The Woman in Oil Fields by Tracy Daugherty Page A

forgotten it. We sat there all afternoon, improvising what she called the chorus.
    â€œI’ll tell you what I’ll do,’’ Mrs. Waldrip said when we were done. The room had grown dark. She’d had several drinks. “I know a man over in Odessa who owns a recording studio. For eight bucks an hour you can rent it. He’ll produce a demo tape for us – hell, we sound good, just the three of us, don’t we? Who needs a bass-line? We’ll make us a demo and send it around to all the record companies, won’t that be wonderful? Which label does Bobbie Gentry sing for? This song’ d be perfect for her.”
    â€œI’d better call my mom now,” I said.
    Jackie wouldn’t look at me.
    The next day, on the oil field bus, he apologized. “She wants to practice again with you and me.”
    â€œWhat about the ‘Crystals’?”
    â€œWhen we do the demo, she’ll get this record-business out of her system.’’
    â€œWe’re not really going to record her song?” I said.
    Jackie shrugged. From the bus windows we saw the horselike men hoist heavy pipes through bright steel rigging toward the sky. Jackie watched intently. Over and over the men squatted, lifted, heaved, and tugged until I felt certain their bodies would break.
    ______
    I don’t recall how many weeks passed before Mrs. Waldrip phoned my mother to ask if she could “borrow” me for the evening. I hadn’t told Mom anything about her. I knew if my folks learned how much she drank, they wouldn’t let me see Jackie again.
    Around six o’clock one evening the Waldrips pulled into our driveway in a red Chevy wagon. I’d never seen Jackie’s father: a small man – or rather, a tall stooped man, twisted by whatever tools he used at work. Tiny broken veins formed faint kaleido-scopes on his cheeks. He shook my hand. “David,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
    â€œYessir.”
    We loaded my drums in the rear of the wagon. Mrs. Waldrip promised my mother they’d have me back by ten at the latest. My mother was excited. I think she thought her son was about to become famous.
    Jackie was subdued. He held his hands in his lap. “Hi,” I said, sliding into the seat beside him. He nodded.
    Odessa lay twenty miles west of Midland, on Highway 80. Oil rigs and mobile home parks cluttered the tumbleweed-desert on either side of the road. We passed the Texan Drive-In, which showed X-rated movies. The marquee read Fly Down Inside . The sun had just set – orange streaked the sky near the sandy, fiat horizon – and the feature had begun. The screen partially faced the highway; from the corner of my eye I could see a naked thigh the size of a diesel truck.
    Mr. Waldrip stopped at Pinkie’s Liquor and bought two bottles of Old Charter and some paper cups. He toasted his wife twice before we even left the parking lot.
    Jackie looked out the window, at fences and cows.
    Odessa was a blue-collar town – people there manufactured drilling equipment for the oil patch – whereas Midland was a banking center. I remember my father saying Odessa was a filthy city, full of toughs, bums, and thieves. He said he’d never live there.
    The Waldrips, on the other hand, looked and felt more at home once we entered the “Big O.” “I just love the Big O,” said Jackie’s mother.
    Ace Records, the recording studio – a square, cinder-block building which I’m sure no longer stands – was located on a narrow corner, under a giant sign for Salem cigarettes. A red light glowed above the door. The place was locked tight.
    Mrs. Waldrip insisted that I pull my drums out of the car and set them on the sidewalk.
    â€œHoney, why don’t we wait’ll the man comes and opens the door?” asked Jackie’s father.
    â€œHe’ll be here any minute.” She pinched Jackie’s arm.