Rivethead - Ben Hamper [110]
Tardy as always, Moore came screechin’ up in his faithful Honda. Uh-oh. Rare was the time you gazed upon a Japanese import in this sprawling car kennel. When you did, they were usually very easy to identify—busted-off antennas, boot heel indentations on the quarter panel, key scrapes along the paintjob, broken mirrors, broken windows. Freedom of choice in one's particular mode of transportation ended rather abruptly at the entrance gate to most GM assembly plants. There were plenty of flag-totin’ vandals still takin’ night classes at the John Wayne Institute for Insecure Bigots.
“Couldn't you have borrowed your girlfriend's car?” I asked Mike as he hopped into my Camaro.
“She drives a Toyota,” he replied. Sheesh.
“How about a cold quart of beer?”
“You know I can't possibly down that much beer. Hey, you sure my car's safe out here?”
“Does your insurance cover mindless vandalism and freak disasters?”
“I guess.”
“Then she's as safe as a cock in a jock,” I lied. “Have a drink, you'll loosen up.”
“I told you, I can't drink that much beer.”
“Looks like you've given me no choice.” I uncapped the other quart and began poundin’.
I went inside the plant first and told Mike to follow behind me a minute later. We met down at the time clocks. He seemed momentarily mesmerized. “Man, I wish I had a time card to punch in one of these.”
“Well, you can't use mine. That would stop my pay. Try using your Visa card. You never know, it might wipe out your balance.”
When we made it up to my job, Mike took a seat on a crateful of spring castings. I flipped over my garbage can and sat down next to him. My editor couldn't stop smiling. He looked up and down the line as if this was some kind of breathtaking moment in history. Perhaps it was.
“This is where you write?” Moore asked. “What about all this noise?”
“You don't even notice it after a while. It's like real discordant elevator Muzak.”
I introduced my editor to several of the regulars. Paul seized the opportunity and began showing Mike photographs of his prized motorcycles. Hell, the way Mike was grinnin’, you would have thought he was gazin’ at nude snapshots of Ginger and Mary Ann.
My editor wanted to meet the steering gear man. I had to break the news to him gently. “He's not available, Mike. He checked himself into a detox ward last week.”
His next request was to catch a glimpse of Howie Makem. I explained that Howie had no set schedule. “Howie makes up his own hours. Besides, he rarely patrols this beat anymore since Herman beaned him on the head with an empty pint of McMasters.”
Mike Moore's final request was to hit a few rivets. I tried to talk him out of the idea, but he was practically foamin’ at the mouth. “Shit,” I moaned. “If Henry Jackson were to come stridin’ through here, my ass would be crammed through a keyhole.”
My editor began to beg. “C'mon, just a few. Please…PLEASE!”
I showed Mike how to grasp the gun and navigate the tip to the target. I warned him not to pull the trigger until everything was aligned. He was really smiling now. I lit a cigarette and stepped back. Moore positioned the gun squarely atop the target and drove home a perfect rivet. The guys applauded and he hit a few more. Hell, he looked like a natural.
“Thanks,” he said.
Anytime.
Things began moving quickly. Craziness pervaded. Not only did I have this sudden invitation from my editor to take the Rivethead to a national forum, but I was being tapped on the shoulder by other unlikely sources. A man from Penthouse magazine kept calling wanting me to write “an autoworker's view of sex on an assembly line.” I told him that such an article would have to be pure fabrication. He said that would be fine, that I could use a pseudonym if I preferred. I had to decline. It was absurd: “Mel brandished his walloper as Kate's ample melons glistened in the piss-colored haze. He mounted her as