Rivethead (19 page)
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 now, 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 sputtered 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 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 transferred onto the day shift? 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 the 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 reporters: “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.
I remember the day I had to break the news to Mike that Howie Makem had apparently vanished. Christ, it was as if his little brother had disappeared.
“Howie's GONE?” Mike hollered. “Have you asked around? He must be somewhere.”
“I don't know where he went,” I answered. “All I know is that he's been missing for weeks. The flag outside the plant hasn't been at half mast or anything, so I assume he's still alive.”
“You wouldn't be snowin’ me about this whole disappearance, would you? I know how loath you are about givin’ me a Howie Makem interview. Let's be honest, Ben.”
“I can't believe we're having this whole conversation. Howie Makem is missing. I don't know why and I don't know where. Above all, I don't even fuckin’ care! If he ever shows up again, I promise to get you an interview. Are you happy?”
My editor leaned back in his chair. “Exceedingly so.” He beamed.
It was back to the drawing board for the brainy sorts at GM Truck & Bus. In light of Howie Makem's disappearance, another inventive Quality concept was needed. They introduced to us the official General Motors “Quality Drinking Glass.”
One evening, the supervisors began approaching each of their workers with a little mid-job pep talk. The gist was that if the Quality level reached such and such a figure, we would all receive a lovely drinking glass memento that we could proudly take home to show our kin and prop beside our bowling trophies and eighth-grade diplomas. The glass even provided a wrenching of the heartstrings, for emblazoned on the side was the profile of none other than Howie Makem himself, rest his controversial soul.
Christ, I got all choked up and thought I was gonna bawl. With renewed determination, I began knocking the piss right out of each and every rivet that dared rear its shiny little scalp in my direction. Go, team, go! Forget your house payment. Forget your child support. Forget that trip to Cedar Point. Damn it, do it for Howie!
Sure enough, the boys and I hit our goal. One night after lunch break, Gino came luggin’ a case of Quality Drinking Glasses down the line.
“Thanks for the good job, Ben.” Gino smiled. “Here's your cup.”
At the same time, one of the utility guys was walking right behind Gino asking each worker whether he'd like to sell his Quality Glass for a buck. He mumbled something about wanting to start a collection. I was shocked. I told the guy to get his rotten currency outta my face. No one could have my Howie Makem drinking glass. The gall of some bastards…
I figure that the whole investment in these glasses probably ran GM maybe $35. But, of course, it was the thought that mattered most. After all, when someone works hard all day in a smoky chamber full of sludge, noise, armpits, beer breath, cigar butts, psychos, manic depressives, grease pits, banana stickers, venom and gigantic stalking kitty cats, why not give the guy his own glass.
You can bet your ass he'll soon be needin’ a drink.
A
NOTHER LAYOFF SWALLOWED ME UP, THIS TIME, THE GRAND
-pappy of ‘em all. I was out of work for nearly a year, far too long a span when you stopped to consider Reagan was now in power. Ron wasn't nearly as charitable as our old pal Jimmy Carter. He had his own designs on what he wanted to do with the budget and they surely didn't include funneling any of it into the frayed pocket lining of Joe Lunch-pail. No more safety nets for the urchins of fickle industry.
On the verge of poverty, Dave Steel and I were really beginning to sweat it. We began calling up co-workers who were still clinging to their jobs in the plant. We started hittin’ them up for every two-bit rumor they could hustle down. Bob-A-Lou informed me that there was some heavy chatter making the rounds regarding a new product being introduced at our plant. No one was sure what this mystery vehicle would be, but the grapevine was practically smoldering. Dave was receiving the same scuttlebutt from his sources.
We'd both been fortunate up until then. Each time we'd been shelved, GM reeled us back in just before our benefits were set to dissolve, so our layoffs seemed more like paid vacations. But this was before Reaganomics, before the merry-go-round rusted to a standstill. We weren't carefree spuds anymore. We were thirtyfuckin'something and we had budgets that had entwined themselves around those hefty blue-checkered pay stubs.
All we could do was wait. Wait, wait, wait and pray that the simmering rumors were true. Once again, Richard Dawson's eyes began boring tiny little holes in my skull. I'd jump into my Camaro and drive around aimlessly. It wasn't fair. Eleven months of lame luck for a five foot six and a half meat loaf with red eyes and a soul in need of one colossal enema. Seventh Heaven closed for repairs, please proceed to 7-Eleven for as much overpriced beer as you can lug to your car and drive seven miles outta town, plow ‘em all down and vomit out the T-top as the crows all scream your name. I was experiencing shoprat withdrawal. From thoroughbred to sawhorse. I became the third-base coach for my brother's Little League baseball team. I volunteered to take retards to the zoo. I conned my way into my own radio show on the city's Public Broadcasting station, playing Black Flag and Annette Funicello records for a small cult of adolescent skinheads.
And then…finally…it was HIM! The date: July 26, 1983. The time: 10:00
A.M
. EST. The place: General Motors Executive Headquarters, Top Dog Suite, Detroit, Michigan.
In one fluid motion, GM Chairman Roger Smith reared back in his leather chair, cocked his arm high above his head, and hurled the half-eaten remainder of a lemon-filled jelly doughnut out his fourteenth-story window.
A decision had been reached. A nervous smile crept through and replaced the morning-long grimace. Roger Smith—Chairman of the Bored, honcho of a thousand wretched levers—tapped the intercom button for his secretary.
“Miss Henderson, it is time to place the call.”
“Oh, Mr. Smith, surely you don't mean—”
“Precisely, Miss Henderson. Tell him this time we mean it. Tell him to show up promptly and leave his blasphemous notepads behind. Tell him damn the torpedos and damn the Toyotas and damn Iacocca if he gets in our way. Tell him…goddamnit…just tell him we NEED him!”
RINNNNNNNG! RINNNNNNNNG!
…he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me…well, hell yes that squat little gerbil loves me. After all, who else would he rumble outta bed between dreary daymares of life and death and Eve Plumb in turquoise hotpants if not I, the Rivethead, thoroughbred of all throroughbreds, the quickest triggerman this side of the River Rouge.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Hamper?” It was that same sultry monotone. I got goosebumps the size of hubcaps.
“Yes?” I responded breathlessly.
“You are to report back to work at the GM Truck & Bus plant tomorrow morning at 6:00
A.M
. for rehiring.”
“I love you.”
CLICK!!!!
Apparently my callback to GM was necessitated when the Corporation landed this enormous contract with Uncle Sam to build a shitload of army trucks. This was the mystery product that Bob-A-Lou and the others had been hinting about. Besides Smith, I now had another man to thank for this swell turn of fate—Caspar (The Friendly) Weinberger. It was this man's dogged lust for a few billion dollars worth of military vehicles that reopened the doors and pumped new life into my sagging shoprat career.
Hey, whatever turned them on. I was just glad to be back. Army trucks? Count me in. Tanks, bazookas, napalm? Hell, it was their hobby shop. I was in no position to argue. Conscientious objection might be a noble path come draft day, but with my meal ticket hangin’ in the balance, I was quick to respond “Hell yes, I will go!” Ronnie needed a new fleet of death wagons. It sucked, but so did starving.
As per my instructions, I rendezvoused at 0600 hours in the Personnel office. Just like old times, I fell into a herd of a couple dozen reclaimed shoprats, each of whom were taking long drags from their cigarettes and peering deep into their own separate nowheres. Within moments, a necktie with a pink head attached would enter the room, return our ID badges and guide us back into the Land That Time (and a half) Forgot.
As we waited, I scanned the faces behind me. Slumped in a chair away from the rest of the group was Dave Steel. He was wearing his traditional scowl, looking for all the world like a man boarding a boxcar for Belsen. I had to chuckle. No matter how many times they yanked us in and out of this buggy palace, Dave and I always managed to keep being paired together. I drifted over to say hello.
“Hey, wallflower, what's a semi-educated telecommunications expert like yourself doin’ in a place like this?”
“Go to hell.” Dave groaned. “As much as this is necessary, I'd almost prefer death.”
I felt better already knowing that my reentry into assembly life would be a little less harsh now that Dave was around to glaze the mood with his steady roll call of anguish and inspirational negativism. Misery loves company and a mutual loathing for the same ugly reality might not seem like a very constructive way of dealing with the winds of fate, but sometimes it's the only way.