But without fail after a few months I would get what my old boss called “a rabbit up my ass” and I would start looking for a rig again. The characters you meet in the oilfield are unbelievable—from full-on rocket scientists with multiple Ivy League degrees and a keen interest in painting to-scale miniature sixteenth-century military figurines on their bunks, to Billy Bob the brain-dead redneck excon whose misspelled jailhouse tatts, fart jokes, and new truck back home are all he can talk about. Put a combination of twenty guys like that in a rundown backwater bar in some Godforsaken corner of
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