Oil, p.67
Oil!, page 67
“Ah had someone befoah Ah had you
An’ Ah’ll have someone aftah you’s gone,
A streetcar or a sweetheart doan’ mattah to me,
There’ll be another one comin’ along!”
Six or seven years ago the people of the United States in their sovereign wisdom had passed a law forbidding the sale of alcoholic liquor for beverage purposes. But the advocates of law and order reserve to themselves the privilege of deciding which laws they will obey, and the Prohibition act is not among them. All ruling class America celebrates its political victories by getting drunk. Bunny knew how it was, having got drunk himself four years ago when President Harding had been elected; he could smile appreciatively when the announcer of QXJ tripped over his syllables—“Thass not polite now, Polly, quit your shovin’ this micro-hiccrophone!”
The householder next door was a workingman, or clerk, or such humble being, denied the royal privilege of breaking the law at ten dollars a quart for gin and thirty for champagne. But he could sit here till after midnight, and turn from one studio to another, and enjoy a series of vicarious jags.[10] “Radio VXZ, the main dining room of the Admiralty Hotel.” A chanteuse from the Grand Guignol in Paris was singing a ballad, and you could hear the laughter of those who understood the obscenity, and those who pretended to understand it, and those who were too drunk to understand anything but how to laugh.[11] Bunny was there in his mind, because it was in this dining room that he had been drunk, and Dad had been drunk, and Vee Tracy and Annabelle Ames and Vernon Roscoe—and Harvey Manning sound asleep in his chair, and Tommy Paley trying to climb onto the table, and having to be kept from fighting the waiters. There were three hundred tables in that hall, all reserved a month in advance, and all with occupants in the same condition; the tables stacked with hip-pocket flasks and bottles, strewn with the ashes of cigarettes, the stains of spilled foods, flowers and confetti, and little rolls of tissue-paper tape thrown from one table to another, covering the room with a spider’s web of bright colors; toy balloons tossing here and there; music, a riot of singing and shouting, and men sprawling over half-naked women, old and young, flappers, and mothers and grandmothers of flappers.
There would be election returns read, more of those triumphant, glorious majorities for the strong silent statesman; and a magnate who knew that this victory meant several million dollars off his income taxes, or an oil concession in Mesopotamia or Venezuela won by American bribes and held by American battleships—such a man would let out a whoop, and get up in the middle of the floor and show how he used to dance the double shuffle when he was a farmhand; and then he would fall into the lap of his mistress with a million dollars’ worth of diamonds on her naked flesh, and the singer from a famous haunt of the sexual perverts of Berlin would perform the latest jazz success, and the oil magnate and his mistress would warble the chorus:
What do I do?
I toodle-doodle-doo,
I toodle-doodle-doodle-doodle-doo!
XIII
Paul moved one hand: and again Ruth cried in excitement—he was coming back to life! But the nurse said that meant nothing, the doctors had said he might move. They must not let him move his head. She took his temperature, but told them nothing.
Paul’s hands were straying over the sheet that covered him; aimlessly, here and there, as if he were picking at insects on the bed. His voice rose louder—Russian, always Russian, and Gregor would tell what the words meant. They were in the red square, and saw the armies marching, and heard the working masses shouting their slogans: they were on the playing fields with the young workers; they were in Siberia, with Mandel playing the balalaika, and having his eyes eaten out by ants. “Da zdrávstvooyet Revolútziya!”—that meant “Long live the Revolution!” “Vsya vlast Soviétam!—All power to the Soviet!”
And from there they would be swept to the ballroom of the Emperor Hotel, Angel City, Radio RWKY, the Angel City Patriot broadcasting by direct control. Or was it to the heart of the Congo, where the naked savages danced to the music of the tomtom, their black bodies, smeared with palm oil, shining in the light of blazing fires? For a hundred centuries these savages had paddled the river, and never to the mind of one of them had come the thought of an engine; they had stood on the shores of mighty lakes, and never dreamed a sail. The weight of nature’s blind fecundity rested upon them, stifling their minds. And now capitalist civilization, rushing to destruction with the speed of its fastest battleplanes, cast about to find a form of expression for its irresistible will to degeneracy, and chose the tom-tom of the Congo for its music, and the belly dances of the Congo for its exercise, and so here was America, Land of Jazz.
A voice from the megaphone, raucous, shrill, and mocking:
“There’s where mah money goes,
Lipsticks and powderpuffs and sucha things like that!”
And Bunny was in that great “Emperor” ballroom, where he had danced so many a night, first with Eunice Hoyt and then with Vee Tracy. All his friends would be there tonight—Verne and Annabelle and Fred Orpan and Thelma Norman and Mrs. Pete O’Reilly and Mark Eisenberg—the cream of the plutocracy, celebrating their greatest triumph to date. There would be American flags and streamers on the walls, and some would wave little flags—a great patriotic occasion—nothing like it since the Armistice—ray for Coolidge, keep cool with Cal! The room would be crowded to suffocation, and by this hour nine-tenths of the dancers would be staggering. Large-waisted financiers with crumpled shirtfronts, hugging stout wives or slender mistresses, with naked backs and half-naked bosoms hung with diamonds and pearls, red paint plastered on their lips and platinum bangles in their ears, shuffling round and round to the thump of the tomtom, the wail of the saxophone, the rattle and clatter of sticks, the banging of bells and snarl of stopped trumpets. “She does the camel-walk!” shrilled the singer; and the hip and buttock muscles of the large-waisted financier would be alternately contracted and relaxed, and his feet dragged about the floor in the incoordinate reactions of the locomotor ataxia and spastic paraplegia.[12]
XIV
Paul had begun to thresh his arms about: it was necessary to hold him, and when they tried it, he began to fight back. Did he think the strike guards at Paradise had seized him? Or was it the jailers at San Elido? Or the Federal secret service agents? Or the French gendarmes? Or the sailors of the fleet? Or the thugs with hatchets and iron pipe? He fought with maniacal fury, and there was Bunny, holding down one arm and Gregor the other, with Ruth and Rachel each clinging to one foot, while the nurse came running with a straitjacket. So with much labor they tied him fast. He would make terrific efforts; his face would turn purple, and the cords would stand out in his neck; but the system had got him, he could not escape.
Meantime, through the open window, Radio VXZ, the main dining room of the Admiralty Hotel; a blended sound of many hundreds of people, shouting, singing, cheering, now and then smashing a plate, or pounding on the table. Someone was making a speech to the assembly, but he was so drunk he could hardly talk, and they were so drunk they could not have understood anyhow. One got snatches—“glorish victry—greatesh country—soun instooshns—greatesh man ever in White Housh—Cautioush Cal—ray for Coolidge!” A storm of cheers, yells, laughter—and the voice of the announcer, drunk also: “Baby Belle, hottes’ lill babe, sing us hot one, right off griddle. Go to it, Baby, I’ll hold you!”
Yes, the announcer was drunk, the very radio was drunk, the instruments would not send the wavelengths true, the ether could not carry them straight, they wavered and wiggled; the laws of the physical universe had gone staggering, God was drunk on His Throne, so pleased by the election of the greatesh man ever in White Housh. Bunny, dazed with exhaustion, saw the scene through a blur of sound and motion, the shining mouths of trumpets, the waving of flags, the flashing of electric signs, the cavorting of satyrs, the prancing of savages, the jiggling of financiers and their mistresses simulating copulation. Baby Belle was unsteady before the microphone, you lost parts of her song at each stagger; but snatches came, portraying the nymphomania of “Flamin’ Mamie, surefire vamp—hottes’ baby in the town—some scorcher—love’s torture—gal that burns ’em down!”
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” cried Ruth. “He’s trying to speak to me!” And so for an instant it seemed. Paul’s one eye had come open, wild and frightful; he lifted his head, he made a choking noise—
“Comes to lovin’—she’s an oven!” shrilled the radio voice.
“Paul! What is it?” shrieked Ruth.
“Ain’t it funny—paper money burns right in her hand!”
Paul sank back, he gave up, and Ruth, her two hands clasped as if praying to him, seemed to follow with her soul into that faraway place where he was going.
“Flamin’ Mamie, workin’ in a mine, ate a box o’ matches at the age o’ nine!”
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” Ruth put her hand over Paul’s heart, and then started up with a scream.
“Flamin’ Mamie, surefire vamp,” reiterated the chorus, “hottes’ baby in the town!”
And Ruth rushed to the window, and threw herself—no, not out, because Bunny had been too quick for her; the others helped to hold her, and the nurse came running with a hypodermic needle, and in a few minutes she was lying on a cot at the side of the room, looking as dead as her brother.
And the householder turned to Radio RWKY, the Angel City Patriot broadcasting from its own studio. “Latest bulletin from New York, the Republican Central Committee claims that Calvin Coolidge will have the greatest plurality ever cast in American history, close to eighteen million votes. Good night, friends of Radioland.”
XV
The Communists wanted to have a “red funeral,” to make a piece of propaganda out of Paul’s death. But Eli interposed his majestic authority; since Paul had repented his evil ways and come back to Jesus, he should be buried according to the rites of the Third Revelation.[13]
So three days later a little pageant wound its way to the top of one of the hills of Paradise. There was a crowd on hand, and a truck with the necessary radio apparatus—never were any of the precious words of Eli lost nowadays; the two hundred thousand radio housewives of California had been notified by the newspapers, and a hundred and ninety thousand of them had put off their marketing to hear this romantic funeral service. Bunny and Rachel and a handful of the reds stood to one side, knowing they were not welcome. Ruth stood near the grave with the weeping family, having on each side of her a sturdy oil worker—her two brothers-in-law, Andy Bugner and Jerry Black—because she had been violent on occasions, and no one knew what she might do. She was white and fearful in looks, but seemed not to realize the meaning of the big hole dug in the ground, or of the long black box covered with flowers. While Eli was preaching his fervid sermon about the prodigal son who returned, and about the strayed lamb which was found, Ruth stood gazing at the white clouds moving slowly behind the distant hilltops.
She would make them no more trouble. All she wanted was to wander over these hills, and call now and then for the sheep which were no longer there. Sometimes she called Paul, and sometimes she called Bunny, and so they let her wander; until one day she went calling Joe Gundha. The oil workers who were putting up the new derricks and cleaning out the burned wells to put them back on production were new men to the Ross Junior tract—it is the Roscoe Junior tract now, by the way, one of Vernon Roscoe’s four sons being in charge of the job. These new men had never heard about the “roughneck” who had fallen into the discovery well, so they paid no attention to the unhappy girl who wandered here and there calling his name.
It was not till late that night, when Ruth was missing, and the family making a search, that someone told of hearing her call Joe Gundha. Meelie remembered right away, and they put down a hook in the discovery well, which was having to be drilled again, and they brought up a piece of Ruth’s dress; so they put down a three-pronged grab, and brought up the rest of her, and Eli came again, and they buried her alongside Paul, and with Joe Gundha not far away.
You can see those graves, with a picket fence about them, and no derrick for a hundred feet or more. Someday all those unlovely derricks will be gone, and so will the picket fence and the graves. There will be other girls with bare brown legs running over those hills, and they may grow up to be happier women, if men can find some way to chain the black and cruel demon which killed Ruth Watkins and her brother—yes, and Dad also: an evil Power which roams the earth, crippling the bodies of men and women, and luring the nations to destruction by visions of unearned wealth, and the opportunity to enslave and exploit labor.
the end
Acknowledgments
Many individuals supported the completion of this volume with their encouragement, feedback, and advice. I wish to thank Elizabeth Vogt at Penguin Books for expert editorial guidance at each stage of publication. Michael Rubenstein provided illuminating conversations and constructive comments throughout the edition’s development. Elaine Freedgood, Adrienne Munich, and Andrew Newman also read and responded to the introduction with great brilliance. My thanks to Celia Marshik for guiding my earliest efforts to determine Oil!’s copyright status, and to Anthony Gomez for outstanding research assistance on the novel’s serialization that helped to elucidate Sinclair’s revisions. I thank Christopher Becker and Spencer Hawkins for help translating Russian, French, and German passages, and Mark Bowen for elucidating a particularly cryptic chemical formula in chapter 10. Sincere appreciation also goes to Tanya Agathocleous, Jeffrey Santa Ana, Phillip Blumberg, Sam Christensen, David Coombs, Ryan Fong, Meghan Fox, Korey Jackson, Justin Johnston, Katherine Johnston, Kyle McAuley, Elizabeth Miller, Olivia Moy, Javier Uriarte, and Martha Vicinus. Virtual conversations with affiliates of the Vcologies Working Group provided connection amid a deepening global pandemic and accelerating climate crisis. I’m grateful for so many good colleagues, friends, and acquaintances who have made my efforts possible.
Notes
INTRODUCTION
“This oil novel”: Upton Sinclair, letter to David Sinclair, June 1, 1925, Upton Sinclair Archive, Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 1
“gusher of words”: Mary Craig Sinclair, Southern Belle: A Personal Story of a Crusader’s Wife (New York: Crown Publishers, 1957), p. 303.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 2
twenty-five fossil fuel giants: Paul Griffin, “Carbon Majors Report 2017,” The Carbon Majors Database (CDP Worldwide), https://climateaccountability.org/pdf/CarbonMajorsRpt2017%20Jul17.pdf [Accessed May 25, 2022].
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 3
a graphic illustration: Thanks to Michael Rubenstein for this observation.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 4
“the wars that were fought”: Walter Gilkyson, Oil (Chicago: White House, 1924), p. 5.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 5
the first decade: Jordan B. Kinder and Imre Szeman, “Literature and Energy,” in The Palgrave Handbook of Twentieth and Twenty-First Century Literature and Science, ed. The Triangle Collective (London: Palgrave, 2020), p. 90.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 6
In 1880, global oil production: Vaclav Smil, Oil: A Beginner’s Guide (London: Oneworld, 2008), p. 135.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 7
imbalance in the carbon cycle: Timothy Mitchell, Carbon Democracy: Political Power in the Age of Oil (London: Verso, 2011), pp. 19–21.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 8
rationale behind the first energy: See Cara New Daggett, The Birth of Energy: Fossil Fuels, Thermodynamics, and the Politics of Work (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2019).
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 9
“ruthlessness and persistency”: Ida M. Tarbell, The History of the Standard Oil Company (New York: McClure, Phillips and Co., 1904), p. 91.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 10
Between 1900 and 1930: Smil, Oil, p. 135.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 11
“a thing which transcends sensuousness”: Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy, vol. 1, trans. Ben Fowkes (New York: Penguin, 1990), p. 163.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 12
as Amitav Ghosh suggested: Amitav Ghosh, “Petrofiction: The Oil Encounter and the Novel,” New Republic 206 (March 2, 1992): 29–34. For a significant alternative to Ghosh’s view of oil in literary culture, see Graeme Macdonald, “The Resources of Fiction,” Reviews in Cultural Theory 4, no. 2 (2013), pp. 1–24.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 13
“the hidden abode of production”: Marx, Capital, p. 279.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 14
“this steady, speedy growth”: Bruce Bliven, “Los Angeles: The City That Is Bacchanalian—in a Nice Way,” New Republic 51 (July 13, 1927), p. 198.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 15
Note the invisible infrastructure: Raymond Williams, Television: Technology and Cultural Form (London: Routledge, 1974), p. 19.
BACK TO NOTE REFERENCE 16
