I need a new suit! I’ve been a machinist most of my life. Forty-two years and counting! I work in hot, grimy buildings and come home smelling of oil and cutting fluid. I usually have grease stains on my arms somewhere that I missed when I washed up at the end of my shift. My wife bitches at me when she steps on a steel chip, in her bare feet, that I have somehow tracked in from the machine shop. I am not a guy that typically has call to wear a suit. Nor do I feel comfortable wearing one. Unless, of course, I am cos playing in my steam punk garb.
I did have a dark brown double breasted suit coat, but I haven’t worn that in years. Last I looked, the moths had turned it into an Air B & B. I have three reasons to wear a suit; graduations, weddings, and funerals. Most of the people I know are married so I don’t attend a lot of weddings. Since my wife and I never opted for children, we have managed to avoid most graduations. That leaves funerals. Unfortunately, I find myself at an age where I will probably be attending more funerals than weddings and graduations combined. Sadly, that is what necessitates the new suit.
I lost a dear friend last week. Charles “Les” Goetting, a real oil man. I have known Les for 39 years, almost as long as I’ve been cutting steel. He had leukemia but Les fought the monster for three years before it finally took him. I haven’t seen much of Les since he was diagnosed. Project Engineering, the oil field service company he founded back in the 90s is located just outside of Bakersfield. Unfortunately, our poor air quality wreaked havoc on his weakened immune system so he spent most of his time in Ventura. Undoubtedly breating in the clean sea air while planning his next big business deal. Les always had a deal in the works. Not all of them panned out but enough did. And he always had something in the pipeline. It seems that Les knew everyone and he had a gift for remembering their names and faces. If I were to meet you tomorrow for the first time, I’d probably forget your name in five minutes. Les could bump into you six months later and he would remember your name, who you worked for, the name of your wife and kids, and probably the name of your third-grade teacher, had you mentioned it. I attended the OTC show a few times with Les in Houston back in the 90s. For those not in the business, OTC stands for Offshore Technology Conference, and it is the largest trade show there is in the oil and gas industry. Les would think nothing of taking a group of six or ten or more potential clients to one of Houston’s upscale gentleman clubs and dropping $10,000 on the bill. He knew he would pick up more than enough work from that “meeting” to cover the cost.
When I first came to Bakersfield, back in 2010, I spent 18 months commuting the 110 miles from Bakersfield to Simi Valley. Project Engineering sat on 40 acres of empty farm land and he had a couple of trailers on the property that he provided if a service man had to stay in town overnight on a job. Aside from being stuck pretty much in the middle of nowhere, they were functionable and comfortable. They had a shower, a small kitchen, and even a TV. Les let me stay in one of them during that time so I was able to stay in town Monday through Friday and commute home on the weekends. He also put me to work rendering drawings and designs for tools that I eventually built at my regular machine shop job. If you worked for Les you did things his way. He was stubborn and pig headed to a fault. I didn’t always agree with the way Les wanted to approach a project, but I have to give the man his due. He was usually right.
He and I really worked together a lot in the late 90s and early 2000s. He was selling float equipment to the Cerro Prieto geothermal field, just across the border in Mexico, not far from Mexicali. At the same time, I was developing the Mexican market for the liner hanger we manufactured at Rigger Engineering, the company of which I was part owner. The two of us teamed up together on more than one occasion to make a sales pitch south of the border. As usual, Les knew all of the players like they were lifelong buddies, even though he may have only met them a handful of times. I remember one time when he brought Star, his Doberman pincer with us. Star was a sweetheart, a real baby. On that trip we decided to stay the night at a hotel in El Centro rather than make that long drive home. I asked Les what we were going to do about Star. “I’ll take care of it”, he said with a devious smile. We left her in his truck while we checked into a Holiday Inn. The registration desk was located in an alcove about 10 or 15 feet wide and set back from the main corridor perhaps another 10 feet. After registering we went out to the truck to get what little luggage we had brought (really just a couple of overnight bags) and Star. We then nonchalantly strolled down the corridor, past the registration alcove, and stepped into the elevator. I’m thinking we managed to pull this off but, just as the elevator door was almost closed, a single arm reaches through the narrow opening and the door pops back open. There stands the night manager looking at us as if we were members of the Dillinger gang and had just robbed a bank. “I’m sorry gentlemen but you have to pay extra for the dog,” he says. Les stands there, his eyes closed, one hand holding Star’s harness, the other stretched out in front of him blindly groping empty air. “She’s a service dog in training” he says with a straight face. I watched as the elevator doors once again slid shut on the manager’s flabbergasted face. Once the doors closed, all the way this time, the elevator gave that little lurch which signaled we were on our way, I looked at Les. “I can’t believe that worked,” I said. he just smiled that same devious smile. Well, it almost worked. Five minutes after we had settled into our room the inevitable phone call came from the night manager, “Sir, I’m going to have to charge you an additional $100 to keep the dog in the room.”
This wasn’t the first time Les had faced cancer. About fifteen years ago he was diagnosed with prostrate cancer. At the time the cure was worse than the disease, at least it was for Les. The treatment, removal of the prostrate followed by radiation, usually resulted in the loss of functionality. Sometimes short term, sometimes longer, sometimes permanent. Les may have been a tad over sixty at the time but he had two girlfriends, both half his age. Loss of functionality was not an option. He did some research and discovered an Italian doctor had had some success with bathing the cancer with a high concentration of an alkaline solution. Seems the cancer cells couldn’t survive the acidic environment. The procedure consisted of inserting a catheter then, on a predetermined timetable, he would inject what was essentially carbonated water into the prostrate. Les went to Italy for two weeks to have the procedure done and get trained on how to inject the solution into the catheter. Not long after that he was back at work. He came to our shop to pick up some tools one afternoon and I took the opportunity to ask him about the procedure. He explained how it worked like the proud parent of newborn twins. He then unexpectedly dropped trou, in the middle of my shop, to show me the catheter. Wayyyyyy TMI for this old boy. A short time later I was talking to Brandon, his right hand man, and said “do you know what your boss did?”
“Was he wearing underwear”, came the reply?
“Well yeah.”
“You’re lucky. When he showed me he was going commando.”
That was Les. Brash, bullheaded, and unapologetic. Simply his own person and full of life until the end. We are, each of us, unique in his or her own way. Les was as unique as any of us and perhaps more so than most. I know I will never meet someone like him again. Perhaps that is as it should be. I tip my hat to the man that he was, knowing he is in a better place now. Probably working on that next big deal. Does heaven have gentlemen’s clubs?
If you knew Les please leave a comment. A story or something you remember about the man. Everyone knew Les and I only know a small percentage of the people he knew. If you appreciate this blog forward it to anyone that knew the man and might appreciate these words. I’ll be getting that suit next week. As always, swing for the fences! Les Goetting surely did!
