Thanksgiving Day, 6:42 a.m.
The faint glow of sunrise illuminated the empty parking lot of a gas station just outside Stillwater, Oklahoma, a sight every landman would know. I leaned against my truck, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee that tasted like it had been brewed during the Nixon administration. Back home in Las Vegas, my family was probably arguing over who got to baste the turkey, while my uncle Carl was no doubt re-enacting his legendary Thanksgiving mishap of ’96 (the great “deep-fried turkey fire”).
But me? I was out here, far from the chaos and casserole dishes, doing what I do best—convincing landowners to sign leases. The call had come last week: a hot opportunity in a corner of Oklahoma where the oil ran deep and the turkeys ran scared. Sure, it was Thanksgiving, but energy independence doesn’t take holidays. And apparently, neither do landmen.
First stop was old Mr. Simmons, who opened the door in a pair of camouflage overalls and slippers shaped like possums. He stared at me, unimpressed, while holding a can of room-temperature beer. “What do you want, son? And why are you interrupting my pre-meal nap?”
“Mr. Simmons,” I started, holding up the lease papers like a pilgrim offering maize, “I’m here to talk about securing America’s energy future.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You got pie?”
“Uh, no, but—”
“Then you’ve got ten seconds before I turn my dogs loose.”
Now, a good landman knows when to improvise. “Mr. Simmons,” I blurted, “if you sign this lease, I’ll bring you the best pumpkin pie in the state by sundown.”
He squinted at me, weighing his options. “Deal. But if it’s store-bought, you’re not gonna like what happens next.”
By noon, I had two signatures, one pumpkin pie IOU, and a new appreciation for the sheer number of people who fry their turkeys with a fire extinguisher on standby. The third landowner, Mrs. Harper, was knee-deep in mashed potatoes when I showed up. She waved a wooden spoon at me like I was a nosy neighbor.
“Young man, unless you’re here to peel something or carve something, I’m not interested.”
I smiled and held up a box of cookies I’d grabbed at a gas station. “Mrs. Harper, I brought dessert!”
She paused, suspicious. “What kind of cookies?”
“Uh…chocolate chip-ish?”
She sighed but let me in, muttering something about “city folks.” Over cookies and coffee, I explained the lease terms while she intermittently shouted at her grandkids to stop chasing each other with gravy boats. By the end of our chat, the lease was signed, and I left with a to-go plate of sweet potatoes and what I’m 90% sure was a heartfelt curse for interrupting her cranberry sauce prep.
The final landowner, Mr. Davis, turned out to be a no-show. His wife informed me he was out hunting—because apparently, Thanksgiving isn’t complete without the possibility of coming home with either a turkey or a wild boar. Disappointed but undeterred, I wrapped things up and hit the road.
By now, it was late afternoon, and my truck smelled faintly of pie, coffee, and disappointment. As I cruised along the highway, I called my wife to apologize for missing Thanksgiving dinner. To my surprise, she laughed.
“Zac, we figured you’d be late. Just come home already. Oh, and don’t forget to bring pie. Your mom’s holding a slice hostage until you show up.”
I glanced at the clock. Could I make it? With a deep breath and a silent prayer to the turkey gods, I floored it, determined to hit every green light between Oklahoma and Las Vegas.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, it was almost midnight, and I had already sent 7 or 8 braggadocious tweets highlighting my triumphs to #EFT while tagging every landman I knew. The house was dark, save for the warm glow of the kitchen lights. Inside, my family was gathered around a mountain of leftovers. My wife handed me a plate piled high with turkey, stuffing, and that suspiciously gelatinous canned cranberry sauce.
“Made it just in time,” she teased. “Now, about that pie…”
I set down the box triumphantly. “Fresh from Mr. Simmons’ favorite roadside stand.”
As I dug into my plate, surrounded by the laughter of my kids and the gentle hum of post-feast contentment, I realized that no matter how far a landman roams, there’s no place like home on Thanksgiving—even if you bring home pie that’s technically a bribe.
