DARK ON THE HILL by AARON BIGLER LEFEBVRE A thesis submitted to the Graduate School-Camden Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts Graduate Program in Creative Writing written under the direction of Lauren Grodstein and approved by ______________________________ Lauren Grodstein ______________________________ Paul Lisicky Camden, New Jersey [January 2013] i ABSTRACT OF THE THESIS DARK ON THE HILL By AARON BIGLER LEFEBVRE Thesis Director: Lauren Grodstein Dark on the Hill is a novel of fiction based on Morris Township in Southwestern Pennsylvania. All research was conducted in by interview and primary resources, and with information accessible to the public via the Internet. The novel follows the protagonist Bobby Miller as he learns to cope with his role in the community as the Marcellus Shale Gas project booms and overtakes the area. Bobby finds himself at odds with a nearly impoverished community that welcomes new money and opportunity, and rejects their long history and culture of farming. The novel explores the sociological impact that the gas drilling industry can have on rural farming communities by revealing the world through the eyes and first hand account of a young, farming community member. The novel reveals the importance of remaining tolerant and retaining one’s identity in a unpredictably dynamic world. ii 1   Prologue A  cow  and  bull  moaned  like  monsters  in  the  night,  pale  orange  by  the  light  of   gas  well  flares,  and  I  knew  Steve  Price  would  have  one  calf  by  spring.    Stationed  at  my   bedroom  window,  naked  to  the  warm  summer  night,  its  air  bathing  me,  my  privates   became  aware  in  the  wisp  of  a  slow  cooling  breeze.    I  listened  and  watched.    A  dog   barked  three  times  somewhere.    Surely  Steve  heard  it,  his  cattle,  the  chained  dog,  but   did  he  stand  at  his  window  listening?    Did  he  sleep  soundly,  even  with  a  coalmine’s   ventilation  shaft  buzzing  under  a  once  black  sky,  now  orange  and  purple  from  soaring   flames?    Steve  probably  had  an  air  conditioner  in  his  window  blocking  everything  out,   keeping  him  dormant.    That  AC  would  soon  be  paid  for  by  royalty  checks  pumped  into   his  bank  from  gas  wells  on  his  farm.     In  dreams,  the  sound  of  the  ventilation  shaft  entered,  and  I  would  become  the   pilot  of  a  small  biplane  as  I  writhed  in  agony  in  my  cockpit.    I  tried  to  keep  moths  from   escaping  my  throat  and  blinding  me  from  what  lay  ahead.    Even  without  clear  sight,   what  was  ahead  never  changed.    I  woke  as  the  frustration  of  my  motionless  plane   mounted.    Always  ahead  of  me  was  my  father  in  a  brand  new  Winnebago,  years  ago,   waving  goodbye  with  the  keys  to  the  farm  still  attached  to  his  RV  keychain.    He  said  the   time  would  come  when  it  would  be  mine.    But  not  yet.   I  found  myself  half-­asleep  and  full  of  bitterness  in  front  of  my  bedroom  window   hearing  what  should  not  be  there  and  rarely  hearing  what  should.    The  heifer  and  bull   find  pleasure  through  it  all,  so  why  can’t  I?    It’d  be  nice  to  have  a  small,  quiet  mind  like   theirs.    But  I’m  quick  to  let  fury  come  catch  me  when  I  fall  from  good  sense.       Normally,  I’d  try  to  go  back  to  sleep. 2   The  cow  and  bull  yammered  on  and  reminded  me  of  the  cattle  on  this  farm,  my   family’s  farm,  when  I  was  so  much  younger.     I  turned  from  the  open  window  and  made  my  way  downstairs.     Noises  had  woken  me  before.    They  were  the  sounds  I  heard  in  the  sleep  of  my   youth.    Sounds  not  heard  for  years,  or  even  covered  by  the  murmur  of  the  coal  mining   and  gas  drilling  now  furiously  underway  in  Morris  Township,  around  Prosperity  in   particular.    The  old  sounds  were  signals  that  brought  me  back  from  whatever  peaceful   space  it  was  we  went  when  we  dreamt.    If  there  was  a  band  of  coyotes  out  for  calves  I’d   wake  and  dress,  have  been  ready  to  chase  them  off  before  I  noticed  I  wasn’t  dreaming   anymore.       “You’re  never  going  to  get  over  your  nature,”  Dee  would  say  if  she  woke  in  the   night  with  me.    “Sometimes  when  I  wake  alongside  you  at  the  same  sounds,  you’re   rigid.    Tense.    Ready  to  explode.”   It  was  in  my  blood  to  react  that  way,  no  matter  what  the  sound  was.       She  had  asked  me  not  to  confuse  chasing  off  coyotes,  gun  in  hand,  with  men   who  weren’t  too  different  from  me.    They  were  just  doing  their  jobs.    They  had  little   say.    They  had  little  ones  back  home.    Having  none  myself,  I  could  not  argue.    But  still,   each  time  I  woke,  I  was  brought  back  to  some  primal  place  that  wouldn’t  let  me  sleep.     Guess  I  could  blame  my  father  for  it.    He  raised  me  to  wake  at  loud  sounds,  ready  to   fight.    I  never  would  have  done  that  to  my  own  son.    Cursed  him  with  this  quick  anger   and  jolt  of  excitement  at  the  slightest  cry  in  the  night.    But  instead  I  chose  not  to  bring   anyone  into  this  world.    And  with  the  world  around  me  now  filled  with  uncertainties   about  jobs,  water  quality,  land  value,  and  general  quality  of  people,  I  felt  I’d  done  the   right  thing  by  letting  my  time  for  children  pass  by. 3   Stepping  out  onto  our  porch,  I  took  in  the  dewing  air,  and  walked  out  in  the   dark  still  nude,  as  I  often  slept  when  it  was  warm—windows  opened  wide  to   encourage  the  dew  to  settle  upon  my  skin,  the  smell  of  plants  releasing  scents,  aromas   that  knocked  me  out  cold.    I  walked  out  to  the  high  point  of  our  hayfield  to  sit  in  the   middle  of  the  cleared  circle  where  we  pitched  tents  in  the  summer  on  the  sharp  and   hardy  grass.    When  I  reached  the  field’s  open  circle,  I  seated  myself  and  let  the  prickle   of  the  field  enter  my  thick  skin.    The  breeze  passed  over  my  bare  body,  and  I  thought  of  swimming  in  ponds  late   at  night  when  the  water  was  still  but  the  fish  were  not  as  they  excitedly  nipped  at  the   softer,  fleshier  parts  of  my  body.       I  tried  to  get  used  to  the  coal  mine’s  vent  shaft  rattling  through  the  groves  that   lined  our  fields.    I  looked  south  and  noticed  the  hillside  lit  up  by  a  gas  well  burning   something  off,  flaring  thirty-­foot  flames  up  into  the  night’s  dark  navy  sky.    I  wouldn’t   return  to  bed  until  I  was  satisfied  it  was  part  of  the  rural  skyline.     Still,  I  was  provoked  more  by  what  was  not  in  place.    There  was  a  hole  where   there  should  have  been  tree  peepers  and  bullfrogs,  an  owl  in  the  woods,  the  crickets,   the  sounds  in  the  dark  that  lulled  me  to  sleep.    That  air  of  the  old  farm  was  not  the  air   the  intake  delivered  to  miners  under  my  naked  self,  where  all  of  them  were  filthy  and   dressed  in  denim  or  canvas  as  they  had  been  for  over  a  century.    Being  a  coal  miner’s   grandson,  I  understood  them.    They  had  the  guts  to  take  a  step  underground  and  get   dirty  and  risk  it  all  crashing  in  on  them.    If  Karma  existed,  it  existed  in  the  hearts  of   coalmines.    The  ceilings  would  fall  and  it  would  take  the  lives  of  each  miner  and  leave   them  buried  forever.    When  you  take  and  take,  something  will  be  given  back.    Yet   somehow,  it,  especially  the  fracking,  was  a  cancer  growing.    I’d  never  get  to  see  what  it 4   looked  like  or  felt  like  down  there.    But  it  might  start  poisoning  me.    I’d  seen  the   reports.    The  documentary.    Lot  of  good  that  knowledge  did  me.    I  could  do  nothing  but   sit  and  know  that  it  was  there  beneath  the  surface,  marked  by  mine  portals,  vent   shafts,  and  tri-­axle  trucks  that  drove  along  crumbling  roadways.    Industry  was  the   heart  of  America,  and  it  was  my  duty,  as  it  was  for  any  coal  miner’s  grandson,  to   understand  the  need  for  what  I  lorded  over.    I  tried  to  ignore  the  voice  at  the  back  of   my  mind  saying  that  this  was  cancer  eating  away  at  the  spirit  that  dwelled  in  the  land.     This  was  my  farm.    And  that  was  the  Price’s  farm  across  the  valley.     He  and  I,  we  wanted  for  nothing.  I  didn’t  have  a  high  paying  job  by  working  as   an  equipment  operator  at  Penn  DOT.    But  somehow  the  job  that  had  always  kept  me   satisfied  when  there  weren’t  farm  chores  to  do,  wasn’t  keeping  me  busy  enough  lately.     I  could  tell.    Thoughts  dipped  in  anger  tended  to  visit  me  more  often.    And  I  knew,  from   a  good  history  of  it,  that  if  my  hands  weren’t  kept  busy,  my  mind  would  wander  and   spend  too  much  time  in  the  company  of  rage.    There  was  a  high  level  of  fight  in  the   Miller  gene  pool.    The  family  had  found  its  way  from  Scotland  to  America  over  two   hundred  years  ago,  and  the  legend  in  the  family  was  that  we  were  full  of  fire,  piss  and   vinegar.    But  I  had  a  chance  at  defying  that  family  trait  after  a  good  long  stir  in  the   melting  pot  of  Southwestern  Pennsylvania.    Had  the  semi-­famous  Miller  attitude  been   scrubbed  from  me?    Not  entirely.    I  tried  my  best  throughout  my  youth  to  escape  it.    But   in  the  area,  and  especially  since  the  night  flares  had  begun,  I  was  known  for  my   temper.       Reason  told  me  we  were  carving  the  guts  right  out  of  the  Earth.    There  were   abandoned  mines  that  bled  acid  into  streams  and  turned  them  rusty  orange.    If   pollution  from  long-­ago  mines  could  still  be  so  present,  then  it’d  be  only  a  matter  of 5   time  before  the  same  was  true  of  the  gas  wells.    Somehow,  no  one  cared  to  notice.    With   the  gas-­drilling  boom  had  come  jobs.    And  that’s  why  the  drillers,  the  foreigners,  we   called  them,  were  here.    The  coalmine  suddenly  felt  less  like  an  issue  because  I  knew   how  coal  mining  worked  and  it  had  been  here  for  so  long,  imparting  opportunities  to   my  family  yes,  but  not  always  without  lies,  deception,  and  exploitation.    I’d  heard   enough  of  it  from  my  grandparents.    I  knew  what  to  look  out  for  even  if  others  did  not   care  to  notice  the  parallels.   For  the  time  being,  I  just  had  to  keep  my  mouth  shut  about  it.    My  encounter   with  Arnold  Hayes,  a  gas  executive,  had  reminded  me  of  that.    I  could  see  how  the  gas   companies  that  moved  in  were  taking  pointers  from  history.    Surely  they  knew  about  it.     The  mine  camps  and  the  company  thugs,  making  sure  folks  kept  their  mouths  shut.     Making  sure  a  carrot  stayed  dangling  in  front  of  us  at  all  times.    I’d  been  through  a   year  of  college  history.    I’d  heard  the  tales  of  warning  from  my  grandfather.    This   present  wasn’t  the  future  I’d  imagined  when  I  was  that  sweaty,  exhausted  boy  listening   to  tales  told  to  my  father  over  beer  after  a  long  day  of  farm  work.       When  or  if  my  neighbor,  Steve  Price,  a  man  I  could  rely  on  for  any  help  if  I   needed  it,  looked  outside  his  house  from  his  bedroom  window,  did  he  notice  the   subsidence  reinforcement  posts  holding  his  old  barn  up?    Did  he  pour  himself  a  drink  of   water  from  a  water  buffalo  sitting  in  his  front  yard,  no  longer  able  to  drink  the  cool   well  water  full  of  minerals?    Did  I  think  about  it  too  much?    Thousands  of  people  were   benefitting  from  our  sacrifice  and  I  wanted  to  feel  patriotic  knowing  that  I  was  seen   with  respect  for  what  I  might  offer.    But  no  one  had  come  to  me  to  ask  me  to  give  it  up.     My  farm  might  be  worth  nothing.    And  I’d  be  stuck  here  on  the  lower  rung  of  the   community  while  everyone  else  had  more  money  than  they  knew  what  to  do  with. 6     Finally,  the  flare  was  the  sun  rising  early,  not  an  impending  apocalypse,  and  my   tired  eyes  came  back.  No  disturbances  shook  the  ground  when  I  stood,  even  though  I   knew  there  was  something  scraping  away  at  its  foundation  somewhere.    Still,  I  felt   nothing.    A  brisk  walk  back  to  the  house,  my  bare  feet  on  the  grass  and  sharp  gravel  of   our  driveway,  and  I  was  back  in  our  quiet  farmhouse,  white  but  fading  grayer  from   soot  and  pollution  on  the  wind.    The  dogs  didn’t  stir  when  I  entered.    Eventually,  as   easily  as  it  woke  me,  the  mine  vent  whir  put  me  to  sleep  like  the  white  noise  of  a  small   fan. 7   Chapter  1     Shuggs  sat  tethered  to  the  porch  at  Rinky  Dink’s  Roadhouse,  lazing  in  the   cool  summer  rain  of  early  evening,  making  sure  I  saw  him.    My  knuckles  ached  like  I   imagined  his  ribs  once  did.    I’d  kicked  him,  hard,  in  the  night  as  he  slept  when  I  was   in  high  school—a  rite  of  passage  of  sorts.    That  squeal  and  my  shame  worsened   whenever  our  eyes  met  after.    I  thought  I  saw  the  pig’s  lament  in  those  beady  dark   eyes.    Or  was  he  telling  me  he  was  on  my  side?    That  everyone  else  was  wrong.    That   Arnold  Hayes  truly  was  a  puppet  master.   Arnold  Hayes,  now  there’s  a  man  who  deserved  the  steel  toe  of  my  boot.     That  should  be  the  new  rite  of  passage  for  local  young  bucks.    Sneak  up  in  the   middle  of  the  night  and  kick  Hayes  right  in  the  side.    Tell  him  to  get  out  or  expect   more  boot  sized  bruises  and  cracked  ribs.    Had  that  been  what  I  was  pressured  to  do   in  high  school,  walking  up  here  seeing  that  man,  all  rosy  pink  and  plump,  sitting   there  expecting  some  apples  or  half-­‐eaten  onion  rings  from  inside  the  roadhouse,  I’d   feel  no  shame  today.    But  I’d  had  my  chance  last  spring,  and  no  one  else  seemed  to   think  it  wise.    Folks  around  Prosperity,  they  wanted  it  the  other  way  around,  so  long   as  the  apples  and  onion  rings  were  pieces  of  green  paper  falling  in  their  pockets.     Never  mind  the  fish  kills  on  ten  mile.    Never  mind  the  sick  steers,  the  patches  of  field   browned  out  and  dying.    Farms  have  a  new  kind  of  worth,  one  that  doesn’t  include   farmers  harvesting  or  sending  cattle  to  slaughter.    It’s  easier  to  sit  back  and  watch  JP   Percy’s  roughnecks  do  the  work  and  hand  over  the  money.    But  where  was  it?    The   gas  under  my  farm  wasn’t  worth  the  trouble  after  my  run-­‐in  with  Hayes.    Still,  I  felt   left  out.    Where  was  my  lease?    I  wanted  it  just  so  I  could  take  it  up  to  his  fancy   house  and  rip  it  under  his  gaze. 8   There  might  be  a  lynching  party  if  I  did  that.    But  it’s  my  farm.    Well,  it  should   be  anyhow.    I  had  seen  it  in  their  eyes  when  I  stood  over  Arnold  Hayes  outside  the   municipal  fire  hall  that  electric  evening  when  he  first  introduced  himself  to  the   community.    All  those  eyes  standing  around  me  in  a  half  circle  of  contempt  and   disgust.    They’d  rather  see  me  tied  up  and  made  a  public  spectacle  for  doing   anything  to  get  in  their  way.    It  took  too  much  out  of  me  to  keep  my  anger  pressed   down  like  it  wasn’t  there.    I’ve  kept  my  face  down  and  out  of  the  way.    My  thoughts   aren’t  welcome.    They  made  that  clear.    I’ve  heard  that  we,  those  of  us  whose   families  had  built  this  community,  were  bread  to  be  quiet,  descendents  of  the  coal   miners,  trained  to  stay  quiet  when  everything  was  against  them  and  the  man  to   blame  was  standing  right  there  with  nothing  but  a  revolver  and  a  twelve  man  gang   of  hired  hooligans.    He  didn’t  need  those  thugs  these  days.    Baldwin-­‐Felts  guards   were  a  thin  of  the  past.    They’d  figured  out  how  to  make  locals  into  thugs.    Everyone   I’d  grown  up  with  was  on  board.    I  guess  I  missed  the  memo.    But  I  guess  when  you   get  down  to  it,  without  that  man  there’s  nothing.    No  jobs.    No  money.    Nothing  but   open  fields  and  fresh  air  and  cud-­‐chewing  cattle.    Farms  have  a  new  value  now.   Lost  in  my  reverie  on  the  wrap  around  porch  of  the  roadhouse  with  Shuggs,  a   coal  truck  screamed  along  the  road,  sloughing  heavy  sheets  of  rain,  and  Jake-­‐braking   on  the  wet  blacktop  through  the  valley.    Guess  he  hadn’t  seen  the  speed  limit  signs   up  at  the  top  of  the  hill  incline.    Here  was  another  road  to  repair.    You  could  already   see  where  it  was  crumbling  to  bits  under  the  weight  of  the  heavy,  fast  traveling   trucks.      Some,  hauling  coal.    Most,  hauling  machinery  to  well  sites.   I  regretted  my  high  school  boot  in  Shuggs’  side  again.    He  looked  up  and   snorted  what  I  could  interpret  only  as  a  happy  snort.