Date: Fri, 29 Mar 2013 23:29:21 -0700 (PDT) From: Macout Mann <macoutmann@yahoo.com> Subject: SUMMER JOB 2 This is the story of a city boy who worked for a summer in rural Alabama shortly after World War II. The story is fiction and it involves explicit homosexual activity. If such is offensive to you or if you are underaged, please read no further. Otherwise, please enjoy. I would love to hear your reactions to the story. Anything like a summer adventure you've had? All comments or criticisms are welcome, and will be answered. macoutman@yahoo.com. Also, please remember that although you may read these stories for free, your contributions keep nifty.org open and without charge. Please give what you can. SUMMER JOB by Macout Mann II Next morning six-thirty came earlier than I would have liked. I got up, shaved, and pulled my clothes on. I decided that setting the alarm for 6:45 would give me plenty of time to get to breakfast by seven. The gong rang right on time and breakfast was even more sumptuous than dinner had been the night before. There was both bacon and country sausage, scrambled eggs, grits and gravy, more hot biscuits and butter, and to gild the lily, flap jacks with ribbon cane syrup. Unlike the night before, each diner left the table to do his thing as soon as he finished eating, so I went back up to my room. I found a news broadcast on my portable Philco, and learned that the world hadn't come to an end. I walked over to the office about seven-forty-five. Miranda was already there as was Hatfield. "Well you're an early bird, Joel," Hatfield exclaimed. "Ready for your lesson?" "Yes sir," I replied. "I hope I'm a good pupil." "Contrary to some opinions, plotting land descriptions is no big thing," he said. We moved into the room where the map was. "So, should I call you `captain?'" I asked. "If you'd like," he laughed. "I was a captain in the army during the war. Some of the guys in my outfit, like Dick Massy, came to work for me after it was over, and they continued to call me that. But I'll answer to anything but `asshole.'" He laughed again. He guided me to the map and told me that the lines on the map were township and range lines. He showed me that the spaces between each were numbered. "You could compare them to lines of latitude and longitude that I'm sure you've studied about," he said, "but the distance between degrees of latitude is sixty nautical miles, and we deal in statute miles. And the distance between degrees of longitude varies depending how far from the equator you are. So for purposes of land description we use townships and ranges. Townships, like latitude, run north and south. Ranges, like longitude, run east and west. And to make things simple, they are all six miles wide. So the square described by a township and range is thirty-six square miles. The square is divided into thirty six sections of one square mile each. A section contains 640 acres. Each section is divided into quarters, like `northeast quarter of Section 1.' Each quarter is 160 acres. And each quarter is further divided into quarters of 40 acres each, like `northeast quarter of the northwest quarter of Section 1. And so on." He stopped to make sure I had followed him that far. Then he took a book off a shelf and read me a description from a Thornberry Report, and we located the tract on the map. I was sure that with a modicum of practice I could handle that. "Where it gets a little tricky," he continued, "is when you have irregular plats of land. Like `from the northeast corner of Section One, proceed northeast six hundred feet.' Then you have to use a protractor and mark off the distance. You see here," he pointed to a notation on the map, "the scale of this map is 1:47,520. That means that one inch on the map is equal to 47,520 inches, which just happens to be three quarters of a mile or 3,960 feet. So after using your calculator, you would mark off about five-thirty seconds of an inch for six hundred feet." We continued to work for another half hour. When he was sure I was catching on, he said "Well, it's getting late and I need to get my crew started." He called to Malone, who had arrived at eight, and suggested that I start plotting what they'd surveyed thusfar. "I'll knock off early and come by to check how he's doing. Then tomorrow, Bill, I want to take him out with us so he can see how we do things. Makes everything a whole lot easier to understand, when you see what's happening for real." "Good idea," Malone responded. "Fine." Then turning back to me, Hatfield said, "But you don't want to get your chinos messed up out in the woods. Sometime today, go over to the store and buy yourself some jeans." Malone brought me a large loose-leaf binder that contained the work Hatfield and his men had already done. He told me I might as well get over to the store and buy my jeans now, before I got started on the surveys. Crossing the office I encountered Sam Taggart and Ronald Johnson, the married accountant. Sam introduced me and Ron gave me a really firm handshake as he said hello. He looked like he'd been a football player in college, big but lean. At the store Maude led me to a shelf of Lee Jeans and asked me what size I wore. I had never owned a pair of jeans, so I replied, "I guess 30/30. That's what these pants are." "Most guys wear jeans stacked," she said, "so you'll want `em longer." She pulled a pair off the shelf and suggested I try them on. They were 30/32. I came out of the dressing room to look in the only mirror. I thought they were a bit snug. There was no doubt that I was a boy. And I really didn't understand the folds down the legs, but Maude announced that they fit perfectly. Heading back to the office, I saw a light blue Olds 88 convertible parked at the side. When I went in Malone told me that Mr. Matthew wanted to meet me. So I was ushered in to the building's only really private office. Matthew Sykes was in his forties, a dirty blond with a well-trimmed moustache. Very neat. Dressed in the "uniform" all the rest of us were wearing. He shook my hand, indicated I was to sit down, and dismissed Malone with a nod. "We are really glad to have you with us," he began. "I understand your father and my brother, Ramsey, have had some business dealings. Tell me about yourself." I gave him a short bio, and we chatted for four or five minutes. Then he concluded the meeting by saying, "Well, it will probably be quite an adjustment for you after Birmingham, but I hope you enjoy your stay in Sykes. It can be tough for us bachelors, though." I began the tedious process of comparing the new survey results with the Thornberry plot, marking over the previously shaded areas in red. The early descriptions were pretty straightforward. I had no problem in matching them. Just before lunch, I came upon a very irregular parcel, and my plot didn't match the Thornberry plot. I called Malone to have him see if I had done it correctly. He said it looked o.k. to him, but he then admitted he was no expert. He told me to have Capt. Hatfield look at it before I typed up a discrepancy report. Lunch was more of the same good country fare. Meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, blackeyed peas, more sliced tomatoes, more cornbread and biscuits (there were always both kinds of bread), and fried peach pies. I felt like I needed a nap afterward, but I managed to get through the afternoon and became more comfortable with my tasks. Capt. Hatfield arrived a little after four and reviewed my day's work. He approved everything but one plot I had just completed. I had mismarked an angle, creating a discrepancy which didn't exist. He did confirm the discrepancy I'd discussed with Malone and showed me the proper form to use in my report. I was beginning to really like Hatfield. He obviously had complete command of his business, was very patient with me, and treated me more respect than I felt I was due. After work the patterns of the previous evening were repeated, except that Mrs. Hatfield promoted a Bridge game, with her, the captain, Taggart, and me. I admitted to being a real novice, so she chose to be my partner, "to even the odds." The other three were real pros, and I had a great deal to learn, but the luck of the cards gave me and Mrs. Hatfield a win, two rubbers to one. Paul Earl had disappeared right after supper and when I went up, I noticed his light was on and country music was coming from his radio. I didn't interrupt. I suspected he might be doing what I planned to do as soon as I was free of my clothes. The next morning, I decked myself out in a t shirt and my new Lee Riders, ready to go surveying. Hatfield had told the hotel kitchen that I would be going along, so a box lunch had been packed for me, him, and Massy. The other two members of the party, locals, brought their own. They were introduced as Billy Mason and Chuck Partridge. Mason was middle aged, plump, and lethargic. Partridge, I would later learn, was one of the guys our age that Paul Earl had told me about. He was tow headed, about five seven, and deeply tanned, and it wouldn't be too long before his shirt would come off to allow the sun to brown his torso even more. We set off in a jeep, Hatfield and Massy up front, and me bouncing along behind. The others followed in a bob truck, which contained the surveying equipment and a large supply of stakes for marking corners. I found what they did fascinating. Hatfield or Massy handled the transit. Either Mason or Partridge was the rodman. The other handled the chain. They worked very efficiently. I had hated trigonometry in school, but now I saw first hand how useful it could be. And some of the deeds from which they were working were very old, so it was often a challenge to verify the original surveys. For example, one description prescribed that a line be run "eighty feet, more or less, to a large oak tree." The point was located, but there was no tree. Hatfield ordered Partridge to get a spade from the truck and dig. Not too far beneath the forest floor decayed wood provided the evidence that that's where the tree had stood. "Got to be inventive sometimes," Hatfield told me. As the day wore on, the temperature probably reached a hundred degrees. I resisted the temptation to follow Partridge's example and go shirtless. But I secretly wished that I'd been hired to do what he was doing, rather than what I was doing, although I was sure I would be making at least twice as much as he was. Our box lunches contained cold fried chicken, turnip sticks, rolls, sliced green peppers, and chocolate layer cake. The two guys who brought their own lunches had sandwiches, potato chips, and candy bars. Hatfield had also brought root beers packed in ice for each of us. We returned to town about four-thirty. I told Hatfield that I'd really appreciated the opportunity to tag along, that I'd learned a lot. "I'm glad you could be with us," he replied. "It was good to have somebody different to talk to." That night I joined the poker game for the first time. I decided that I would risk a maximum of five dollars and was pleased that I ended the night with seven and change. So I decided that I would play whenever I could, and that even if I lost two or three dollars a week, I could write that off as entertainment. If I won, so much the better. The next day was Friday, and I was beginning to wonder what I would do with my weekend. I made good progress with my plot. Having seen what surveying was really like, it was much easier to visualize what I was plotting. Then Malone informed me that everybody also worked until noon on Saturday. "You'll get overtime," he promised. I had noticed that Matthew Sykes hadn't made an appearance either on Friday or Saturday, so Saturday morning I commented on his absence to Johnson and Taggart. Sam said that Sykes usually took off for Mobile or New Orleans for a long weekend. "Can't really blame him," he chuckled. "If I were him, I would too." After lunch I stopped by the store to buy a six pack of Coke. I figured I might want something to drink over the weekend. As I climbed the stairs to my room, Paul Earl came out of the shower and down the veranda wearing nothing but a towel. I couldn't have done that, and I couldn't help but admire him for his "don't-give-a-damn" attitude about his body and things in general. He stopped outside his door. "Hey, Joel," he said, "I got a soft ball in here. Wanna go out and toss a few?" "Sure, why not?" I answered. "Let me change clothes and I'll be right with you." I put on a t shirt and my new jeans and knocked on his door. He came out with his ball, shirtless and in the most threadbare jeans I'd ever seen. We bounded down the steps and my first Sykes weekend began. Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.