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1
TITAN
“Titan!” someone yells from the pipe deck.
I lift my hand to my eyes, squinting against the scorching afternoon sun to see who is calling my name. Grunting, I turn my attention back to the task at hand. Peter is always complaining about one thing or another, and he seems to think I’m the captain of a cruise ship instead of the Foreman of a multi-billion-dollar oil rig off the coast of California.
I finish tightening the lug nut on our newest piece of machinery, then step back to appreciate my work. Crossing my arms over my chest, a familiar feeling of pride and accomplishment washes over me. I spent five days working on the new drill bit, along with a handful of employees.
Our regular twelve-hour shifts were extended to sixteen hours to complete everything on time, and while most of the men on my crew complained, I just nodded and took it in stride. This is the life we signed up for. Besides, it’s not like I do anything in my free time. May as well put these muscles to use and make some good money while doing it.
“Yo, Titan!” Peter calls out again.
I growl at the little punk, my eyes resting on him once more. Peter has been on my oil rig for over two months. He’s the nephew or cousin or something of one of the bigwigs on the board of directors. Nepotism at its best. Peter has all these ideas about taking my position as Foreman once he learns the ropes, but that will never happen. Not if I have anything to say about it.
“What?” I grunt, peering at the shithead leaning over the railing above me.
“My uncle is here with the other board members. They want you in the conference room on deck ASAP.”
I roll my eyes, hating that I have to leave to talk to a bunch of stuffy, boring old millionaires who want to feel like they’re part of the process without getting their hands dirty.
“On my way,” I holler back.
Taking one last look at the beautifully installed drill bit, I roll my shoulders and prepare for the trek back to the ship anchored next to the floating oil rig. We have sleeping barracks for the crew, a mess hall, showers, restrooms, and my cabin. As the Foreman, I get a private residence with a small shower, toilet, and sink off to one side. It’s still cramped, especially for my six-foot, three-inch frame, but it sure as hell beats sleeping in the barracks.
I almost forgot. The ship also houses my office, but I won’t lie, I can’t remember the last time I stepped foot in there. Definitely before I started working on the drill bit. Way before. Maybe a month? Two? I know I have paperwork to sift through, but I’m already getting a tension headache just thinking about it. That wasn’t something I planned on when accepting the promotion to Foreman - all the goddamn busy work. I’m a rig worker, not a paper pusher.
Ten minutes later, I’ve washed my face, scrubbed as much grime off my hands as possible, changed into a clean shirt, and brushed my hair. Looking at myself in the small mirror above the sink, I shrug. Good enough. They want to pull me away from an important job? Then they’ll get a sweaty, impatient blue-collar worker with a bone to pick.
I make my way to the conference room, rolling my shoulders to relieve some of the tension there. The good feelings of pride and accomplishment over a job well done have all but evaporated. I don’t like it when board members are here, and I especially hate when they disrupt how we operate things. I’m not sure why they’re here today, but I’m already in a bad mood about it.
Knocking on the door, I don’t wait for an answer before opening it. I don’t have time for pleasantries, and I don’t much care for decorum.
Three sets of eyes stare up at me from their seated positions around the conference table. Big Dan himself, the president of the company that owns this rig, is at one end of the table. His obnoxious black cowboy hat with turquoise stones around the rim makes me want to gag. The stones on his hat match those on his gold-crested bolo tie and teal boots.
I don’t recognize the two other men, though Peter said one of them is his uncle. I wish I knew which one I have to thank for bringing Peter aboard.
“Titan, my good man,” Dan says, standing as I enter the room. He holds out his hand for me to shake, which I do, smirking when he sees the black grime trapped beneath my fingernails. My hand is rough, darkened by hours in the sun, and the oil that may never come out of my skin. Dan’s hand looks almost feminine as it clasps mine.
“Dan,” I say, trying to mask my annoyance at being disrupted in the middle of my work day.
“Sit, sit,” he insists.
I do as he says, my back stiff and straight in the padded office chair. I’m not used to these kinds of meetings, and I hate every second of this torture.
“Listen, you’ve done an incredible job whipping this crew into shape since your promotion. Productivity and output are at an all-time high. Employee turnover is lower than it’s ever been on this rig, which speaks to the kind of respect your men have for you.”
I cross my arms over my chest, furrowing my brow as I study him. “But?” I grunt.
Big Dan winces slightly, which fills me with satisfaction. He might make more money in one year than I’ll in my entire life, but the caveman part of my brain likes knowing he’s intimidated by me.
Dan’s smile turns sour. There it is. I knew there was a reason they were here, and it certainly wasn’t to praise me and blow smoke up my ass.
“Butyou are months behind on your reports, the time cards are always late, and your office is in complete disarray. When was the last time you even went in there?”
“Got your new drill bit installed,” I say instead of answering. “We hit the deadline a day early. That never would have happened if I was holed up in my office working ontime cards.”
Dan opens his mouth, then closes it again. One of the other men pipes up, this one in a plaid button-up and jeans, as if he tried playing dress up at what he thinks blue-collar workers look like.
