Rivethead - Ben Hamper [113]
When Moza nailed Eddie for bangin’ on his bench, it was too much to take. I motioned for Moza to come over to my job. I took out my hammer, smiled, and proceeded to go apeshit on my bench top.
“You're on notice again, Hamper,” Moza shouted above the clamor.
“Fuck you! YOU'RE THE ONE ON NOTICE!”
Almost instantly, the sounds of hammers, drifts, chains and pipes came crashing down in gorgeous unison. Moza braced himself against my bench, his head whipping back and forth. You could pretty much tell what he was thinking. How can I put forty workers on notice at once? To do so would require more paperwork than any one man could peddle. We banged on and on. Finally, Moza fled for the sanctuary of his little glass office.
It was only the beginning. For the next eight days, we made Calvin Moza's short-lived career switch sheer hell. Every time he'd walk the aisle, someone would pepper his steps with raining rivets. He couldn't make a move without the hammers banging and loud chants of “suckass” and “brown snout” ringin’ in his ears. Calvin Moza got everything he deserved. There simply was no room for pity when dealing with a hypocrite who was about as pure as freshly driven snot.
When they led him away on the final day, he looked like he'd aged a decade. They buried his sorry ass in some remote corner of the South Unit. Once again we had turned back the Big Boys’ attempt to saddle us with an intimidator. All it took was a unified effort and a healthy dose of anarchy. Together we stand, divided we might as well transfer to the Fender Line.
We didn't have nearly the success with the next guy they threw at us. His name was Sanders—a diehard prick, a full-fledged sadist, a corporate pit bull. We gave it our all, but this brickhead took it in stride and spit it back out. I had the distinct suspicion that we were locking horns with something that didn't even qualify as human.
In the weeks to come, we fired everything we had at Sanders. We ran bad shit. We heckled him unmercifully. We stole the hubcaps off his car. We put everything from Alpo to acid in his sandwiches. We banged on our benches until our arms and ears throbbed.
We walked out at lunch (penalty). We threw rivets and gloveballs everywhere (penalty). We insisted on doubling-up (penalty). We blasted the radios (penalty). We refused to clean our areas (penalty). We refused to wear our safety glasses (penalty). We blew whiskey in his face (penalty). Recognize a pattern? If not, you most certainly deserve a…
PENALTY! The damn word must've been Sanders's middle name. It proved to be the key to his success in breaking us. Plain and simple, the bastard lived for paperwork. He'd have made somebody a fine little stenographer. Sanders never ranted or raved. When trouble brewed, he merely went reaching for his arsenal of Bic ballpoints. That was all it took. Before long, the aisles were plugged with pink paper carbons from his penalty file. We'd been corralled. The revolution fell apart.
Paul and I had been penalized several times for attempting to double-up. We simply couldn't help ourselves. We knew what waited on the other side of that wall and it was a helluva lot more attractive than what was stacked in front of us. In the end, we had to surrender. We couldn't keep buttin’ heads with Sanders's penalty machine. At the rate we were being written up, the two of us would be fired within a month.
“Jesus, we should off the bastard,” I remember Paul fuming. “This is ridiculous.”
“No, killing him would be ridiculous,” I replied. “The penalty for murdering your foreman is three months off without pay. Let's just pray he develops arthritis in his writin’ hand.”
Schobel and I finally reached a pansy agreement with Sanders that would allow us to double-up just as long as we didn't leave the department. It sucked. This arrangement was like being told you could vacation in the Bahamas but couldn't