Rivethead - Ben Hamper [102]
I tried to talk some sense into him, warning him at great length about the dealings that awaited the Day Men—the alarm clocks, the brutal hangovers, the rednecks decked out in camouflage goon suits, the endless lunkspeak about trout bait, Willie Hernandez, faggots, spooks, kikes, dykes, nips, spies, hemorrhoids, Jesus and power tools.
The Polish Sex God would have none of it. He argued that now he would have his workday over by 2:30 P.M. and be able to prowl for kicks and chicks the rest of the night.
“It doesn't work like that,” I told him. “First shift only works for the married guys. They have a very rigid system—rush home, drink three beers, eat supper, watch Wheel of Fortune, hop the old lady and be sound asleep by 9:00. Clean, decent American living. A bar hound like you will never beat the clock. You'll miss so much work, your ass will be out on Van Slyke within a month.”
Jerry left anyway and maybe it was best for all concerned. Lately, he had developed this terrible knack for hijacking his co-workers at lunchtime and not returning them for the completion of the shift. What would happen is that we'd all pile into his van at lunch break, begin hammering the beer and stare off silently into the city lights. Five minutes before we were due back on our jobs, Jerry would rev up the van and turn to whoever was crammed in back. “Who wants to go back in there?” he'd demand. For those who wanted to avoid certain penalizing, this was a cue to haul ass. Halftime desertion was something Jerry never joked about. You either bailed out or were taken hostage. Terry, Herman and I often went along. Eddie, Doug and Al always scrambled for the door. We had much more fun than they did. We had the penalties on our records to prove it.
The night Janice left, I had a lump in my throat the size of a croquet ball. For three years, she had been my neighbor, my soundboard, my confidante and best friend. When she had first arrived on the Rivet Line, Janice was vulnerable and naive. There were times I thought she'd never make it. I was dead wrong. She transcended the token female role and became one of the boys—a description she was utterly comfortable with.
On Friday nights, we had this routine where I'd pull my car up close to the exit doors and the two of us would sit there drinkin’ beer while scrutinizing the workers as they fled from the plant. We laughed like idiots, pretending to be able to forecast their destinies. Janice handled the women and I covered the guys. It went something like this:
“Take a look at this goof,” I observed. “Not a lot going on here. He will drive home cautiously, take a long shower, eat two chicken pot pies and tune in an old episode of Kojak. This man should be put on life support. No wonder his wife joined a motorcycle club and never said goodbye.”
Janice would spot one. ‘A definite party bimbo. I predict she is en route to a large house where she will become intoxicated on sloe gin and make a complete ass out of herself dancing to the Big Chill soundtrack. Eventually, she will wind up having intercourse with the first guy who offers her a long line of cocaine.”
After the parking lot had emptied and all the beer was gone, we would go have breakfast at some greasy diner. Amidst the clamor of our drunken co-workers, we would drink black coffee and talk for hours—about anything, about everything, about nothing at all.
On that last night as Janice prepared to crunch her last rivet, the croquet ball in my throat had grown to the size of a grapefruit. I tried to appear busy and unconcerned. It would be over soon and Janice would stop by and say something sweet. I was sure I'd begin blubberin’. Not that Janice wouldn't understand. She's probably start bawlin’ too. I just didn't want the rest of the crew to catch the Rivethead in the throes of some Jimmy Swaggart meltdown.
However, Janice surprised me. Instead of deliverin’ some hopeless gush, she snuck around my workbench