Petropolis

In class on Tuesday, we discussed Edmonton as a petropolis. I wanted to insert an OED definition of the word here, as is my custom, but apparently this term has not yet entered the dictionaries. Still, the meaning is clear enough: a petrol-metropolis. One thing that was noted in our discussion was the lack of local art recognizing or addressing our life as an oil-dependent, oil-producing province.


One of my favorite photographers, Edward Burtynsky, exhibited at the AGA a while back, with an extensive series on Oil. His work is the only example that comes to mind when I think of petropolitical art. See Burtynsky's work here, make sure to peruse his works, especially those under "Oil". 


Living in a petropolis, I think we have a unique perspective on the tar sands. Like the rest of the world, we are aware of their negative environmental impacts. But we also have a sense of their prevalence, their necessity to our current economy and society. When I got home on Tuesday, I decided to try my hand at a petronarrative. Not having much (any) experience with the industry myself, I did the requisite thirty minutes of googling before I started to write. Of course, this means my view is incomplete, so if you have further knowledge on the subject, please share it with me. Without further ado, here is the story I wrote:

Just One Pump

The call comes at 5:07 am. By the time I’m out of bed, dressed, and driving to the ponds, the red of dawn is only beginning to hint at day. Already though, there are tail-lights in front of me on the road, some of them, no doubt, bound, as I am, for the tailings.

They called it an emergency, but then, so is morning coffee at this hour, and “emergency” generally translates to “long day” around these parts. I never took Latin in school, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the proper translation.

I did take linguistics once – in first year university, before I quit in favour of a job up north with real money. I remember one thing from that class: reduplication. Kinda fun to say. It’s where you repeat some part of a word to make a new one. Apparently, in other languages, it makes words plural or something, but I always remembered it like a double double. My prof said that a double double isn’t really reduplication, that we don’t really have reduplication in English, but I like it anyway. That’s what I’m thinking about, as I wait at the Tim’s drivethru – reduplication, and my apple fritter donut.

When I finally make it to the pay window, the sun’s already broken the horizon, which is a shame, because I like to watch it slide up over the ponds. Still, if this day is as long as most, I’m like to catch it later, as it slips back down.

On site, people have started unpacking supplies from the backs of their trucks: boats, boots, rubber gloves, and bottles of Dawn. The first time I saw one of these operations go down, I couldn’t stop laughing. Dish soap! I mean, I guess I just assumed there was something a bit more scientific or, well, specialized for cleaning up oily ducks.

When I see Dawn, all I can think of is that stupid little slogan: “just one pump and the dishes are done.” That, and my mom making me do the dishes. I used to squirt barrels of that stuff into the dishwater – if I was going to have to handle dirty dishes, I didn’t want to see the grime. Soap suds do a pretty good job of hiding it. Trouble is, since I couldn’t see what I was doing, a lot of the dishes would come out still dirty.

I’ll tell you one thing though – it takes a lot more than “just one pump” to clean up a duck. Really, this whole thing’s a charade. Anyone who’s been working here for any amount of time knows that. By the time we get our rubber-gloved hands on these birds, they might as well be dead. It’s like we’re prettying them up for an open casket funeral. For the media, more like. We gotta pose, put on this show from dawn to dusk to publicize our penance. Funny thing is, if we didn’t have to spend our resources parading around for the environmentalists with our elaborate apologies and bottles of Dawn, we might be able to do something more about keeping those birds away.

Not that I care, I mean, I’ve got my double double, and a donut happily in my stomach by now, and all things considered, it’s not a bad day’s work. They’ll pay us overtime for it, which’ll mean a night out later this week with the boys. Or maybe I’ll put this one aside for Mary – our anniversary’s coming up, and though she’d never say it, I know she’d like something more than flowers and a kiss on my way out the door.

Sometimes, after one of these long days, I’ll bring her back some of the half-used bottles of Dawn. She’s thrifty, so she appreciates that. “Wouldn’t want to see them go to waste,” she says, “and I know how these companies are...”

Lunch break is a regular fiesta. We like to joke around about the name “tar sands,” and pretend we really work on sandy beaches. Only thing we’re missing is the hula dancers. Sure, they’ve got that thing going for women in the trades and all, but the truth of it is, I think this is one equal opportunity the girls’d rather pass up.

We pass around whatever we managed to grab on the way out the door in the morning – corn chips, peanut butter, some leftover waffles from Sunday breakfast. A couple of the guys make a run to the Subway to supplement our stocks. We’re all loyal Tim’s patrons, but after a morning like this, their sandwiches just aren’t big enough.

After eating, we don our gloves again, and the second half of the day passes much like the first – the reporters come in and out, and a few trucks stop by to carry away the dead ducks and bring more Dawn.

The number of workers dwindles with the light – there is a general understanding that when dusk comes, what’s done is done. After all, the TV people can’t take pictures in the dark.

I usually stay longer though – I tell Mary it’s so that I can collect the leftover bottles for her, but really I just like to watch it all after the people are gone.

I’ve never been to the ocean, but I like to imagine that at sunset, it would look like this. It’s deep enough there that the water must seem black. As the sun sinks, it sort of shimmers over the surface of the ponds, like you always see in the movies. I watch the horizon to the west, where there’s just one pump jack, nodding in slow motion. Like it knows what I’m thinking, and agrees: this is almost beautiful.

Then I pack everything up into my truck, and hit the highway home.