Rivethead (24 page)

Why? Why? Why?

Exit Dave Steel. During the mad scramble of those who wanted to escape the Rivet Line, he had filed for transfer to Work Inspection. My nagging attempts to persuade him to stick around fell on deaf ears. Once the paperwork came together, he was gone in a wink. Dave couldn't believe that I wanted to remain. “I believe you are in dire need of psychiatric help,” he suggested.

Dave was way off. After years of being bumped in and out and around the plant, I was never more convinced that this is where I belonged. Tot lot for the toothless. A footstool lackey for the Rivet Lords. A snot-nosed megaphone for the rodents. Comfortable in my stinkin’ placement—glad only to scrawl it down, to sleepwalk to the next greasy errand, the next smudged-up paycheck headed for the whiskey man's till. Departure was nonsense. Departure was treason.

After Dave had transferred, I occasionally visited him on his new job. I couldn't find a solitary reason to envy his relocation. All Dave did all night was shuffle back and forth poking an occasional dipstick into some half-hidden hole and yawning like a hippo in the mud. His neighbors resembled Stepford Wives at a linen sale. It was fuckin’ eerie. No revelry, no pranks, no communication, no turmoil, no nothin’. No, thank you.

Thus began a constant routine between the two of us of sniping at each other's jobs. I would condemn Dave for wanting to become a part of this silent mausoleum. I assured him that the clock would eventually tear him apart in such a lifeless outpost. Dave would counter by insisting that the Rivet Line was a lake of fire, a dungeon full of lamebrains and misfits who looked like they were all fresh off triple homicides. On and on it would go. Denouncements, slander, scorn. The trouble was clear. Neither one of us could understand each other's motives for the paths we had chosen.

The simple truth was that Dave had zero use for humanity. Had he been able to swing it, he'd probably have taken a job sittin’ in a shanty on top of the factory roof fiddlin’ with a busted Etch-a-Sketch all night. Camaraderie was a useless priority for Dave Steel. I was his only friend and, half the time, I think that was one over his limit.

For myself, comradeship had developed into a must. I needed drinkin’ buddies and fellow clock maimers. The Rivethead was no working class hero. Not by a long shot. He was only a conglomeration of the hucksters and slickers around him.

Folks like Janice. Within weeks of her arrival on the Rivet Line, we had grown to depend on each other for assistance in knockin’ down the humdrum. She became my personal sounding board. On each shift I would write for a couple of hours before lunch. When I was finished with whatever I was working on, I'd hand my stuff over to her. Being that she walked that same murky strip, she was an excellent barometer for what needed to be said and what should be scrapped. She could tell when I was on to something. She also knew when I was just ramblin’ on. Several times I used her suggestions for themes in my
Michigan Voice
column.

Then there was Jerry, the lady-killer from Bay City. I'd never seen a smoother operator. I quickly dubbed him the Polish Sex God—a handle he was enthralled with, always pestering me to fork over any articles I might write containing references to his title.

In the absence of Dave Steel, Jerry became my new beer chum. We often worked out this scam where we would volunteer to work a couple hours overtime cleaning up the department. As soon as the line stopped, we'd race for the brooms. Jerry would start at one end of the department and I would head for the other. We'd begin a furious system of kicking, sweeping, sliding and hiding the night's debris under benches and stock pallets. We worked like absolute maniacs for about fifteen minutes. Our boss had us written down for two hours. However, our boss was long gone and, soon enough, so were we.

We'd scram over to Mark's Lounge with an hour-plus still ringing on the overtime meter. This was a much more agreeable way of earning extra cash. Dark lights, cold beer, shootin’ pool and, without fail, an encounter with a bunch of tipsy bimbos. Jerry sure knew how to spin that web.

I can remember one night whisking off for the can and by the time I returned, the Polish Sex God was holdin’ court. He had one chick in his lap and another one draped on his shoulder. These women were buying
him
drinks. I tuned in on some of the conversation and wanted to puke.

“Doreen, has anyone ever told you that you're a ringer for Natalie Wood?”

“Are you serious? She's gorgeous!”

“Precisely my point.” Jerry grinned.

Only the fact that we were bein’ paid twenty-some dollars an hour made this charade tolerable. Doreen was Natalie Wood like my grandma was Angie Dickinson. Jerry tried interesting me in taking the two bar babes out to his van with him. I was as horny as the next guy, but I did have some requirements as to who, when and where. This scenario included none of them. I told Jerry that I'd just meet him back at the time clocks at 3:00
A.M
. to punch out our badges. I sat by myself and savored the beer. I suppose there were much worse ways of makin’ a living than gettin’ sloshed while your buddy was bouncin’ around the back of his van with the new Natalie Wood.

I got together with Doug, Eddie, Dick and Jerry and we created this grand diversion that we called Rivet Hockey. Rivet Hockey could best be described as a combination of foosball, soccer, the Civil War and every Charles Bronson movie made after 1972. It was total mayhem, a Neanderthal free-for-all that was both violent and one hell of a lot of fun.

The game was simple. Position a rivet on the floor, scope out an opposing linemate, and kick the rivet as hard as possible toward the linemate's foot, ankle or shin. In Rivet Hockey, pain was the payoff. To connect on a direct hit to a tender tibia, to exact blood through an opponent's pant leg, was equivalent to kicking a fifty-yard field goal in the Rose Bowl. Remorse was forbidden. Revenge was encouraged. Ruptures were illegal. Every rat for himself.

As for selecting a Rivet Hockey victim, you had to be very cautious not to put the scope to a linemate who saw no redeeming humor in having his legs and ankles blasted by screamin’ chunks of metal. There were some of our neighbors who just weren't buyin’ Rivet Hockey. They were only here to make a buck. These grumps gulped coffee, gnawed on salami sandwiches, pawed through girlie rags and sat out the death march of the minute hand.

We had problems with one guy we all called Mighty Joe Young. No one knew his real name and no one was about to ask. He looked like some kind of science project from Muscle Beach—250 pounds, invisible neck, hands like hams and a scowl as big as Utah. Unfortunately, they plopped Mighty Joe right in the middle of our battlefield. His presence began to alter everyone's game plan. Our savage line drives were exchanged for wimpy high-percentage pokes. The whole deal began to reek of cowardice and retreat. No one wanted to risk peggin’ this monster in the flannel shirt.

As self-appointed commissioner of the North Unit Rivet Hockey Association, I felt obliged to act. I gathered up all the players and we retreated at lunchtime to Jerry's van for strategy and Budweiser. Janice tagged along to take down the minutes.

I began. “Listen, guys. My father was a shoprat. His father was a shoprat. My father's father was a shoprat. I'm bettin’ that your fathers and their fathers were shoprats.” The guys all nodded. So did Janice. “The point is this. We come from very noble stock. Realizing this, do you believe for one moment that our forefathers would have put up with this crap? Here we've hit upon a great diversion, one that'll distract us from that goddamn clock, and we're backin’ down like a bunch of panty-waist bank clerks. Wouldn't our fathers have embraced Rivet Hockey and fought to the bitter end for its survival? Huh?
HUH?
”

My co-workers pulled on their beers and pondered. I forged on.

“Well, I think the answer is obvious—HELL NO, THEY WOULDN'T! They would have thought Rivet Hockey was a bad fuckin’ joke. And that, my friends, is precisely my point. WHEN THE HELL DID WE EVER DO ANYTHING OUR FATHERS WANTED US TO DO? NEVER! After all, we're workin’ here, ain't we? My suggestion is that we go back in there and kick the shit out of some rivets!”

My hokey speech worked. Mighty Joe was soon conquered. He still wasn't real fond of bein’ pegged with a misdirected rivet, but I think he began to realize that our malice wasn't directed at anything that walked on this earth or chewed on lunch meat or wore a flannel shirt. Shit, we liked just about everybody. Our only adversary was Father Time. And by slammin’ rivets up against each other's shins, we were only out to jump that bastard and maim him something silly.

Eddie was responsible for another one of our favorite amusements. He called it Dumpster Ball. To play, all you did was round up some empty boxes, fold in the cardboard flaps, set the box on its side, and attempt to kick it on a high enough arc that it would clear the center of the dumpster next to the wall across from Eddie's job.

Dumpster Ball wasn't as easy as it might seem. It took practice to get those boxes airborne. There was a certain art to the required motion and, before long, Eddie was givin’ out lessons. He would demonstrate the proper approach and follow through. He was damn near automatic, smooth as Jan Stenerud, powerful enough to occasionally deposit one of the boxes into the rafter stratosphere. We called these moon shots and they were truly breathtaking. Everyone in the pack had some goofy talent and, for whatever it was worth, Eddie's was Dumpster Ball.

In time, we all started to get the feel for it. We'd hustle through our jobs and race down to polish up our kicking game. All of us kept improving until we were able to give Eddie some decent competition. Thus began Dumpster Ball wagering and, with it, Eddie's mysterious backslide from the very sport he had invented.

The problem was Eddie simply got the yips whenever money was on the line. We'd bet a dollar a field goal, ten chances per taker. I don't know whether it was a fear of losin’ a few bucks or all the pot he was smokin’ (I used to get contact highs just lookin’ at his eyes), but Eddie just couldn't hit for shit when it mattered most. Eddie would become so enraged that sometimes he'd kick a box so hard the damn thing would explode into scrap the moment it met his toe. This was a very impressive feat, but hardly any way to win your money back.

To lessen the stakes a bit, we started kicking to see who would have to bring in the alcohol on Friday nights. Kickin’ for booze revitalized Eddie's game. He had an edge on us. Where we all drank vodka or Jim Beam, Eddie's drink was Hennessy. A fifth of that stuff ran about twenty bucks a pop. With such a cost discrepancy running in his favor, Eddie relaxed and soon his towering blasts were once again penetrating the dumpster's gut, bangin’ a good forty feet up the wall.

Eddie was the only guy in the department who could match me drink for drink. The Polish Sex God was good with the beer, but couldn't handle the hard stuff. Hogjaw could knock back anything, but had problems with the long haul. Doug had already shot out his belly and Tony lacked stamina.

Fridays became special. Eddie and I would start knockin’ down the bottles early in the shift. Whenever we'd get caught short, I would arrange for Jerry and Janice to cover my job while I snuck up to the liquor store. I always enjoyed this trek. It excited me to know that I was up to something that was rigidly forbidden. I was leaving the department without permission. NOT ALLOWED! I was wandering off plant grounds without punching out. NOT ALLOWED! I was intoxicated during working hours. NOT ALLOWED! I was smuggling alcohol onto GM property. NOT ALLOWED! I never once got nabbed and it made me feel like laughing at the bossmen but…NOT ALOUD.

The only problem with Eddie was the more he consumed, the more maudlin he became. We would sit in my Camaro after the shift was over, uncapping a new bottle or finishing an old one, and Eddie would start running all this worthless shit at me concerning race-mingling. It was stupid. So what if we were different colors? I listened as Eddie let it out.

“Ben, we're all brothers. We all bleed red. Why the hell we gotta fight?”

“Goddamnit, Eddie, who's fightin’? We certainly aren't. We're drinkin’. This is supposed to be fun, remember? Why bring up that bullshit? It doesn't concern us.”

“The thing is, I never spoke with any white folk until I was fifteen. Where I come from, the two just don't get together.”

“Well, shit, I wasn't exactly Don Cornelius's houseboy. Listen, Eddie. If some of these bastards got their heads stuck up their asses, that can't be our problem. As long as we hit it off, who
cares
what those idiots are up to.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Eddie replied, content to drop it for the moment, but hardly convinced of anything that would smooth his doubts on the matter.

The summer rolled on and we broiled in the heat, smuggling our fair share of amusement wherever we could find it. Jerry had decided to try out the lock-nut job a few spots down. Taking his place was one of the college kid “interns” GM hired each summer to cover for guys who were off on their vacations. His name was Mark, a chubby kid bound for med school. For the time being, he belonged to us. We taught him how to play Rivet Hockey and Dumpster Ball. We even got him to sample an occasional beer. Before long, he fit right in like a true-blue rivetling.

I remember one day I was just mindin’ my own business, molestin’ yet another series of rivets, when our little greenie started yellin’ “Holy shit…HOLY SHIT!” I looked over at Mark and he was motioning frantically over my shoulder. Could it be? Roger Smith? Had he relented and come to answer the dogged plea of the Hamper ancestry? Tonight, we bowl?

I turned around slowly. What I was gazing at was not Roger Smith. Standing only ten feet behind me was none other than Howie Makem, his big swollen cat head teetering in the haze. The men began to howl deliriously. It had been a few years since the last known Howie sighting. We continued to roar our lungs out as Howie Makem strutted down the aisle and out of view.

“THE DEAD HAVE RISEN! THE DEAD HAVE RISEN!” I shrieked. I looked over at Mark. His mouth was hangin’ open like an oven door. He appeared to be in a state of shock.