I Was A Rig-Pig

I grew up in a small, transient town in the mountains, and shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I was introduced to the demographic group affectionately called by the locals, "Rig Pigs." These were the unshaven men with black crud caked under their fingernails and who wreaked of money. They usually travelled in packs of about 6-8, and sometimes one would include an extra female. The smaller packs were part of a much larger herd, overtaking our hotels and bars.

Local females loved the Rig Pigs, as they would often take advantage of the Pig's generosity. I remember nights where I came home with more money than I had gone to the bar with, after not having to buy myself a single drink, then getting a paid cab ride home, while still maintaining my virginity. Many local females would "date" the Pig for the duration of his stay, some females even chose to mate with them.

I moved out of the mountains and into the prairies when I was 22ish. The prairie town I found myself in introduced me to the new demograph, the "Trophy Wife." Trophy Wive's usually had some form of unnatural coif, outrageously long fingernails, and leathery skin. They wear a lot of perfume and body lotions to hide the stench of money. The bulk of this town's population consisted of Rig Pigs and Trophy Wives.

I was lured into the oil and gas industry by, of course, the money and the lifestyle I thought I could live with it. I then decided to become a "Band-Aid." A Band-Aid, I learned is the female that follows the packs of Rig Pigs on their travels. They are there in the event that someone gets hurt, to provide a Band-Aid Fix.

I took my courses, graduated with top marks, and set out on my first job. It was totally not what I was expecting.

The first job I worked on was accessible by vehicle, and only an hour's drive from home, which meant I could be home every night. I was up at 3 am, on the site by 5. The thermometer in the truck read -40 celcius. That was as low as it could read.

I met my fellow Rig Pigs, gave them their safety speech:

"So I kind of like seeing you boys healthy and standing infront of me with all your limbs attached. Let's keep it that way."

This kind of work is always outside. The temperature dropped to -53 celcius, we had a man 80' up in the air where it was really windy. We never did find out what the temp was with the Windchill factor. It was so cold that when I tried to get into my unit, I froze my hand to the handle. Yikes.

That was a fourteen hour day, twelve of which were spent thawing the lines so they could move one length of pipe before it got too cold.

 My second job was far more exciting.  It was a four hour's drive from nowhere, Highway 40.  It was in the most beautiful mountains I've seen.  I would be staying in a camp, they didn't know if it would be 2 weeks or 3 before I got to come home again.

My job was to sit between two rigs along the pipeline, and wait for someone to get hurt.  I read books about anxiety disorders so that I could quit my job before I developed one.  I ended up with OCD. 

I spent a lot of time with my fellow Rig Pigs, learning about how things worked, and seeing first hand what these dirty smelly men did for their Trophy Wives.

They worked 12 hour days no matter what the weather was like, and there's no such thing as sick days.  Many of the men I was working with had been in this particular camp for 4 weeks straight, dying to see their wives and kids.  Although many camps were marked "Dry Camps", I don't think there were cavity searches, if you know what I mean.

It was a dangerous job, since these men, some were even boys, were dealing with noxious gasses, tons of pressure, and highly combustible materials.  Things explode, crash and fall almost without warning.  Everybody walks on eggshells.

You don't sleep in camp, either.  The cots are extremely uncomfortable, with itchy sheets.  So now they're not only in a dangerous environment, but they're extremely fatigued, and because they miss home so much, some escape into narcotics.

I was lucky that both of my jobs were vehicle accessible, as many sites are not. Workers get flown in on Cessna's and other tiny planes held together by Duct Tape (No joke). One of the sites I worked on had a hill too steep for trucks to travel safely. I was pulled up and down the hill by a John Deere. It's really scary when you both start to slide.

I quit shortly after dealing with my first casualty. I was not at work when it happened, I was actually celebrating my home coming. Saving a life wasn't as glamorous as I had thought it would be. I went back to making $10.00/hr from $350.00/day.

After you've been a Rig Pig, the men who work on the rigs show a different respect towards you. You know their working conditions, and you share their fears. (I always told them "A slow day for me is a good day for all"). I've met so many who've seen horrific accidents take place right before their eyes. They're not losing a co-worker, they're losing a brother. I have two people very close to me that both suffer PTSD from seeing men die at work.

This was the period of my life where I got to know the other side, the Trophy Wife. No, I should say got into the altercation with the Tropy Wife.

We were at the bar, a few buddies and me, and when it was time to go home, a fake blond was trying to pick up on my buddy. I begged him not to go with her, but...well...you know how guys think. Then she said the words that made me boil over.

"The kids are at my sister's, and my husband's gone for another three weeks."

So I, drunk as a skunk, addressed the situation. "Lemme guess, your husband's out on the rigs, working his ass off for you, and you're going to show your appreciation by bringing this piece of $*&# home with you? I'm sure he'll be happy when Chlamydia is waiting here for him."

Local men love the Trophy Wife, just as much as the local women love the Rig Pig. She is a no strings attached girl who probably has every kind of booze imaginable in her liqour cabinet, a few platinum credit cards, and the keys to her husband's toys.

I walked away from a $350/day job for many reasons. One, of course, being the dangers associated with the job, the fact that while I was making tons of money, I was never home to spend it. What good is having an apartment and a car if you can't enjoy it? The other was that little cricket on my shoulder that kept saying "Dude, look at what this is doing to our Earth!"

You know, cutting down all the trees, leaving garbage laying around, I mean, yes there's "Environmentalists" on site, but they're getting paid by Shell Oil or Conaco Phillips. And they're making a heck of a lot more money than I was. Basically, we're just sucking mother nature dry when we have alternative sources of energy.

 So I've moved to a part of the country where the oil patch is not common knowledge, and because I have my work out there on my resume, where I thought it would look darn good, it instead invites potential employers to treat me like a side show freak.  Questions I've been asked in interviews: 

"How many people a month did you treat?"  (asked by an employment counsellor)

"What was your survival rate?"  (That was to work in a department store)

"Tell me about the worst accident you've seen"  (In a restraunt.)

My polite answer:

"I am bound by legal obligations.  I'll get sued and lose my license if I dignify those questions with answers."

If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. I would still take that job. I've held a job where a bad day consists of someone being critically injured. I've been responsible for lives, not money, and I got an inside look at the famous Rig Pig that makes every young lady in my small mountain town squeal with gluttonous delight.