Rivethead - Ben Hamper [106]
Instead of jumping into my shit, Gino simply walked on by as if ignoring me. This lack of cognition made me even more uncomfortable. A major ass-chewing was in order. A flock of penalties were in the balance. I wanted it over with. My foreman chose to let me walk that long, lonely plank as if I really needed more time to ruminate about the damage done.
Finally, he came strollin’ over. “I would assume you know what this means,” Gino said. “You can forget about the doubling-up right now.”
And, that was it. No screeching, no interrogation, no penalties, no suspension. Gino seemed to realize that I felt bad enough. What had really saved my butt was the fact that Henry Jackson didn't ever find out about the particulars behind Paul's accident. He was still in the dark about our comings and goings. It got me to thinkin’. Maybe someday in the faraway future we could restore this crashed bird back to its natural glory. It was a long shot, but, maybe.
Paul stopped in to visit the Rivet Line the next day. He'd just been released from the hospital and his arm was in a gigantic sling. He had torn right through the arteries and tendons in his right wrist. He showed us the maze of stitches. It looked horrible.
Paul pulled me aside. “The damn doctor says I'm finished hittin’ rivets. However, I'll be back. Give me a few weeks and we'll be smokin’. They'll never shut us down, partner.”
That big German was nuts. “Don't worry about it, Paul. Just heal that arm up and they'll find you a real pussy job. Forget about this place. You don't wanna return here.”
Wrong. Six week later, a month ahead of schedule and against doctor's orders, Paul Schobel was back on the Rivet Line. I swear to Jesus the guy was a plowhorse. That very same night we sprung into our old routine. I pleaded with Paul that we should work it in gradually. He wouldn't hear of it. Gino stood in the doorway of his office staring at us.
“I assume you know what this means,” I yelled over. Gino just shrugged. His face did everything it could to keep from smiling. It failed miserably.
A hazy morning in the middle of May. It's around 3:00 A.M. and the mood inside my Camaro is rather strained. For the second consecutive evening, Dave Steel has snapped the E string off his guitar while plunging into the crescendo section of “Mussolini Chews Red Man,” a pivotal song from our upcoming rock opera about General Motors factory life.
As Dave begins tearing apart my floorboard for a replacement string, I hit the pause button on the tape machine and fish two more beers out of the Igloo cooler. The smokestacks stare down, tombstones older than God. We're parked beneath one of the huge vapor lamps at the far north end of the GM Truck & Bus employee lot. Nothing out here but the barbed wire, the possums, an occasional freight train and two off-key and off-duty shoprats. It's a long, long way from Abbey Road.
We are sitting out here working on our shop opera or, as we've come to call it, “shopera,” a thirty-tune rock opus concerning the real dealings of assembly line labor. So far, we've completed five songs to our liking: “Rat Like Me,” “He's a Suck-Ass,” “Banana Sticker Republic,” “Are You Goin’ in Tonight?” and “You're on Notice.” Three rockers, a ballad and a miserable dirge.
Despite the obvious drawbacks of trying to write and record inside a car, I've insisted on these surroundings for two main reasons. First off, we'd grown awful tired of the old bitch who lived below Dave callin’ the cops every time we plugged into his amplifiers. The cops would come and Dave would try to explain that we were dedicated composers emoting our wretched angst against a world that saw us as nothing more than blockheads and lackwits. The police were not impressed. Dave was finally faced with turning it off or bein’ evicted.
The second reason for our whereabouts was a decision I had made. Despite the hardships, I was convinced we should retire to the scene of the theme itself. My hunch was that