Rivethead

It was during these early years that my old friend Denny and I spent our lunch breaks together. With a double-up arrangement not much different from mine, Denny was able to tag along as we indulged in every shoprat's dream scam: the Double Lunch. With our jobs securely covered by co-workers, we could slide out and overlap the two lunch periods designated for the two separate truck lines. Instead of a half hour for lunch, we now had a sprawling hour and twelve minutes to get lost. It was wonderful what you could avoid accomplishing with that extra forty-two minutes off.

One particular double lunch from that period has always stood out. The plant was really roasting that night with the kind of corralled heat that often rendered the overhead fans useless and forced a horde of dehydrated reeking shoprats to line up at the drinking fountain and gulp down salt tablets.

On that night, Denny came to my job with an invitation to slug down a few at lunch. Though nothing in the world sounded better than cold beer, I knew we would have to be careful. The beer was always a godsend goin' down, but you had to watch out for the fatigue factor it brought on when the heat was high. If you overdid it, you ran the risk of drowsing out during the second half of the shift. By night's end you'd be totally gassed and ornery enough to punch out your own grandmother.

But the offer was just too appealing. "I like beer," I said. "Beer tastes good."

At the convenience store, we stood in line behind three attractive young ladies. They were purchasing diet pop and wine coolers. I remember thinking that they must be part of some very special breed, a sorority of angels who simply forbade themselves to perspire. They giggled and fussed with their perfect hair- all the while glaring at us with their terrible animal eyes.

We smiled back at them. It was all so hopeless. We couldn't help our appearance. We didn't normally smell this way. It was the $12.82 an hour and the benefits package and the opportunity to swill a cold one in between breaks in the madness that doomed us to trudge into convenience stores lookin' like Spam patties in wet suits. Our grandfathers had takin' this route. Our fathers were right behind them. Now it was our turn to be thirsty, rank, and every bit as unlucky.

We took our quarts of Mickey's Malt Liquor and headed for the back of the employee's lot. It was always wise to park ina section far, far removed from the roving eye of the surveillance cameras. Otherwise, the guards might scope you down as you tipped that cold chalice to your lips and decide to wheel out and give you some shit. This rarely happened, but it was a nuisance all the same. There would be ID requests. There would be boring lectures. Sometimes there might even be a slow shuffle down to the Labor Relations office.
Denny and I drank, mostly in silence, while a Lesley Gore Greatest Hits tape poured out of the dash of my Camaro. We were beginning to feel human, the beer workin' its magic, the edge dissolving, the shoprat's humble version of the multiple martini lunch. We sat there staring off into the smokestacks with the weight of the world gradually sliding through the floorboard. The guards and the bossmen were absolute madmen. How could anything that felt so good be a punishable offense? Our screw were all in place. Our welds were shining brightly. It was all working out. What could be the problem?

We both loved Lesley Gore and, on this most humid of nights, Les was really lettin' us have it: "California Night," "I Don't Wanna Be a Loser," "That's the Way Boys Are" - her complete arsenal. We slurped faster and faster on our malt liquor jumbos. At that precise moment, there was very little doubt that we had everyone in the galaxy squarely beaten.

We were on a roll. We raced back to the convenience store, this time purchasing two forty-ouncers of Mickey's Malt. We hit on the beer and sang along with Lesley and laughed at our great fortune. We looked like trash, we smelled like death, we had no idea who was winning the wars or the rat race or the relentless struggle to get on top. It was all so very meaningless. Someone would be declared the victor and the rest of the world would roll over and begin to plot tomorrow's lousy comeback.

"I've gotta admit," Denny laughed, "it doesn't get much better than this. The whole world is on fire and here we are parked in the shadow of this mausoleum drinkin' the coldest beer on the planet. With Lesley Fucking Gore! No one else on the face of this earth is doing this! NO ONE!"

"I wonder what Lesley Gore is doin' right this minute," I mused. "I wonder what Al Kaline and Roger Smith and Sister Edward Irene are up to- right NOW! Right this very second. I feel sorry for their asses!" We laughed until our sides ached.

After about four months down on the Rivet Line, I had truly perfected the mental and physical strain of the pinup job. The blisters of the hand and the mind had hardened over, leaving me the absolute master of the puppet show. I developed shortcuts at every turn. I became so proficient at twirlin' my rivet gun to and fro that the damn thing felt as comfortable as a third arm. I mashed my duties into pitiful redundancy.

The truth was loose: I was the son of a son of a bitch, an ancestral prodigy born to clobber my way through loathsome dungheaps of idiot labor. My genes were cocked and loaded. I was a meteor, a gunslinger, a switchblade boomerang hurled from the pecker driblets of my forefathers' untainted jalopy seed. I was Al Kaline peggin' home a beebee from the right field corner. I was Picasso applyin' the final masterstroke to his frenzied Guernica. I was Wilson Pickett stompin' up the stairway of the Midnight Hour. I was one blazin' tomahawk of m-fuggin' eel snot. Graceful and indomitable. Methodical and brain-dead. The quintessential shoprat. The Rivethead.

However, my new ascension into this new sense of dominance didn't rid me of the age-old plight that came to haunt every screw jockey: what the fuck do you do to kill the clock? There were ways of handling nimwit supervisors and banana stickers rednecks and lopsided rails. But the clock was a whole different mammal altogether. It sucked on you as you awaited the next job. It ridiculed you each time you'd take a peek. The more irritated you became, the slower it moved. The slower it moved, the more you thought. Thinking was a very slow death at times.

Desperation led me to all the usual dreary tactic used to fight back the clock. Boring excursions like racing to the water fountain and back, chain-smoking, feeding Chee-tos to mice, skeet shooting Milk Duds with rubber bands, punting washers into the rafters high above the train depot, spitting contests. Any method was viable just as long as it was able to evaporate a more stubborn minute.

I did have one favorite method of beatin' the clock. What I would do was to pretend my job was an Olympic event. I would become both television narrator and participant. It would go something like this:
"We've come to the end of another long day for the American squad. So far, the Japanese have totally dominated each event, sweeping the gold and silver in every category. Any final hopes the Americans might have of winning gold medal rest solely on the shoulders of Ben Hamper, an assembler out of the GM Truck & Bus facility in Flint, Michigan.

"Hamper will be competing in the Freestyle Rivet Squash. Though he's considered a long shot at best, you will see in this recent interview that Hamper believes he's capable of pulling off the upset.
"Ben, the word around camp is that you lack experience. Sources point to the fact that you've only been riveting a short while. How do you respond to this line of criticism?"

"[Bleep] 'em! Maybe I don't know apples from oranges, but I can assure you I know my way around a rivet gun. You can toss that inexperience tag right in the crapper."

"In light of their domination in these games, would it be fair to assume that you harbor a personal vendetta against the Japanese contingent?"

"Strictly pride, Mr. McKay. I represent the United States of America . I stand for all that is sacred among Americans: The automobile. Hot dogs. Baseball. Disneyland. Trash bag murders. As for the Japanese, I own their butts. I'm Nagasaki and Godzilla and the Enola Gay all wrapped into one powder keg. I'm gonna send them all back to fritterin' with transistor radios and toaster ovens."

At this point in my fantasy, I would stalk around my job psyching myself. I'd begin flexing my arms and jogging in place. I'd hiss and growl. I'd slowly pull on my gloves while staring down my imaginary for. The crowd would be in absolute pandemonium- Yankee Doodle banshees sensing the kill. I would return to the narration:

"The time Hamper will have to beat is 24.46 seconds, the new world's record set only moments ago by Koy Dung of Japan. Hamper certainly appears undaunted. He's even taking time out to taunt his Japanese rival. It remains to be seen whether this confident young riveter from Michigan can back up such cocky behavior."
"The American signals that he is ready. We now await the whistle. It sounds and Hamper is off. Immediately, he's got the rail flipped and is attaching the muffler hangers. He grabs for his rivet gun and...OH MY...would you take a look at this! All we can see is one frantic blur. Hamper swings in the second rivet gun and begins his attack on the final leg. He twists, he pivots, he unleashes the gun. This very well might be...YES... YES! 22.19 seconds! Hamper has done it! A new world's record. AMERICA WINS THE GOLD! AMERICA WINS THE GOLD!

"Total bedlam has broken loose. Throngs of Americans have broken through the barriers and are now lifting Hamper high upon their shoulders. We can see an exuberant Roger Smith, the Chairman of General Motors, attempting to squeeze his way through the mass of celebrants. Smith has now reached the gold medalist and is extending his hand. This had to be a very special moment for Hamper. In a span of mere seconds, he has sprung for absolute obscurity to a position of corporate eminence. Roger Smith is now embracing Hamper. What an emotional moment! Smith is openly weeping as the jubilant riveter pats him on the head. This outpouring of mirth shall last forever in the annals of Olympic glory."

Actually, it only lasted until the next set of rails arrived. The roar of the crowd was quickly replaced by the roar of the machines. Jim McKay scurried back into my wealthy imagination. Roger Smith was nowhere to be seen. The cheering faded away and , with it, a few more minutes off the clock. That, in itself, was victory enough.

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