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It was around this time that we began hearing a strange new entry into the GM vocabulary. The word was "Quality." The term itself was like some new intoxicating utterance that General Motors had pried outta the ass end of a golden goose. Quality, quality, quality. Suddenly, you couldn't raise your head without having your lobes pummeled with slogans and exhortations hailing this new buzzword. Up until this time, the maxim had always been Quantity. Quantity and Quota. Herd them trucks out the door. Quick, quick... QUICKER!

Evidently, GM was finally sniffin' the wind. Americans didn't give a shit about how fast and how many units you could zoom out the back door. They just wanted a vehicle that didn't begin to disintegrate the moment it rolled off the showroom floor. If they couldn't find something that held together here, there was always the option of purchasing one of those generic-lookin' imports that got about 500 miles per gallon and stuck together as firm as Stonehenge.

Quality represented buyers. Buyers meant sales. Sales meant fat tummies and a fat solid bonus. Quality would loosen those bony fingers off the purse strings. Quality could change the tune and serenade a buyer out of a buck. For living proof, all one had to do was glimpse over at Lee Iacocca, the born-again pom-pom boy of Quality High who was currently splattering himself all over medialand with galvanic jabber along the lines of "WE BUILD THEM RIGHT OR WE ALL EAT DOGFOOD!" We gotcha, Lee. Quality was the answer to the illin'.

The GM Truck & Bus plant began fiddling with various Quality-minded plots as a means to enthuse the work force. These concepts ranged from the "Build It Like You Owned It" guilt trip to the voodoo scare tactics of "Here Come the Japs to Foreclose Your Mortgage" to the gimmicky "Reward the Good Rodent With a Key Chain" theory. Some of these game plans were so utterly farcical, one would have been tempted to guffaw if it weren't for the fact that it was your brain that these follies were bein' foisted upon.

Case in point: the management at the Truck Plant decided what the Quality concept really needed was a mascot. Conceived in a moment of sheer visionary enlightenment, the paln was to dress up the mascot as a large cat. Fittingly, this rat-in-cat's clothing was to be called the Quality Cat. Somewhere along the line, an even more brilliant mind upstairs decided that quality cat was sort of a dull title. Therefore, a contest was organized in an attempt to give the Quality Cat a more vital name. Hundreds of crafty welders, screw jockeys and assorted shoprats immediately began clunking their heads in an effort to christen the hallowed cat. Management announce that they would reward the most creative of these entries with a week's use of a company truck. Hot damn! The eventual winner of the contest was a worker who stumbled upon the inspired moniker Howie Makem. Sadly, my intriguing entry, Wanda Kwit, finished way the hell down the list somewhere right between Roger's Pussy and Tuna Meowt.

Howie Makem was to become the messianic embodiment of the Company's new Quality drive. A livin', breathin' propaganda vessel assigned to spur on the troops. Go ahead and laugh, I know I did. Just for a moment, imagine the probing skull session that took place in some high-level think tank the day Howie was first brought to mention.

"You know, slogans on coffee cups just ain't gettin' it, Bill."

" You're absolutely right, Ted. We need something more dynamic. More upbeat."

"Hey, why don't we give the men their own kitty cat!"

"Kitty cat? Hmmm, I like it! A large kitty cat! Ted, you're a genius!"

Howie Makem stood five feet nine. He had light brown fur, long synthetic whiskers and a head the size of a Datsun. He wore a long red cape emblazoned with the letter Q for Quality. A very magical cat, Howie walked everywhere on his hind paws. Cruelly, Howie was not entrusted with a dick.

Howie would make the rounds poking his floppy whiskers in and out of each department. A "Howie sighting" was always cause for great fanfare. The workers would scream and holler and jump up and down on their workbenches whenever Howie drifted by. Howie Makem may have begun as just another Company ploy to prod the tired legions, but most of us ran with the joke and soon Howie evolved into a crazy phenomenon.

Of course, this isn't to say that everyone was in Howie's corner. Opinions varied. For instance, Dave Steel hated Howie's guts. He insisted that having a giant cat parade around the factory espousing General Motors dogma insulted his intelligence and demeaned him personally on an adult level. I remember we constantly argued about Howie's existence. One night, Dave had really had it with Howie.

"Christ, what's next?" Dave groaned. "They'll probably bring in Fred Rogers to pass out balloons and lollipops."

"Chill out." I laughed. "You're always taking shit way too seriously. Sure, having a giant cat rooting us on is totally ludicrous. But you have to admit the concept is at least humorous in a pathetic kind of way."

Dave bristled. "I don't find anything the least bit humorous about having some suck-ass in a cat's costume roamin' through my place of work. What they are tellin' us is that we are so retarded growth-wise that all we can relate to are characters along the lines of Saturday morning cartoon figures. Bring out Bozo! Hail Huckleberry Hound!"

"Who would you prefer? Einstein and Thomas Edison? Face it, Howie fits the surroundings."

"Fuck Howie. Fuck Einstein and Edison. What do I need this mascot bullshit for? Do they really think I'll perform a better job with a huge cat lurchin' over me? If they really want to charge up all these boneheads, why not bring in some Playboy Bunnies? I'm thirty years old, not thirteen."

"There's only one drawback to your suggestion," I replied. :How long do you think it'd take before some drunked-up redneck mauled one of the Bunnies to shreds?"

'"Oh, probably fifteen seconds, tops."

"See what I mean? Dave, it's time for you to get on the winning side. Like it or not, Howie's our man."

"Not this guy's. My fondest wish is that Howie gets his tail snagged in the chain gear and is mercilessly ground into Kibbles & Bits."

On the other hand, my editor at the Voice loved hearing about Howie Makem. I can't remember anything that made him laugh harder. He'd double over and clutch his stomach, tears running down his cheeks. Plainly, this was the most hysterical gag Moore had ever heard of. The best part about it was that I didn't have to make up a single word. Everything that I told him regarding Howie was pure fact. I remember the first time I told Mike about Howie.

"You mean to tell me," Moore spluttered between assorted snorts and cackles, "that GM has a guy who walks around the factory... dressed up like a... GIANT CAT! This is their idea of enticing Quality out of their work force?"

"Correct," I replied straight-faced.

"Oh my God, oh shit," Moore squealed. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"The end of Western Civilization as we know it? A communist overthrow?"

"No, no, no. You have to get an interview with Howie Makem for the paper. The Rivethead meets the Quality Cat! Oh Jesus, oh shit..."

"Not a fuckin' chance," I howled. "I'll write you a biography of Howie, I'll put together a Howie Makem diary, I'll interview workers on their feelings about Howie, but I absolutely refuse to talk with that... that cat-thing. Not now, not ever. Jesus, who knows what lurks inside that giant furry head?"

Moore kept pestering me to do the interview with Howie Makem. I held firm. The answer was and always would be a definite NO. Just watching Howie trudge by my job waving his big brown paw in my direction was freaky enough. Having to sit down and ask questions of the bastard would have sent me right over the wall. Still, Moore never gave up hope. He pleaded with me every time I went out to the Voice for passages for passages from Howie. It became a very large nuisance.

Alas, the matter was resolved in a strange way. Tragedy had apparently struck. Weeks and then months went by without a single Howie sighting. Everyone at work was puzzled. Had Howie been promoted to the front office? Had Howie been kidnapped by Japanese invaders? Worse yet, had Howie Makem, the official ambassador of GM's new Quality push, been unceremoniously LAID OFF? Had it been in the U.S. News & World Report ?

The working class world over is in shock today as it was announced that the General Motors Corporation's beloved Quality cat, Mr. Howard Makem, was officially laid off from his job at the GM Truck & Bus facility in Flint, Michigan. A grieving UAW spokesman told reporterss: "The auto industry has lost a dear comrade and a special brother who provided a keen light in an era of darkness." GM Chairman Roger Smith refused comment outside of the admission that he "felt like a lousy hangman." Mr. Makem is reported to be in seclusion at his home outside the small village of Lapeer where a night-long vigil is being held by throngs of admirers and somber linemates.

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