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90 I lower my fogged goggles over my eyes and head back outside. The inside of the door is covered with an inch of ice. Why is the one-eyed mechanic picking on me? I didn’t do anything to the guy. What an asshole. He messed with me earlier today when I went through the garage. Someone from my crew pissed him off and he is really aggravated. I need to find Garvey. Steve Garvey and I came here to build towers, install antennas, and then set up the phones and data system. Even though I’ve lived in Alaska for twenty years, politically I’m green and live a humble life. I’ve never seen so many rednecks. Big Bend reminds me of Texas or Louisiana because that’s where most of the workers are from. Where’s Garvey? I ask myself as I hit the wall of raging wind, minus-forty-degree cold pelting snow. Still it’s preferable to all the cigarette smoke, rednecks and the one-eyed goon in the break shack. Thank God that every inch of skin on my body is covered. The storm is so loud I can only hear the camp generator when I’m right next to it. I sense someone following me, but when I look back there is not another soul around except for a white arctic fox slipping out of view. They are always around looking for a free meal. My goggles are fog free as I pass by the welders’ shop, a tall, brown metal building. On the far end a door faces the drill rig. Still spooked by the one-eyed mechanic, I open

Cold War Ruins on Adak - Utility Support for U.S. Navy Spy Opps

CIRQUE the door slowly and slip inside. It’s quieter in here and no one seems to be around, but I yell, “Garvey! Hey Garvey” Wind whistles through a crack as the snow beats against the metal building. Some heat in here but not much. No one works tonight. The weather’s too bad. Garvey’s always screwing around and into everyone else’s business. He could be anywhere. Maybe he’s with the cooks. He always says, “The cooks know where the action is.” I stand in front of the door and stare into my fogged goggles reminding myself, on a night like this I want to move as slow as possible. I’m just a warm body, maybe not even that. My goggles clear the minute I step into the fury and the wind-driven snow beats against my arctic suit. The ground blizzard is five feet high, give or take a foot. I step out of the shadow of the shop and the camp lights reveal a horizontal stream of cranberry-size chunks of snow sweeping across the land. I decide not to look for Garvey in the garage. As far as I’m concerned the one-eyed asshole is never going to get a phone. Earlier today we anchored the communication building to blocks of ice but its small size provides little protection against the raging wind arctic. I pull open the door and Garvey isn’t here either. The inside is bright white and clean with racks of sophisticated communication

Peter Porco

Cirque, Vol. 7 No. 1  

A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim

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