A PROFESSIONAL ROUSTABOUT
Searching for work in a recession
This latest bit of autofiction reflects on the presence, in the early 1980s, of the offshore oil industry in the Maritimes. Exploratory drilling rigs were a regular sight in Halifax harbour, and the possibility of an oil boom galvanized the recession-struck area.
Stefan came back from marine emergency school Friday evening with a new friend he’d met on the course. Albert was a tall, gaunt fellow with an olive complexion, a fixed, friendly stare and always a slight smile. “Al was interested in getting some hash, if you wouldn’t mind dropping by Doug’s,” Stefan said.
”No problemo,” I said. “Just come back and do a few knives with us.”
”I’d be happy to,” Albert said. “I’m just so tired of having to go to the Lighthouse and drink their shitty draft in the afternoon so some shady guy can sell me some hash that doesn’t even get me halfways high.”
”Well, Doug’s selling black, mainly, but it’ll get you high.”
”Black’s good, by golly,” Albert said. He was looking at some of the art on the wall with a hangdog sort of expression. It was hard to figure what he might be thinking. “Yes, black’s fine. I’ve got some of this shitty stuff here, we could do a little right now if you’re into it.”
”Well, I’m definitely into it,” Stefan said, heading for the kitchen. “Of course, whether the stove’s up to it is another question.”
”Oh, stove’s busted?” Albert said, following him. He walked a bit bowlegged.
”Naw, it just sucks.”
Stefan twirled the front right burner knob to ‘high’ and stuck the blackened knives into the element. Albert methodically nipped a few tiny dots of brownish hash off his chunk with his fingernails and set up little lines on the burnt umber surface of the stove between the two front burners. When the element was glowing red, I got the Coke bottle toker out of the freezer. As was always the case when there were more than two people, one of us had to stand out in the entrance hallway while the others did the usual administering-toking ritual in the cramped quarters of the kitchenette.
”We’re gonna go see Diva Sunday night, I think,” I said as I waited my turn. “I could stop by Doug’s before the movie, that way I’ll have an excuse for not hanging around there listening to Mr. Slick talk forever and a day.” Stefan chuckled, tapped a dot of hash and administered a toke to me.
”That sounds good,” Albert said. “What’s Diva?”
”It’s a French film they’re showing at Wormwood’s,” I said in a strangled voice as smoke bled out of my mouth.
”Wormwood’s?” Albert raised his eyebrows.
”Wormwood’s Dog and Monkey Cinema,” Stefan explained. “You know, it’s ... like, a repertory cinema?”
”Oh, sure, yeah.”
We did our rounds with only minimal damage to our long-suffering lungs, and made our way to the Ikea table. While the coffee was brewing I found the Velvet Underground’s third, mellow album and put it on the stereo. Albert glanced out the window, then picked up Ol’ Salty and looked at him abstractly while he hemmed and hawed a bit without getting around to saying anything.
Stefan said, “Albert’s come from out west.”
Albert set the salt shaker down decisively. “Of course, originally I’m from Fredericton, but I’ve been out west for a few years now with the rigs.”
”Oh,” I said, suddenly excited. “You work on the oil rigs.”
”That’s right, professional roustabout,” Albert said, nodding complacently.
”He’s come back here looking for work offshore,” Stefan said.
”Well, you know,” Albert smiled wryly, “closer to home and all that. I’m a bit fed up with the west, that’s for sure. All the jobs have dried up there with the recession, and I got laid off along with everybody. I’d like to come back here if I can.”
”Aaron’s a westerner,” Stefan said.
”Oh really?”
”Naw,” I said. “My family’s from Manitoba, but I’ve spent a grand total of three years living there, in Winnipeg, back when I was a kid.”
”Where else did you live?” Albert asked brightly.
”All over. My Dad was in the Forces, so ... St-Jean, Quebec. Kingston, Ottawa, Petawawa ...”
”Really, army brat?”
”Not army, air force.”
”Oh. Of course there’s a big army presence right near Fredericton.”
”Yeah, Gagetown. I did Combat Arms Training there, back in 1979.”
”How about that. So you were in New Brunswick then?”
”For a summer. Never going back!” We laughed. “Nope, that was enough of that. So have you been having much luck looking for an offshore job?”
”Not yet. Just been here since January, started making the rounds, dropping in on all the companies doing exploratory drilling out here. A few weeks back, one of them thought to mention to me that if I wanted a job, I’d have to do this Marine Emergencies Duties course. Thank you very much!” We laughed. “So I went down to this place, and they put me on the list, and presto. Here I am.”
Albert was living in a clapboard rooming house down on Queen Street for two hundred a month. Between that and gas for his car and food and hash and all, he was scraping by just like we were.
”But I thought you made tons of money on the oil rigs,” I said.
”Oh, sure,” Albert said. “And you spend tons of money too. Up and down, all the time. We’d come off from four weeks on, and in two weeks we’d all be broke again. Time to sober up, and go back to work! I’ve been living on my savings so far, but frankly, if I don’t have a job in the next month or so, I’m going to have to go on UI.”
”I was wondering about UI, actually,” I said. “I’m gonna be out of school soon, and Stefan tells me I can apply for UI when I get out.”
”Yeah,” Stefan said. “A friend of mine did that.”
Albert nodded. “That sounds right.”
”How does it work?”
”I don’t know exactly,” Albert said, frowning and looking down at a piece of paper he’d been doodling on. “It’s just a matter of weeks, how many weeks of work you’ve got. You have to get some paperwork from your previous employers.”
”God,” I said to Stefan, “that means I’ll have to write to the boys at the carnival.”
Stefan said, “Uh-huh?” Albert observed this little exchange and went on.
”Yes, and if you have the requisite number of weeks, and all the other little bureaucratic doodads ... you know what? You should just – the minute you finish school, go down to the local UI office, make an appointment, they’ll tell you exactly what you need to do. Simple as that.”
”I certainly will,” I said.
”It’s worth it,” Albert said.
”Especially since I don’t really want to get a job,” I said, grinning.
‘Albert’ was never able to find a job with any offshore oil drilling companies. It was essentially a closed system which came with its own international networks of offshore rig workers; after months of fruitless interviews, dead ends and only one, quickly reneged offer, he moved back to The West and full employment, as the oil patch recovered from the recession.
Oil and gas exploration off Sable Island eventually yielded a major gas export project, which led to the construction of an underwater pipeline from the Thebaud wellhead to a gas liquids processing plant built in Port Tupper, Nova Scotia. The gas supply, largely piped to American markets, played out by 2018. Renewed offshore exploration, encouraged by the support of Premier Tim Houston and Prime Minister Mark Carney, has recently started up again.
The clippings that illustrate this piece came from The Halifax Daily News, January 1983; and the November and December 1983 issues of Atlantic Insight.