place of more bull trout. A place that drips with history and fish stories.
The fragrance of sweet cottonwood resin mingled with the cool of the morning in the truck’s cab as I took the last swig of coffee and turned down Riverside for the shop. Hopefully, work duties would end in time to dip a fly into the big Blackfoot.
Montana’s northern latitude guaranteed for the sun to set closer to ten and twilight to linger for another hour. Tonight, with a full moon and a predicted bug hatch, eager fishermen and rainbow trout lurked.
One of the few lessons my father had taught me was that salmon fly nymphs spent three years underwater. By some mysterious force they’d crawl out along the banks of the rivers, break out of their shucks, and appear as ugly, three-inch-long brown bugs with bright orange bellies, irresistible to fish and men alike. He’d also showed my brothers and me how to use a fly rod, which he readily admitted was one of the handful of things he’d done right in life.
Over the last few weeks the salmon flies had mated, and if the stars aligned this evening females would launch from the bushes, fly over the water, and smack their abdomens on the surface to drop their eggs—a life cycle prying the most stubborn monster rainbows out of their deep holes. Dry-fly fishermen who catch the epic hatch walk away forever changed. These were the summer days that I and the rest of Montanans lived for.
I pulled into the east side of the parking lot of Butterfly Septic and glanced through the windshield at the large sign nailed over the door. The Hellgate winds had further collapsed the metal cut-out wing of the Rhopalocera, a term I remembered from eighth-grade biology.
Alongside my Chevy, the boss skidded to a halt into his reserved parking spot marked: RESERVED FOR THE PRESIDENT. I fanned away the dust cloud that filled my cab. He ignored me when I nodded and squinted against his pearlescent Ford. I favored last year’s black truck with the lift kit and wide tires, but the new white one became his latest purchase and how he siphoned off all profits needed for repairs to the sign and building.
I pointed to the decrepit sign. He returned an uncaring shrug and inserted a large cigar into his mouth that he would chew the entire day. His pale, saggy-eyed, hungover appearance foreshadowed the harbinger of another shitty day.
Marty fumbled with the wad of keys on a lanyard attached to his belt, as the leather strained to support his obese belly. He unlocked the building, and I turned off the ignition to my truck. When the engine spit and sputtered, Marty, his round frame halfway through the opened door, turned and glowered.
“Hey, turd for brains! Put some decent gas in my truck before you kill it,” he said, then slammed the door behind him.
In reality, the 1977 C10 had done that ever since he sold it to me and legally, I guess in a way, he still owned the truck. He held the note. When the local Chevy dealership manager laughed at my application, Marty, in a rare moment of kindness, offered to sell me his old truck—rust and all. Of course, with an over-inflated price tag and 12% interest, Marty was, as always, the winner.
I’d attended first and second grade with Marty until I flunked second, then remained a year behind him, something he never let me forget. Later in life, Marty’s parents purchased his first septic truck to keep him out of trouble—the secret that the entire 253 people of Milltown understood. Even with all the turmoil he’d stirred up as a teenager, he’d built the business to a reasonably successful ten-truck fleet. I never had the nerve to ask if Marty or his parents came up with the sickening slogan: Your Poo is Our Sweet Nectar.
To survive, Butterfly Septic served the greater Missoula area, a place made famous by the movie A River Runs Through It. I had to agree with Norman Maclean that the number of bastards multiplied proportionately to the miles removed from the valley, but even Norman could not have predicted that Missoula would become overgrown with so many.
My nine other coworkers arrived, and without looking at my watch, I knew the clock ticked a few minutes before seven. Marty never tolerated tardiness from anyone. I’d seen two guys fired in the last few years who tested him on this, but no one wanted to give the man an extra second of their life.
Before I creaked open the door to the truck, as was my custom, I flicked my finger against the bobblehead Mandalorian action figure stuck to the top of the dash. Perhaps today would be a better day and the universe would slip me a break, but when I stepped out of the truck, my boot landed with a soft squish. I lifted my foot, and a wad of pink bubblegum stretched between the ground and the tread. I should have known better.
“Oh, that’s where I put my gum,” one of my coworkers, with the greatest seniority and the worst attitude, said behind me. “You can keep that one, Andy.” He pointed to his mouth. “I’ve got a new batch.”
Two of the other workers who walked alongside him laughed.
“Come on, Mandoo, you’ll be stepping in worse by day’s end,” another said, and slugged me hard on the arm as he walked by.
I scraped the goo on the bottom of my boot against a nearby rock and grimaced at the Star Wars character on my dash. I longed for the space traveler’s courage and was still sore at the fact that one of the new guys recently asked me in our morning meeting if I had a nickname. Taken from the Mandalorian’s own choice, I told him, “Mando.” This elicited hoots and hollers from the rest of the team, and they quickly added another “o” to rhyme it with poo. Mando became Mandoo.
I slammed the door closed on the truck and wished I would stand up to these bullies. The silver helmet of the Mandalorian bobbed in agreement with me. If only I had a laser blaster, I’d put it to good use about now. Better yet, the phase-pulse rifle the bounty hunter carried that disintegrates his enemies to dust. Mama always taught me to “love thine enemy,” but she’d never met these men.
When I opened the shop door and limped in on the side of my boot, I ignored the look of disdain from Marty and the ribbing of the others. Marty would have said something as well, but he’d just filled his mouth with a powdered sugar donut, the type that lasts for years on the shelf and eaten in one bite. He took a sip from the Styrofoam coffee cup, placed the cigar back into the corner of his mouth, and spoke around it.
“Okay you honey-dippers, now that fecal face has graced us with his presence, let’s get on with our day.”
Because history often referred to septic trucks as honey-wagons, Marty applied the term of endearment for his team—if he stayed in a reasonable mood. His morning slang for me was a new one, and I have to admit the moniker was kind of funny.
“All the trucks are in good working order and I expect them to remain that way today.” He then listed the assignments of the trucks to the matching driver.
Not sure why he did that, as it never changed unless a truck or two were on the fritz. I always got truck Number One. Which sounds good, but this was the original truck his parents endowed him with, and by far the most fickle that broke down often. The most senior guys drove the shiny new rigs. Yes, a pecking order existed even in the crapper business.
As Marty walked to the large map hung behind him on the wall, he took his cigar out, popped another donut into his mouth, swallowed it after two chews and replaced the stogie with robotic precision. He’d repeat the dexterous maneuver many times throughout the day, but no one would dare say a word about the shower of white powder that cascaded down the front of his shirt.
We would all get a sheet of assignments and addresses, but I think Marty envisioned himself as the chief of police in his morning briefings as he pointed to the map of Missoula.
“The knuckleheads of the county still haven’t fixed the axle-breaker on Broadway,” he said, and thumped his fat finger on the map. “Steer clear of that and Russell Street…it’s a traffic nightmare with the new bridge project.”
Marty didn’t understand social graces, but was smart enough to know that time was money, and he wouldn’t put up with anyone wasting it. He took a swallow of his coffee—another bit of skillful oral gymnastics—drinking from a cup with the cigar in his mouth.
He turned back to the map and thumped his finger on a street on the hillside overlooking the city. I swallowed hard.
“Heaven is calling for someone special today,” he said. This brought a series of catcalls from the others. He pointed to Heaven’s Gate, a private road where the largest and most elegant houses loomed on the south hills over Missoula.
“Ms. C.C. has made her yearly ask.” He enunciated the initials with a slight sway of his hips from side to side.
Heat rose into my face, and my heart pounded. C.C. stood for Carrie Carver. A beauty, even in grade school, when Marty and I were too young to understand the stirrings of our immature bodies. She was striking now.
I held my breath. Marty threatened every year to give the choice assignment to one of the other guys.
“I’d give the client to someone more deserving if Carrie didn’t request you.” He glowered at me and shook his head in disgust as the others ribbed me.
He walked over, handed me a slip of paper with her address, and started a child’s rhyme with a sickeningly sweet voice. “Mandoo and Carrie sitting in a tree…” It elicited more laughs. Maybe the universe favored me after all today.
The new guy pumped his arm and fist in an obscene motion. “Yeah Mandoo, make sure you pump her real well.”
I slumped in my chair and swallowed the curses that rattled in the back of my throat. It would just egg them all on. But even Marty shot my coworker a frown—some lines you just don’t cross.
The room quieted as Marty took his stance in front and sucked down another donut in one swallow.
Most of the guys sat up straight, ready to race to their respective trucks to get on with their day. The earlier they made it through their list, the sooner they finished their shitty job and could head to the local bar or whatever way they drowned their existence as honey-dippers.
“Otherwise, be careful out there,” Marty said as he stared down his crew.
Two of the guys stood but plopped back in their chairs when Marty crossed his arms. His eyes lit with delight, and he cleared his throat for a final announcement.
“Uh-oh! Guess what day it is! Guess…what…day…it is!” Marty said, imitating the camel’s voice on the Geico commercial.
Everyone groaned and slumped in their chairs.
“Oh come on, I know you can hear me. Andy, Andy, Andy! What day is it, Andy?”
I shook my head, trying not to encourage him. We all knew what he implied—the monthly, sickening chore of washing out the tanks on the trucks. After the last client and dump at the sewage treatment plant, we’d don protective gear, climb through the manhole on top of the tank and spray out the inside, removing chucks of excrement, baby wipes, and anything else disgusting that one can imagine. Even with the hog boots, plastic apron, mask and goggles, the smell would linger in your nose hairs for days. I couldn’t imagine the stink on the rest of my body.
So much for catching a break or the bug hatch.
