"No! You know why, Joe!"
The man paced about his office, scowling at the wall of corporate notices as he spoke to his friend.
"If its about the usual Thanksgiving reason, then - "
"No, it's not the usual, it's - " the man raked his long fingers through his hair, " it's that Thanksgiving". She could be so cruel – why wait until the day that was most filled with unhappiness to add yet more to it by choosing the very same day to announce she was filing for divorce? The thought hung in his mind, despite being distanced by so many years. Yes. She really must have hated him.
"Everyone will have someone," the man continued. "Jack will be with his mother and you; Erica is with Emma in San Francisco with Rachel and Ross. Their Youtube channel is really making a lot of money – who would have thought that would have taken off?"
"Not me," replied his friend, Joey Tribbiani, Broadway actor, coach and mentor nodded his head. "There's plenty of kids doing it now – look at your Jack. Whoever would have thought that a million people would want to watch a boy putting on makeup."
"I would say it was genetic, but of course, he was adopted," sighed the man. His friend had almost convinced him. But, flying to New York on Thanksgiving to celebrate with him would have inevitably have resulted in Joey, in his misplaced desire to bring back, "the old gang" and for the "old gang" to meet up in Central Perk, where Monica would have invariably arrived, successful and high-achieving, claiming full paternity maintenance for the twins regardless of his seeing them or not.
"Are you sure?" came his friend's voice on the line. "It would only take you a few hours to drive over to us."
"No thanks, Joey," he said firmly, clenching his fist and leaning it against the office wall. "But, for what it's worth - " a crash below brought Chandler Bing's mind to the present and the deserted temporary office block, ice cold now as the heating had been turned off for the long weekend holiday. Why he had chosen to work through this Thanksgiving day, heaven only knew. His bank balance knew, of course, and he could file for triple time because losers with no family and foreigners ignorant of the country's traditions would be prepared to work on a public holiday in this semi-deserted corner of North Dakota. And ultimately, he knew it was only him. His plans were to -
- crash – this time from above...
put on some wall-to-wall 80s music and get his head down on the spreadsheets.
"So, you're not coming? Pheebs and Mike are. The boys are at Mike's parents for the weekend." Joey was still on the line, waiting for Chandler to reply, and then deciding to give it one more try.
"Give her my best," said Chandler, firmly. "Anyway, you're breaking up. I've got plenty of web-design and patch-updates to complete. And other stuff." Like, he thought as he pressed the red "off" button on his mobile, finding out just precisely what that was.
88888888
Thanksgiving, she thought, as she made her way up the unlit staircase, bumping into the stairwell handrails again with her box files. Why do they need to switch the power off? I thought we were saving the country by providing cheap, relatively clean fuel, not to have it switched off at a moments' notice. At least the Pilgrim Fathers were grateful: the natives saved them, and look what they got for their trouble!
As Joanna reached the second floor she finally found the works' canteen, whose windows were high enough above the canopy of fir trees that the day's natural light could illuminate the maps and documents she was working on. And besides – it was triple time. That would go a long way – it would help her family at home, for one thing. For another, it would give her masses of experience that she could only dream of at home, so she could get the promotion in Lancashire. She could finally get her feet on the ground after five years of struggling. Perhaps things could begin to go right for her.
Getting to the canteen she did not notice the large bin to her right as she stepped in. It's aluminium-tinniness reverberating around the empty canteen.
"Bloody hell", she exclaimed aloud, as she unhooked her jumper sleeve from the handle of the door, which would ordinarily have torn it, of course. Lucky that didn't happen – it was the warmest thing she owned, having acquired it on the tour of the imaginatively-named Newtown, sixteen miles away, for a dollar at a thrift store and as it kept her so warm she carefully washed it daily, often reporting to the engineering laboratory with it still damp. It soon warmed up and would be dry by mid-morning.
It was pitiful, she had to admit, but it wasn't forever. Six month's at Caudrilla's take-over headquarters in Newtown, in the Bakken shale fields, North Dakota, and she had already the top-level experience she needed to be manager and co-ordinator of operations at their Southport site. At least there were few protests here – Joanna had seen one "green" protestor once on her bus-ride into Newtown one morning with the other workers. Not the masses of protests on her own country, "frack off" the oft-run amusing headline, as if the newspaper editors could think of nothing else original.
But the question was – did Britain want cheap energy? It was putting all fossil fuels out of business; there was a deep-rooted terror about nuclear and unless the entire archipelago of the British Isles wanted to be chained to Russia after Brexit, with the land covered in wind turbines and solar panels and every coast with tidal barrages and wave turbines, which could never happen, then either people would have to get used to shortages or shale gas was at least a stop gap if they didn't want thousand-pound fuel bills each month.
Rolling out the county maps of the gas and oil fields, the social and geophysical of the Bakken shale from the 50s, Joanna set to work on plotting the potential drilling sites in an already drilled area west of Newtown. Slow and laborious it would be checking and cross-checking she would soon get into a rhythm and the day would pass quickly. And tomorrow, the day everyone in the USA – and Britain too, as of recent years, spent ludicrous amounts of money on sale items for Christmas, she would be able to make more progress before calling home and speaking to them all.
Mum's birthday, of course, she reminded herself, and she could speak to them. Plus, it wouldn't be long until the end of February – the end of January if she chose not to use her overtime money to go home.
Back on it, Joanna told herself firmly. Back onto studying the Eagle Ford site for further corroboration. Likely place for the shale gas industry to move to, the temporary office building, the amenities, the complex where more affluent staff rented apartments – all temporary, unfixed, to go with the nature of the gas and oil fields beneath their feet.
How she longed for stability, for a place that was firm, to finish with her nomadic lifestyle that she had been forced into these last five years.
Another crash next to Jo – the chair knocking over.
"Dammit"
Looking up, she pulled the maps to herself and concentrated again. Westbury – few residences; over dense shale deposits – they had been worked by the end of the 80s, apparently. But not according to the latest geological survey, on which she was basing her proposal. Few legal problems.
She had proposed revisiting the Westbury site before – twice. And it had been dismissed. But she knew, she knew that the next glut of methane would be there, one which would make Continental a fortune. She just needed to think how she would sell it at the next –
"Well, hello." Joanna shot around as she looked across to the door through which she had clumsily stumbled a quarter of an hour ago. A middle-aged man was smiling at her, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame.
"I would say "Happy Thanksgiving"," he continued, "but as you are choosing to spend the day being thankful for triple time, like me, then you're either an embittered compatriot, or else a filthy foreigner." Jo felt her eyes widen. Clearly the man thought he was being funny, and she smiled.
"The second one." Jo glanced down at her maps and moved her head, indicating she had work to do. "Not that filthy – I managed to get in the shower this morning, and it was actually hot for once, as so many people have left for the holiday." She smiled at the man, hoping that he was going to remain friendly, then added, "and I filled in the lone worker book, so in the event of asphyxiation from the hydrogen sulphide, fire, hurricane or fireball explosion someone, at least, can find my body."
From the doorway, the man smiled again, unfolding his arms from his chest the putting them on his hips.
"I didn't: should have. But change of plan, last minute."
"No Thanksgiving for you then?" asked Joanna, getting to the point.
"No ma'am," replied the man. "Triple time was too much of a temptation to leave. Besides, Thanksgiving holidays and I don't mix."
"Well," replied Jo, looking down at her work, hoping he'd get the hint. She wanted to be out of there before it was too dark and too late to feel safe walking back to the trailer park, which served as temporary accommodation for the Continental workers who extracted the oil and gas from the Bakken. Then she looked back up.
"It's not even a day for me – it's just the third Thursday of November. Now, if you will excuse me – " she looked down at her maps. After a moment or two, she could sense the man still standing there. "I don't recall you in engineering?" she added, when he hadn't moved.
"Let me introduce myself." The man crossed over to her, putting out a hand. Oh, don't! thought Joanna, crossly, but made herself smile, anyway.
"Chandler. Bing. Software."
"Oh," replied Jo, a little impressed. Software here meant the guys who programmed the drill-heads to the correct spot in the rock. Like a jeweller working on cleaving a diamond, it was careful work, involved a degree of luck, and could cost the company millions if they got it wrong. Besides, anyone into computing would impress her – BASIC was about Jo's level.
"Do you work with Steve Silverman?"
"He works for me," replied Chandler Bing, leaning against the wall. "Say, would you like some company? I'm running the LIM off a generator – it's pretty gloomy on my floor – you picked a good spot."
"Well, I'd – " Jo was about to say no but, well, actually the guy did seem genuine: a bit of company wouldn't hurt. And besides, banishing him away to the horror of the second floor felt a little bit like kicking a puppy.
"OK, but I do need some quiet. Will your LIM be quiet? I'm trying to triangulate a piece of lower middle near Westbury again, the Lord knows I've tried twice and got the same answer, but I'm still working on it."
"Oh?" Chandler leaned forward, frowning as if to discern something from them himself, before backing off and folding his arms over his green knitted waistcoat.
"No idea," he admitted. "Better let the expert get on with it."
"Hardly," Joanna shook her head. "Maybe I should try to imitate your good accent to get my point across at the next meeting – I have no idea how I'm not getting them to listen. Perhaps if I did it like this…" Jo put on her best Yankee accent, as her colleague frowned.
"Sorry," she said, quickly. He'd clearly been offended.
But instead, Chandler grinned. "I like it. Your English is a little bothersome to follow – it sounds like you've just left the Palace, or something." Joanna shot back her own grin.
"The Palace? No! We all speak like this, more or less. So yes, go and get your computer, Mr. Bing, and perhaps you can send out positive vibes to me as I work out what I should present."
He was walking back to the canteen door before he turned, frowning at her.
"You're in engineering, but you're presenting to the CEO? Old Samuels?" Jo nodded.
"I'm deputy of this project – I'm here on a six-month ideas exchange from Caudrilla, before Continental take us over. Or merge, as my company like to put it. Didn't you know? Continental has bought them outright, you see, and as of February next year we will be one and the same. I just want to avoid the inevitable redundancies. When I finally get home I will be area manager, so long as this goes well – " she frowned, shaking her head at the three square miles of North Dakota in front of her.
"I guessed you were English, but I never guessed you were – " Chandler broke off as if something had just occurred to him, " – the English!" he added, staring at her for a second.
"The English?" Jo frowned. Somehow, something in the way he had said that didn't seem right.
"Never mind. I'll be back in five." Chandler pushed the door and Joanna waited to hear footsteps on the aluminium stairs, but instead she heard Chandler Bing, head of Continental's software programme, answer his phone, proclaiming, "No, no! I've already told Joey that I'm not coming down for Thanksgiving."
88888888
"I tried, mum, honest I did." Jack Bing, writer for the New York Times, presenter of his own male beauty Youtube channel and wannabe actor paced around the floor of his great-grandmother's apartment. If he had had a cynical bone in his body the young man may have wondered why it was that his mother had not given up the lease on her grandmother's place, no. 20, from where she and his father had moved out with his sister Erica and him when they had only been a few weeks' old.
As it was, Monica Bing had sublet the place, only for it to have become a refuge when her independent restaurant chain had gone bankrupt, along with thousands of others in the 2008 crash. Another thing which has then crashed was their marriage.
But, along with his sister, Jack had been in cahoots with his mother in trying to bring about his parents' reunion – things had been becoming warmer now that he and Erica had turned sixteen – they had talked on the phone, admittedly about their grades at the end of senior year, they had met up – Mum had managed to recoup some of her business losses and had reinstated a good chunk of it back into a specialist food chain which sat as a pop-up in a large department store, at which, it could be opened and closed at will, to meet with demand.
Of course, some of that money had technically been their father's. While Monica's business had failed in the late 2000s, though losing their house, Chandler had capitalised on technology, revealing a hidden talent in programming and development, especially engineering programming, that Jack suspected even his father didn't know himself that he had.
But, he missed him too, and now that his mother and Joey Tribbiani, his parents' friend and Broadway acting consultant, had tried to arrange for him to visit for Thanksgiving, Jack was feeling disappointed now that he wasn't going to see his dad now, especially as the "two E's" weren't going to be gracing them with their presence.
Never one to miss a business opportunity, and supported by Emma's parents, their Uncle Ross and Aunt Rachel, in Los Angeles, both girls had made their way as beauty influencers amongst the stars, having even appeared in the back drop of a Kardashian show.
That was where the opportunities and money were to be had nowadays, although how long that would last was anyone's guess. Jack filed his copy via email, used social media of himself in makeup, including his own tiny Youtube channel but, like his dad, there was a little bit of mistrust on the longevity and reliability of Youtube careers.
The door opened as Jack threw his keys into the basked onto the counter, having pulled out his mobile phone, ready to sink down into the apartment's old leather sofa, gifted to his mum when a neighbour passed away.
"I can;t believe you, of all people, didn't manage it." His room mate, once room mate of his father closed the door roughly behind him, wagging his finger in disapproval. As he was about to say something to Jack, the aroma of freshly-cooking dinner permeated Joey Tribbiani's nose.
"Nice!" Joey's tone suddenly altered and he nodded approvingly at the thought of the upcoming feast. "Your mom will be pleased." He crossed the floor, flopping down next to Jack. "You must have inherited her skills.
Jack turned his heed in disbelief, though the strength of it was mollified becsuse of the fact well, it was Joey Tribbiani who had asked it.
"I was adopted, remember?"
"Eh?"
"Never mind. I did my best, with Dad." Jack changed the subject, flicking back on his mobile and scrolling through his recent messages. "I mean, it can't have been easy for him – I never thought about it until now - now I'm living on my own - "
"You got me!" Joey slapped him on his arm.
"I mean, not as a child any more," specified Jack, still staring at his phone. "Since they had to sell the house, Dad's always just lived with at his work's place; he's not for a home, not really."
"All the more reason to get him down here, so he cam meet back up with you, and your mom. You said they were getting on well at Ben's wedding last year."
"Yep," nodded Jack. "And I tried. But it's Thanksgiving."
"And?"
"It's Thanksgiving, as I'm sure he would have mentioned when you last phoned."
"Oh, the whole "Thanksgiving" thing."
"But we can do it next weekend – I got him to agree to come down next weekend."
"Nice," nodded Joey, although Jack wasn't entirely sure whether his friend and Broadway acting consultant was referring to the deal he had just struck with his Dad, or the cooking. "And you'll have some news to tell him, of course."
"Why?" Jack put down the phone and looked at Joey, who was giving him a knowing look.
""Oh? Don't you know? Didn't Elaine call?"
"No."
"Oh, then I'll tell you. You know the new "Harry Potter" play is coming to Broadway in the spring?" Jack nodded, mutely.
"Yeah? Well, guess who got you an audition?"
"An audition? You? You got me an audition?" Jack got up, striding over his mentor, eyes wide in anticipation. "Oh, that's brilliant, Uncle Joey!" Jack nearly leapt off the sofa in joy, clapping him on the back.
"Yes, well, see what I do for you," Joey frowned in mild admonishment at his honorary nephew. "And you can't get your father here for one lousy Thanksgiving? Did you offer to pay for the flight from me, like I said?"
Jack nodded. "I did. That wasn't the point."
"Well, what will I tell your mom, then?"
But, before Jack could answer, both of them turned as a key turned in the lock, stopped, realised the door was open and turned the knob.
"What will you tell me? Joey?" She looked between her son and her friend. "What was it you wanted me over so early for?"
88888888
"Do you mind "The Cure"?" Chandler Bing, who had been working quite quietly, at the other side of the canteen, save the endless 80s music, had been alright. Joanna had contemplated leaving in search of somewhere alone, shortly after the man had, maybe working in her caravan, or something. She vaguely recognised him, although he reraly could have been anybody. But, over the last few hours he had done nothing but actually work, with wall-to-wall 1980s emanating from his computer.
"No, not at all." Got to be better than "Duran Duran" again. She looked back at her maps, and again at the notepad beside her. There was no mistake – the most statistically probable pockets of shale gas were to the north west of Westbury; the residents could be bought with a promissory of dividends, and the quantity, assuming the geologists' measurements were correct – and she had never ever seen an error, no matter how far back in Continental's records she'd looked – would seal the company's yearly profit.
But – how to put this across? She had tried before, but on both occasions had not been allowed time to speak. The first, Joanna had assumed her colleagues and superiors had read her apart. When it had turned out that they had nor, she had raised it at the monthly department summary. So, how was she going to handle it this time? Maybe the Yankee accent should come out after all.
"Y'all reahd mah repahrt," Joanna said, quietly to herself, in a mock Southern accent.
"I'm sorry, what?" Chandler's head appeared from over the top of his laptop screen. "Do you want me to turn this down?"
"No, that's fine," Joanna replied, feeling herself blush in the dullness, ducking her head back down. But Chandler Bing did not duck his head back down behind his screen. Instead, he stood up, and then walked over to her.
"What do you say we break for lunch I know I've got tons done. Looks like you were hard at it, too."
"No, thanks," Joanna replied, looking back at her work. "I've still got too much to do." Besides, she hadn't planned on lunch, just an early tea, call home, and early to bed. "Plus, she hadn't anything with her anyway; payday was still a week away, and the canteen which supplied lunch with the job every day was obviously closed.
"Ah, c'mon," Chandler said, leaning by her table. "You can't work all this time without a break. And, you've surely got all of that done by now? The results of the geophys are always right: I should know, I program the drills."
"Well, OK. But I'd forgotten the canteen would be closed today," she lied, "and I didn't bring anything. I thought I would work through and go to the caravan early."
"You can't go hungry," declared Chandler, hopping back to his makeshift desk, pulling out a paper package, then offering it our t her. "I made double. Cheese and ham."
"Maybe just half," conceded Joanna. "If you're sure."
"Not only am I sure," continued Chandler, leaving the packet by her, "but we can really push the boat out with - " stepping over to the water cooler, he poured out two plastic cupfuls of water, offering her one, "Continental's best, house white - " he mock-sniffed at one, " - vintage: yesterday." He took a sip, "hmm, fresh. An earthy, sulphurous undertone. Dissolved minerals." Joanna smiled.
"Some of them even a by-product of our own waste management processing system," laughed Joanna, taking the other.
"Think of it as "body," nodded Chandler, "it'll take your mind off the potential of mercury, arsenic and cadmium lingering in there." Joanna smiled again, taking s sip. Yes, it was indeed – water, slightly sulphurous, many heavy metals. The rumours were entirely true, she knew, despite how eagerly Continental tried to suppress any news reporting which might be disadvantageous to their image.
It wouldn't be like that in England – land was not owned like it was in America – people didn't own their land outright border to border – the council and local landowners owned, by default, anything not on a person's land registry record was crown land. So, to frack under a town, a myriad contracts had to be drawn up, and all had to be in agreement with one another, despite being different types of ownership, and therefore covered by different statutes in law.
And, even if Caudrilla overcame all of those issues, things would not be as simple as here. She should be lucky, Joanna knew, to be made to force her case here, for, in Lancashire, where next year the next expansion of drilling was to begin, all kinds of legal barriers would have to be overcome entirely stemming fro land ownership, even if she went into the presentation covered in oil and natural gas. Jo laughed at herself as she thought of the worries she had put herself through since she had arrived.
"What?" Chandler was staring at her.
"I was just thinking about something," Joanna said, cautiously. "Makes my propblems with the drill pitch seem like nothing."
"What problems do you have with your pitch?" Chandler proffered the sandwich pack again. Reluctantly, but gratefully, Joanna took another half.
"Just – my usual. Lack of forthrightedness, if that's even a word."
"Well it is now," Chandler nodded. "The ability to be as forthrighted as the Forthright Saga - " Joanna smiled, but said nothing. "And, you've never met my friend, Phoebe," Chandler added. "She just about fine-tuned by ability to be surprised at any word."
"So," Chandler continued, trying to fill the awkward silence since the conversation had died out, "why don't you try it out on me? You'll find I'm very strict, and would only let your pitch pass if you really do a good job."
Joanna sighed. While it sounded like a good idea, she hardly knew this man, even though he seemed nice, and somewhat of a joker, and he made her smile. It had been some time since she had done that.
"Okay," she said, slowly, "but not now. This filthy foreigner who is ignorant of this country needs some time to just put it together."
"Hey, I'm sorry," said Chandler, at once. "I thought you were a compatriot hating this holiday, like me." He smiled.
"It's fine," said Jo, dismissively. She'd been called worse. "Shall we say, in an hour?" Chandler nodded, and straightened up.
"OK. This board accepts your proposal, and will hear from Miss..."
"...Joanna Lucas..."
"Joanna Lucas, at fourteen-hundred hours." Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out. Her sister's number flashed up.
"Fourteen-thirty hours," corrected Chandler, nodding to her mobile. Joanna nodded as she for up, her ponytail bobbing as she stepped outside the canteen to take her call. Chandler smiled, pleased he had some company today, when he had anticipated alone-ness punctuated by the predictable phone calls he had already received requesting his immediate presence and company. At least this was something to be grateful for.
88888888
"And you're saying, it's not "Harry Potter", but a play called, "The Cursed Child?"
"Yes, mom," Jack Bing stabbed at a carrot as he looked at his dinner, for which he was supposed to be thankful. "It is "Harry Potter"; the author wrote a sequel. It's about Lord Voldemort's daughter."
"And you're trying out for "Harry Potter." If it's a sequel, aren't they all grown up? Aren't you too young?"
Jack knew it would come to this but, even knowing it didn't take away the intense pushiness of his mom, who would back away once he had told her, only to hove right back in and kill it with a word.
"His son is eighteen," Jack continued, knowing there was no easy way. Best to just get it over with. "I'm his son's friend, who doesn't make it onto Platform nine and three-quarters and then forgets he has a friend called Albus Severus Potter."
There it was: the silence. Well, almost silence. Joey was scraping his plate with the last of the turkey on his fork, his eyes drifting to the half-stripped turkey still left on the table. With his fork he managed to convey a wordless request. Jack nodded.
"It's a speaking part, mom," said Jack. "If I get it, I'll be seen by so many people, and big influential writers and managers will be there – this play is famous. Talent spotters, agents will be there, and it's not just the actors in big roles either." He turned to his roommate. "Tell her, Uncle Joey."
"You're doin' great," Joey nodded, putting another piece of turkey diplomatically into his mouth. Jack turned back to his mother, falling silent.
"Well," began she, with all the positivity she could manage. "You haven't got it yet." A weighty silence followed, and then Monica asked her ex-husband's son about her ex-husband. "I thought you said your Dad was coming?"
"Couldn't convince him to," Jack replied quickly, glaring at Joey, who had his head bowed over his plate, munching on turkey meat. "Neither of us could. But he said he'd come next weekend."
"He did?" Jack heard his mother's tone soften and brighten.
"Yes," Jack nodded. "Perhaps we can get the E's to fly over for some of it. He'd like that."
"I'll ask them," said Monica, quickly. "I'll call Rachel. Now," she said, looking across to the oven, "I hope my wonderful son made pumpkin pie for his first Thanksgiving?" Jack nodded. "Your culinary skills are defnintely improving," she added, stroking Jack's shoulder. He smiled as his mom got up to get it.
"See, I told you," said Joey, pouring the last of the gravy onto his plate. "You get all your skills from your mother."
88888888
"Well, Miss Lucas," Chandler Bing was sitting at the table at which he had been typing, laptop screen down, music off. "I have heard your proposal. It would seem that your facts are correct – we concur." He nodded around at his imaginary board. Jo was too nervous to smile along. "However, we need to ask you to clarify your feelings on this matter."
"Excuse me?"
"You said your feelings lead you to believe that there is a high quantity of oil and gas in the lower shale level, B2, beneath Westbury. I can't sell this to the mayor based on your feelings."
"Er," began Joanna, floundering for words. "That is to say, by looking at the evidence, overlaying the geological topography diagrams, overlaying the geological strata, which is corroborated, both carried out independently, as you can see from the "Executive Statement." Jo pushed her hair back from her face, as Chandler nodded encouragingly. "I conclude that, to a high degree of certainty, several hundred million tonnes of gas is within the permeable rock layer." She smiled. That sounded alright, actually. She could work with this.
"Well, we will need some time to consider your well-delivered, well-researched proposal," pretended Chandler, still role-playing. "A minute, although," he added, as a faux-aside, "the real board may take longer." Joanna nodded in mock-seriousness.
"And then, when Jo thought that the systems manager of Continental would continue playing, he stood up, smiling.
"I think you have it, Joanna Lucas. And, if I may advise you, I've worked here for more years than I care to admit – call the board for this, don't wait for "any other business" at the end-of-the-month meeting. You will find that you will make your point while the ears of the board are on nothing else and Bob will be more receptive You've nailed it."
"Thanks," nodded Jo, trying to sound casual as she felt her pulse quicken at the prospect of a board meeting. Call the board? Her? Having been rejected, twice? It was sound advice - it made sense – but...
"It's good," reiterated Chandler beginning to dismantle his computer. "And, you won't have to try that God-awful accent that makes you think you sound like one of us." Jo felt her mouth begin to smile, then open in horror.
"I'm so sorry! Did I offend you?" She put her hand to her mouth. "I had no intention of - "
"Look, relax...no," Chandler stopped mid- de-cord, and put his hands on his hips, "of course not. It was rather funny, actually. Made me thankful to have someone around when I thought the day was gonna be so boring, English."
Jo smiled, and then turned back to her maps, sitting down.
"You're not staying?! It's past three on a winter's night in North Dakota." Chandler was continuing to pack up his computer equipment.
"Well, I was," Joanna concede. "But, I suppose, if I "nailed it", as you said," then I needn't stay long. As long as you vouch for the fact that I stayed 'til five. I need the money."
"Alright," nodded Chandler. "And, you'll do the same for me too, right?"
"Yes, of course," nodded Jo. She dolded up the maps and, in her case, put the notes she'd made and the local map of Westbury. Finally, Chandler turned off the generator and the light went out. He was right, it really was dark. She wouldn't have been able to stay 'til five; she'd never have seen her way out of the canteen and would probably have broken her neck down the stairs.
"Careful," Chandler warned as she banged into the bin again, with her bag. "You don't want two broken legs for Bob Samuels." He held open the door in the gloom and Jo stepped through.
"Thanks," she said, following him down, pausing at the second floor as Chandler dropped off the computer equipment before they both descended the stairs again to the lobby.
"I make that 5pm, Miss Lucas," declared Chandler, using his mobile phone to illuminate the lone worker record.
"I concur, Mr. Bing," nodded Joanna. As they approached the door, Chandler pushed it open, holding it, when she stepped left, towards the Newtown, where the temporary caravan city – Murder Town.
Chandler put his hand on her shoulder, and asked, "you're the deputy engineer?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I thought you were kidding about staying at the trailer park,
"They're cheap. More money for my family."
Well, you're not walking there on your own; there's no bus," Chandler declared, allowing the automatically-locking door to close behind them.
"I can walk, it's fine, honest."
"The board of directors overrule you, there, Miss Lucas. And besides, it would make me feel better." In the darkness, Joanna smiled.
"C'mon, I'll give you a ride."
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Chaos City was living up to it's name. Already, gangs of men, would have ordinarily clocking off in an hour or so's time, were milling around, the front of the seven-eleven, bottles of alcohol in hand, jeering and leering as others of their ilk came to join them. It was usual. But she usually got in by nightfall, and up 'til now Jo had never before registered the risk.
"Just here," she told Chandler, pointing towards a row of static caravans which led out into the open wasteland, the topsoil of the Bakken. "Doesn't look like the Millers are back yet, although Mrs. Miller did say something about a long weekend in Chicago. Thanks," Jo turned her head to Chandler who was now surveying the place that was called Caravan City to those being polite and Murder Town, Murderville and Hooker Heaven to those who were not. Jo pulled on the handle of the Ford. Within seconds, Chandler was on the other side, holding it open.
"Joanna, listen. I'm at the company complex. I'd be really rather more comfortable if you were to come back with me, and lets see if I can bribe the janitor to let you stay in the relatives' room?" A jeer went up from the down-tooled workers as a group of young girls wandered nearby.
"Just, go and get some things you might need; works payin' us tomorrow anyway and I can give you a ride back in the daylight?" Jo thought for a moment, taking in her colleague's face, crinkling with concern as a truck laden with more young men arrived, flashing the truck lights and honking the horn.
"Please?"
"Alright. But, are you sure? Isn't it more holiday tomorrow?"
"Of course," Chandler said, his voice one of worry. "It's a ten mile walk otherwise, for you." He held the door open purposefully then closed it, ushering Jo to where Jo was leading. He waited as she opened the caravan door, watched her put down her work things and then grabbing a bag which she filled with some clothes from a washing basket.
Securing the door, to a crescendo of further cars and trucks announcing their arrival, she turned to Chandler Bing, a man who she had never met before that day, and said, "Thank you,"
"Don't mention it. Do you think I want your rape and murder on my conscience?" Before she could scoff as his fear, she saw his face and thought better of it, getting into the car, throwing her bag into the back.
"Well, whyever it is you don't like Thanksgiving, may I wish you a Happy Third Thursday of November, Chandler?"
From the driving seat, the man turned to glance at her for a moment, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He stamped on the gas pedal as if he hated it. Steering past the boiling crowds of Caravan citizens Chandler replied, "Same to you, English, same to you."