Saints And Sinners 1

Tales of my wayward youth. To the best of my recollection.

Boomtown.

The time, the mid-70s. Place, Central Eastern Utah. 50 miles South of Price.

A collection of sleepy rural communities tied by blood kin and marriage. Sometimes both.

Smaller enclaves were little more than clan clusters.

Isolated from the bright lights of the big city, they were hardworking, conservative farmers and

ranchers, for the most part; direct descendants of the original settlers during the mid-1800s.

Northern Europeans. Swedes and Norwegians and Danes, sent by their President to be fruitful

and multiply. Faithful members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Mormons, to the unwashed.

They had gone to the summit of Ferron mountain in the Manti-La Salle range with draft horses and sleds and with their labors, built a reservoir.

Each man was allotted shares of water according to his contribution.

They had taken scrub sagebrush, blue clay and alkali flats and made it bloom.

Fields of alfalfa and oats and orchards of apples, cherries, plums and peaches stood in stark contrast to bleak stretches of greasewood and spiny Russian olive trees out of reach of irrigation canals

Family dairies and beef ranches were the norm. Paradise on earth, with God's blessing.

This was the bucolic scene that the powers that be designated as the site of a new powerhouse.

Not just any powerhouse. A coal-fire breathing 4 burner steam generating monolith that,

when it came on the grid would add 1500 Megawatts of high voltage power to civilization; money and jobs.

Emery County would be brought into the 20th century. Dragged, if necessary.

The most important asset needed was water. Lots of water.

A new reservoir was constructed at the base of the mountain with an earthen dam.

Shareholders were approached to sell their shares. They would then be leased back to the original owners. Just a precaution in the unlikely event of a prolonged drought, you understand.

Suddenly it was raining money. Most sold their shares with gusto. It meant new equipment and long overdue maintenance. Only the conspiracy theorists and doomsday preppers held back. They needed their day in court.

New pickups appeared in front of the local cafes. New felt and straw hats topped the heads of the local patrons. The rule of thumb was: The Bigger the Hat, the Smaller the Herd.

The influx of transients was quite another story. Motels displayed No Vacancy signs.

Rental properties had long waiting lists. The truly desperate pitched tents and squatted on public land administered by the Bureau of Land Management.

Heavy equipment operators and Steelworkers took the lead. A skeletal framework reached for the sky, seemingly overnight. Boilermakers, pipefitters electricians, carpenters and scads of laborers scurried like ants at a picnic. It became a carnival atmosphere. Organized bedlam.

The outdated infrastructure struggled to keep pace.

Case in point: The saga of the Rexall Ranger. Shortly after construction was underway, there were a series of burglaries of the pharmacy in Castle Dale. The trail immediately turned cold.

It wasn't until an inmate at the County Jail was found heavily under the influence of sedatives that the case was solved.

The perpetrator was able to escape detection by breaking out, looting the drug store and then breaking back into his cell.

A decision was made to build a new jail. Progress.

The two cultures mixed like oil and water. The locals had a pride in generational roots.

The transient's motto was, 'Here today, gone tomorrow, back the next.'

Locals had the church and community stake center. Imports used Chick's and Philthy Phil's Bar as HQ.

The twain rarely mixed.

This is one of the times they did.

Rebecca Behling was enjoying the mid-April sun on her face. Eyes closed, she smiled in it's general direction. It's rays warmed her cheeks and her chestnut colored hair, hanging loose around her shoulders. The air still held a chill, but for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Sol was holding his own. It had been a long stretch of heavy coats, sweaters and wool skirts. She felt liberated. She took a deep breath of the chilly fresh air and rejoiced.

She had just celebrated her 18th birthday two weeks ago. She felt she could reach up and touch the sky.

Unknown to her, she was being observed. Kurt Larson, a classmate of hers, eyed her from a distance.

She warmed his blood. She had for as long as he could remember. She was the girl of his dreams.

Tas Toyga was out driving in the bustling town of Ferron. He had a rare day off and needed some groceries. The main drag was a steady stream of pickup trucks, huge shaggy dogs barking to announce their territory in the bed.

He found a parking spot in front of the mercantile building, a venerable establishment circa 1929. He and his friend James went inside and strolled the oiled floors past canned goods; tuna, kippered snacks and corned beef.

"Anything strike your fancy?" asked his cohort James.

Tas mulled that over. Of one thing he was sure. He was sick of PB&J. Cold cuts were next on the least wanted list.

"I don't know. Everything looks good. They say 'never food shop while you're hungry.' Maybe we should grab a bite at the cafe and come back."

"Fuck that," said James. 'We're here now, mate. Let's load up and haul ass."

That comment drew an angry glance from the woman at the checkout stand.

"Keep your voice down." said Tas. "Let's not get ejected, hey?"

Groceries in the bag, the pair went to the Cowboy Cafe for an early lunch. They were completely disregarded by the locals as they sat down in a booth.

"Friendly bunch, yeah?" said James. "Is there a 'kick me sign pinned to my back?"

"Don't be so sensitive! Nelly." Said Tas. "We're strangers to them."

"It will stay that way too if I have my way. These goat ropers can piss up a rope."

That comment drew a few angry glances.

"Crikey, man. Keep it down, you'll not win any friends or influence people with that attitude."

"You're right, my friend. My apologies." He said loud enough to be overheard.

The server delivered their order and they began to eat.

Rebecca Behling entered the cafe with her friend Monica Anderson and walked past young men's booth.

"Christ on crutches, mate. Did you see the cantaloupes on that Sheila? So round, So firm. So fully packed!"

Tas cringed.

"You're a lost cause mate."

James chuckled, with a wicked grin and a twinkle in his eye.

In fact, Tas HAD noticed Rebecca. She was a vision of feminine grace. She had bright coffee colored eyes and full ruby red lips. Her cheeks were blushed like a newly ripened peach from the chill, and there was a scent of wildflowers in her hair as she passed. That and an iron to magnet attraction. An unseen force of nature, impossible to ignore.

Her slim waisted denims flared to round globed buttocks that swayed sinuously as she passed.

Rebecca kept an eye on on the pair in her peripheral vision. She had not laid eyes on them before. Her friend Monica Anderson said, "Those boys sound funny when they talk."

"They're from England I think." said Rebecca.

Actually they were from Australia. The pair had come from Western Oz, the sons of

surface miners from the gold fields in the western interior. Their parents had given them a trip to America as a gift for graduation from secondary school. They fell in love with the beauty of Northern California and decided to stay.

They got work visas and found themselves in the Salt Lake Valley. They signed on with the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, the IBEW, and entered their apprenticeship program. Demand for electricians at the Hunter Power Plant project had emptied the hall, journeyman and apprentice alike.

Taz and James planned to get their journeyman's card and eventually return to their motherland.

That was the plan, anyway.

So far, the experience had been a blessing. The female population had looked on them with favor, and they returned their approval in kind. They were not lacking in attention from the fair Nordic descendants. They knew how to keep their men warm.

Until the subject of religion was broached. Then the relationships took a sudden shift.

Good for a snuggle and a laugh or two, but not considered for a trip to meet the family.

The boys saw that as an advantage, really.

They had eaten their fill of Denver omelettes. The Cholula hot sauce had put the flavor over the top.

Tas left a generous tip as they headed to the cashier's cubby. They squared the tab and went out the front door and stood on the sidewalk.

"My tongue's in flames, mate," said James. "I could use a cold lager."

Rebecca suddenly remembered something and stood to leave. "Watch my stuff," she said. "I left my wallet in the car."

She exited the Cafe and looked up and down the street. She walked to her car, opened the door and searched the console between the front seats. When she stood up, Tas was standing behind her. He was transfixed, looking at her hindquarters. Their eyes met. And locked.

He smiled at her and and she blushed furiously.

Without a word she returned to her table and said, "Ready to go?"

"Did you find your wallet?" asked Monica. "It's right here. In your handbag."

"Shut up," was the reply.

Her actions had not gone unnoticed by Kurt Larsen, seated at the counter.

The two Ozzie's walked into Philthy Phil's beer bar. At this time of day, the place was nearly deserted. Phil Jones, the proprietor, sat behind the bar with a steaming cup of mud, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. He barely glanced up over his bifocals.

"Two longnecks, garçon, si vous plait. Budweiser." Said James. "Make it snappy, Pappy."

Phil looked at him over the top of his glasses, and gave him a half-hearted smile. He handed James two cold beers, still capped.

James looked at them with a puzzled expression.

"That costs extra." said Phil.

"No worries." came the reply. James gripped the cap in his teeth, popped the top and spit it on the pool table. "That's no hill for a climber." It sounded like 'cloimah.'

The two locked eyes for a second and came to an understanding.

"Shoot a game of 9 ball?" James asked Tas.

"Rack 'em," was the reply; so he did.

They played clumsily. Ham-handedly. The lone other patron put a quarter on the rail and called, "Next."

James scratched on the next shot. The game lurched along in fits, finally dying a pitiful death..

James was the victor. "8-ball?" he asked.

His opponent racked the set.

"Care to make it interesting?" he inquired.

"Name your poison." was Jame's reply.

"$20. Let's keep it friendly." They both laid a picture of Andrew Jackson on the rail.

James broke the cluster with a resounding crack and ran the table without interruption. The black 8 dropped with a satisfying thud.

"Good game." said James.

"Fuck you." Said his opponent. "You hustled me."

"Tut tut, my good man. Beginner's luck. Tell you what. I'll give you a chance to get even."

"Fuck you. I ought to whip your foreign ass."

"Not recommended, but if you're feeling froggy, take a leap.'

"Take this shit out back," said Phil. 'Otto, you should know better, Fool."

Otto mumbled, gathered his change and left the bar.

James looked around and with a wry smile, and said, "This place is a morgue. When's the funeral?"

Phil just shook his head. "Come back tonight. We're having a wet T-shirt contest."

That's more like it!" exclaimed James. "Titties and beer. A perfect pairing." he said with a gleam in his eye. "I should go have a nap."

They made their way to the double wide trailer they were renting and were putting the groceries away when their 4 union brothers arrived after their shift. Morris, the unofficial leader grabbed a handy apple and took a huge bite.

"About time you Ausholes brought some food in this house. We were down to beans and Kool-aid practically. What's for dinner?"

"Fried ice," said James. "Toothpick floats for dessert. We're going to the Grub box for burgers. You're on you're own...mate."

'Don't be such a bitch." Said Morris. "Remember you're an apprentice. Until we say otherwise. You could be laid off tomorrow. Show some respect to your betters."

The other three sneered and snickered.

James said no more. They put the rest of the perishables in the fridge.

"I need a nap." Said Tas. "You heathens keep it down please. I'm scheduled for the Hoot Owl shift tonight.

"Poor child." Said Morris. "Try wearing earplugs." The other three electricians snickered.

"Philthy Phil's hosting a Wet T-shirt contest tonight." Said James. "You might want to get there early. Get a good seat up front. It's the only way Handsome Dans like yourselves will get close to any pussy tonight. You're so ugly your mother had to hang a pork chop around your neck to get the dog to play with you."

Tas chuckled in spite of himself. James did have a way with folks. It was nap time..

Tas slept fitfully. Visions of milk maids, buxom frauleins with frothy cream topped buckets.

St, Pauli Girls, hustling to tables holding frosty steins of Lager and Pilsner overhead as they navigated rowdy red faced revelers in lederhosen, cheering along as Oompa Loompa tubas boomed out the cadence and an accordion kept in time to the beat.

"I don't want her, you can have her, she's too fat for me." was the tune.

He woke with an elevated respiration and heart rate, Rebecca on his mind. WTF?

It took a minute to sweep the cobwebs from his mind.

He rose and staggered his way into the kitchen. The trailer was quiet, empty, save for James,

sitting at the kitchen table. He was holding a wrist rocket.

Tas got a glass of water and drank half in one pull. James remained motionless, almost holding his breath and focused intently on a spot in the front room.

Tas sat down across from him and tried to mimic his focus. This went on for minutes without any change.

Slowly a small dark shape took form and crept across the carpet with stealthy silence.

James smoothly pulled back on the leather pouch in his hand and let a marble fly,

narrowly missing the mouse trying to cross no mouse's land, it connected with an outlet cover instead, cracking into two pieces. Sparks erupted as the newly freed plug-in grounded against the box containing it.

Tas had to laugh. "What is wrong with you?" He asked.

"It's open season, mate. Mouse pelts are worth a bloody fortune. I'm thinking of starting a new career as a fur trader."

"You're off your rocker. You could start a fire."

"Can't make an omelette without bashing a few mice." It sounded like 'moice.'

"Let me get dressed and we'll go to the bar. You're under too much stress, man."

As they left the residence Tas noticed his trash can tipped on its side, the contents scattered.

Cursing under his breath as he bent to pull it upright, the biggest gnarliest Tomcat he had ever laid eyes on lept clear of the can, ran a short distance, and turned and glared at the interloper that had interrupted his meal with indignation.

It had only one eye, the other an empty socket. It's ears were in shreds, giving it the appearance of a wrestler with cauliflowered ears. Or a four legged monkey.

It weighed 40 lbs if it weighed an ounce. Frankly, it scared the bejesus out of him.

"Christ on crutches," said James. "What a mugger."

The cat kept its distance, but refused to yield its prize. Neither young men was eager to push the issue. It gave them the Willies.

"Let's go," said Tas. "We can clean up later."

As they approached the bar, they could hear a muffled uproar from the party inside. Whistles and catcalls were vaguely heard. With a grin on his face, James stepped up and opened the door and the noise increased threefold.

Inside it was near bedlam. The jukebox thumped a bass beat, little else heard above the din.

A dozen quarters lined the rails of the lone pool table and shooters with stern visage wielded custom mother of pearl inlaid cues. Money discretely changed hands.

Phil and his girlfriend Audrey were hustling to keep pace with the line two deep pressed to the bar, cash in hand, looking to exchange empty for full. Otto, whose only job was to shuttle cases from the walk in cooler made a steady circuit between the two locations.

Servers shuttled to the four corners, platters full outbound and fists full of empties on the inbound run, their aprons laden with cash.

A dark-skinned woman with dark shoulder length curly hair patrolled with sinuous strides across the bar top wearing only a thong and stiletto heels. She would occasionally stop, turn her back to the crowd, bend at the waist and spread her cheeks, accepting cash offerings to her thong straps and light slaps on her butt-cheeks. The crowd roared its approval. Phil kept his head down and soldiered on.

"I'll bet that doesn't smell like Teen Spirit," shouted James.

They wedged their way up to the bar and grabbed a couple cans of beer.

"All we got." said Phil without apology.

"Beggars cam't be choosy." said Tas. "It's cold and wet. Cheers."

They turned to face the melee. The only thing obviously missing were people swinging from chandeliers.

Women were hopelessly outnumbered. 10 to 1.

"I cant't imagine bringing my wife or girlfriend into this zoo." Said James. "They would be swept away by a tsunami."

Thick or thin, an unattached woman was a cherished prize; the center of undivided attention, and they basked in the glow.

"Queens of the hive. Sweethearts of the Rodeo," said James. "More like Hungry Hungry Hiippos. Who will rule the roost on Gobbler's Knob tonight?" he asked.

Tas had to laugh at that one. "The little brunette by the jukebox is a cutie. You should go over and introduce yourself."

"No thanks mate. If she had as many dicks sticking out of her as have been stuck in her,

She would look like a cactus I think. When does the contest start, I wonder?"

As if on cue, Phil walked over to the jukebox and unplugged it.

"The moment you have all been waiting for is here!" A cheer went up like a touchdown had been scored.

"Can we have our lovely contestants to the front of the bar please?"

Half a dozen women filed out of the bathroom dressed in plain white cotton t-shirts.

No bras were evident on their torsos. They stood facing the audience, full frontal exposure.

A couple swiveled to profile.

"Nice. Very nice." announced Phil. "Remember, the winner will receive $100. I'd like to thank you all for your participation. Let's give them a round of applause!"

Enthusiastic applause and whistles came in response. Beer bottles and cans were raised in salute.

"The wait is finally over. Let's get this show underway!" Another hearty cheer.

"Otto. If you would do the honors please."

Otto appeared with a 10 gallon compressed air fruit sprayer and began pumping with energetic

enthusiasm. The women shifted their weight from foot to foot with nervous energy.

The faces in the crowd were frozen with good natured grins. Eyebrows were arched. Eyes were wide open. Unblinking.

Properly charged, Otto took the wand on the canister and began to wet the shirts down.

The women covered themselves reflexively with their arms, protecting their nipples from exposure as they giggled and squirmed from the cold spray.

"Now, now. Don't be shy. Turn those beams on high! That's right! Very nice!"

A sheriff's deputy stood at the bar near the door. He appeared uninterested in the proceedings.

As the shirts became saturated, they plastered against their bodies. The globes of feminine flesh were outlined, erect nipples clearly aroused and on display. The crowd was less boisterous, grins a bit less leery. Focus was no less intense. Beers were tippled with more frequency and bulges at their crotches were a bit more pronounced.