Roughneck Read Free Page B

pledged and a student in the College of Agriculture.
           Came the dawn—as they used to say in movies—and there were curses and recriminations as bitter as they were mutual. I felt that I had been swindled. They, my fraternity brothers, felt that they had been. And it was too late to correct matters. We had to put up with one another, and make the best of it.
           They crammed me at every opportunity to get me though my courses (a failing student could not belong to a fraternity). But naturally they could get me no job. How could they, a guy as dumb, agriculturally, as I was? It was up to me to find work for myself, and I couldn't be choosy about it. For the fraternity dues and assessments had added almost a third to my contemplated living costs.
           Eventually, and largely among the faculty members, I made some wonderful friends at the Agricultural College of the University of Nebraska, and I actually learned quite a bit about agriculture. But my first few months there were the most miserable in my life. I detested everyone, or so I convinced myself. Everyone appeared to detest me. I lived in a turmoil of worry, disappointment, disgust and self-doubt. Meanwhile, I had taken the first job I could find—as night attendant in a funeral establishment.

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    I went to work at six o'clock at night, and remained until seven in the morning. My pay was fifty dollars a month. My duties were mainly confined to answering the telephone, and to receiving the occasional callers who dropped by to look upon their late loved ones.
           Since I was permitted to sleep at the place—thus saving the price of a room—and since there was plenty of time to study, the job was nominally a good one. But for me, ever squeamish and imaginative, it was a small-scale nightmare. I couldn't sleep in the eerie, softly-lit quiet. I couldn't concentrate on my books. My jittery nerves were always on the point of popping through my skin, and when Bill, the ambulance driver, would creep up behind me and address me in ghostly tones, I literally hit the ceiling.
           A southerner and a college student like myself, Bill was the other night employee. He had practically as much time on his hands as I had, and when he wasn't pestering me he was usually down in the basement casket room. He said that I should join him down there—the coffins were beautifully padded and made excellent beds. And it was so peaceful, too, just like being in a nice quiet grave.
           "You come along with me, Jim, boy," he would warmly insist. "You jus' let old Bill tuck you in. I got one all picked out for you—a big bronze job with a real heavy lid. I'm tellin' you, man! You get in that good old casket and I close down that good old lid, and you just naturally 'got' to relax..."
           I was horrified, then puzzled by his antics. It just didn't seem reasonable that any man could be so perpetually merry in such depressing surroundings. The suspicion grew in my mind that there must be some attraction in the basement besides the caskets.
           One night when Bill had laid hands upon me and was insisting that I climb into one of those "good ol' coffins," I grabbed him by the shoulders. Pulling him close to me, I ordered him to expel his breath. He did so, grinning guiltily.
           "You sure won't tell no one, will you, Jim?" he pleaded. "The boss man'd just naturally pop his pumpkin if he found out about it."
           "Lead the way," I said firmly. "We're wasting time."
           He led the way, back into the deepest recesses of the basement. Reaching into a dust-covered pine casket, he withdrew two quarts of homemade beer. His landlady made it, he said, and he always arrived at work with a goodly supply.
           We drank. He looked into my face expectantly.
           "Not bad," I said. "Of course, it's pretty warm."
           "Not bad, pretty warm!" Bill exclaimed. "Now, ain't that just like