Weeks of blasting had come to an end earlier that afternoon around three. Plenty of dynamite had safely cleared the way for a more perfect stretch of highway through the beautiful mountainside of Western Arizona. Living in temporary trailers and off filtered water and meals ready-to-eat, we looked forward to a safe journey home the next day.

Myself, Rasputin Jones, was listening to a small alarm clock radio. Its faint country songs were nice, even if it was the only station that came in. There was an old song playing by Hank Williams Sr. Not my most favorite song, it sounded just fine as I was falling off to sleep.

My Droid vibrated and played a wonderful, tropical ring tone. I checked it and slid the bar up to answer; it was Brick, my trusted team leader and teacher of all necessary knowledge related to blowing out huge chunks of rock with powerful, dangerous explosives. An interesting fellow, Brick did not only know ‘how’ to do our job within proper manner, he was able to also explain ‘why.’

“Razz,” said Brick, “The boss and I are on the way to pick you up. We have to go back to the job site.” “Okay,” I said and we both hung up. As we were to depart the next day, there was no telling what could be so important. It could mean staying up all night for extra pay.

Partially non-encouraged, I changed into my work clothes quickly, even as they smelled of the work of the day. I strapped on my belt and trusted helmet light and checked my tools. Within a few moments, as I stood outside the locked door of my small trailer, my boss, Gerald, rolled up in his ’88 Chevy full-size V8 with Brick. I hopped in the old grey truck to ride shotgun, and we drove all the way out to the job site in silence, fully equipped for working in the night.

Once there, we made the hike to the top of a cliff overlooking a vast darkness that would one day birth a new stretch of highway, a much less curvy way to get from “A” to “B” for the motorists of the area. On the edge of the cliff, I looked over to Brick who looked like he was waiting for a magical ocean trench fish to jump into the air with glowing colors of effervescence, dancing to the tunes of a 2,040 AD underground toxic waste site rave gathering. He turned to me and shrugged, knowing neither of us knew why we were there.

A few short moments passed while Gerald was using his strong-beam flashlight to examine the side of the cliff. Finally, Brick asked, “Why, may I ask, are we here?”
Gerald said, “Well, I dropped my watch, and it was an anniversary gift from my wife last year.”

♦