The Rig was an oasis for the homeless. Two miles off of the Texas coast, it was an abandoned oil rig turned into a shelter for the homeless. It was against the law, but the authorities never seemed to pay us any mind.
Out of sight, out of mind. Isn’t that the general position most places take on the homeless?
I’m not sure how long The Rig had been going before I ended up there, but when I arrived, it was a like full-fledged town on the water. A few people ran boats back and forth to the mainland. Some of the long-term residents operated like a city council. There were shops, a clinic, and a gas-powered generator to charge cell phones.
A few local charities and food pantries would bring fresh water and dry goods a few times a month. Everyone got a bit for themselves, but the bulk was saved for those who couldn’t go to the mainland for day labor.
The most impressive feat was the garden. Over countless years people had hauled dirt a few buckets at a time until there were dozens of planting beds on the old helicopter pad. No one officially oversaw it, but an older lady named Greta prided herself with constant care and tending.
I lived there for seven years. After losing all of my worldly possessions, The Rig was the first place I ever felt at home. Shuffling from the alleyways to the shelter and back to the alleyways had worn me down. I had almost given up when Freddy told me about The Rig.
“I’m headin’ for the coast, Tim,” Freddy told me one day. He was a decade older than me and a good friend. I wouldn’t have gotten through my first few years on the streets if it weren’t for him. “Got an old friend who says there’s plenty of space out on an old oil rig. A fella at the coast will take me out to it for a few bucks. You oughta come.”
“An oil rig?” I asked in disbelief. “Why the hell do you want to go live on an abandoned oil rig? Sounds too risky.”
Freddy laughed and swatted me on the back.
“It’s like a floatin’ city. No cops to mess with you. No business owners chasing you away from their shops. Just a bunch of people like us that came together to prop each other up. What have you got to lose? The convenience store canned you and sleeping on the streets has lost its luster.”
Two days later we hitched a ride to the coast.
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Freddy and I were blown away after we arrived. When he told me about the Rig, I had imagined a filthy squat pad filled with trash and waste. It was quite the opposite. Aside from the rust of the aging structure, The Rig was kept immaculately clean. No one slept in the open. Every available inch of indoor space was dedicated to sleeping space and food storage.
A kind woman named Janet gave us both sleeping bags and blankets upon our arrival and took us to an old boiler room where there was available space to sleep at night. She told us we could leave our belongings in the boiler room but Freddy and I were apprehensive.
“Don’t want anyone stealin’ my stuff,” Freddy said curtly. “Leavin’ stuff sittin’ around is a good way to get fleeced.”
“You’ll find the community here quite respectful of everyone’s property,” she said. Janet reached into her back pocket and pulled out two yellow sheets of paper filled with handwriting and gave them to both of us. “Those are the rules here on The Rig. We have a three-strike policy here. If you break the rules three times, you’re banished permanently.”
We both began to read this list of rules.
Rule 1. No theft of any kind. Failure to repay debts is considered theft.
Rule 2. No fighting.
Rule 3. No drug use.
Rule 4. Drinking is allowed in moderation.
Rule 5. If you don’t contribute food or goods to the community, you must work daily to maintain The Rig.
Rule 6. Do not enter the mechanical room below the Drill Module.
“Seems reasonable enough,” I said and extended the list back to Janet. “Who decides if the rules have been broken.”
“You can keep it,” she replied. “We have an informal council that meets every Saturday night in the mess hall. It’s made up of our oldest residents. They will hear complaints and decide if a rule has been broken. If the incident is serious, the council will get together that day.”
We thanked her and headed to settle in.
Over the next few years, Freddie and I integrated nicely into the community on The Rig. The population remained roughly the same. New people would arrive occasionally. Old timers would move on from time to time.
Freddy and I spent most of our time on The Rig. Before he lost his job and home, Freddy had worked in construction and welding. The council was excited to find out about his experience and asked if he would be interested in helping maintain the facilities. He agreed but asked that I be allowed to assist him.
It was a comfortable life.
The uncomfortable part came when we saw our first banishment.
During a Saturday meeting with the council, a man was brought forward to answer for a rule infraction. His third. He was an older man with a long beard and a thin frame. His eyes were red with tears as he stood before the group.
“My name is Albert Martin,” he said with a shaking voice. “I have been accused of stealing three cans of soup from a neighbor. Someone found the emptied cans under my cot. I was framed! Someone knew I’d been in trouble two times already and pinned this on me. Have mercy! I have nowhere to go!”
The crowd murmured with discussion as the old man wept. Freddy and I could hear the conflicting opinions amongst the community. Some thought there wasn’t enough evidence while others said Albert was a known rule breaker and was likely guilty.
“Albert Martin,” one of the councilmen said. “This is your third infraction and we cannot tolerate theft on The Rig. Many here rely on the food donations we receive. You are banished and will not return here.”
“No!” Albert shouted. He pulled out a rusted blade with a cloth-wrapped handle and held it toward the council. “I don’t have anywhere to go! I didn’t steal the damn food! It’s a setup!”
While the man waved the knife at the group in front of him, Freddy tapped me on the shoulder and beckoned me to follow him. He crept silently up the aisle behind the man. Moving surprisingly quick for his age, he darted forward and wrapped his arm around Albert’s neck.
“Get the knife!” Freddy shouted to me and I pried the blade from the old man’s hand.
“Take him to the mechanical room downstairs!” demanded a woman from the council. “We will hold him there until he can be taken back to shore.”
Freddy and I carried the thrashing man out of the mess hall and down the stairs toward the mechanical room. A man trailed behind us and pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. We tossed him inside and slammed the hatch shut and the man locked it.
“You’ve killed me, you bastards!” Albert shouted from inside the room. He hammered on the door and threw his weight against the thick metal. “You hear me? You’ve killed me! They aren’t taking me to the shore! Those damn things are gonna kill me!”
Freddy and I turned to leave but the old man’s wails of fear and agony resonated in my mind.
What things was he talking about?
I would find out years later when Freddy was found guilty of his third violation and ended up in the mechanical room.
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Freddy was a hard worker and well-loved in the community, but in his later years, he became overly fond of alcohol. He managed to keep it to himself for a while, but over time he grew angrier when he was drunk. That’s when the trouble began.
His first violation was a simple fistfight. Freddy sat on his cot, drinking hooch and talking loudly to anyone who would listen. A man who slept in the far corner from us asked him to quiet down so he could sleep. Without warning, Freddy punched the man and told him to shut up.
The second violation came when Freddy drunkenly rifled through another man’s gear looking for cigarettes. He found half a pack of crumpled Marloboros and was closing the bag when the man entered. Freddy returned them, but the damage was done.
His final violation came when a woman and her husband asked Freddy to fix a leak in one of the bunk houses. He insisted it was already repaired but they told him the leak had continued. Feeling insulted, Freddy shoved the husband and told him to piss off. When the man begged him to come to look at the leak, Freddy punched him.
With that, the council decided his fate and had two men haul him off to the mechanical room to wait for a departing boat.
That night when I returned to my cot, I saw all of Freddy’s belongings sitting on his bed. I began to bag them up to take down to the mechanical room for his ride back to shore. After gathering them up, I headed to the stairs into the lower level of The Rig.
When I arrived on the lower level, there was a man from the council, Carl, standing guard beside the door to the mechanical room. Freddy was banging on the door and begging the man to let him out. He stood stone-faced, staring in my direction.
“Tim, stop.” the man said to me. “Freddy has already been judged. We’re just waiting on a boat.”
“I know,” I said, gesturing toward the backpack full of my friend’s belongings. “Just wanted to drop his stuff off so he can take it back with him. I don’t want him to leave with nothing.”
“Just drop it there,” Carl said flatly. “I’ll make sure he gets it before…”
Suddenly the air was filled with agonized screams. You could always hear muffled yelling on the upper levels when someone was locked up awaiting their banishment, but the thick floor plating always made it inaudible. Up close, I could hear the fear in my friend’s voice.
“What the hell is that?” Freddy shouted. “Let me out of here! It’s going to kill me! Open the damn door!”
“You need to leave,” Carl said, pointing toward the stairs.
“Something is in there with him!” I shouted. “Let him out!”
“This is how it works, Tim,” he spat. “If you don’t want to join him, you’d better go.”
I could see the keys to the room hanging from a ring on his belt. I’m not sure what came over me, but I threw the backpack at Carl’s head and lunged forward for the keys. He was momentarily shocked, but quickly regained his composure and began to struggle. Landing two punches to the side of his head, he slid limply to the floor.
I pulled the keys from his belt and unlocked the door.
As the door creaked open, I began to call for Freddy but the words died in my throat.
Standing above my friend was a gangly creature covered in wet, scaley skin. Gill slits opened and closed on its neck and purple eyes gazed at me from its bulbous head. As I made eye contact with it, the thing opened its massive jaws and hissed before grabbing Freddy’s limp frame by the head.
It turned toward an opening by the drill shaft and began to drag Freddy toward it. A crimson streak trailed behind them. Freddy’s eyes were barely open as he lifted his hand toward me in a gesture for help. The creature’s hand turned and a dry snap echoed in the mechanical room before it threw Freddy’s lifeless body through the hole.
A clawed hand reached toward me, mimicking the same gesture as Freddy. The thing opened its mouth again and uttered what I can only describe as a hellish laugh. Finished with its taunt, it stepped back and fell through the hole and into the rolling waves below.
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I left that same night and got as far from the coast as I could.
After a few days in a Houston shelter, I left the state. I live in Omaha now. Farmhand work is plentiful and I managed to get a cracker box apartment. The green pastures make me feel safe, but when I try to sleep at night the roar of the ocean still echoes in my mind.
I never told anyone what I saw. The authorities wouldn’t believe me. Hell, maybe they knew. No one is worried about the homeless.
Out of sight, out of mind. Right?