Rivethead - Ben Hamper [114]
I went back to my flipped-over garbage can and the world of blue-crud journalism. Paul made a crude hut out of some cardboard boxes and slept half the day. Our alcohol consumption hit levels that caused even us concern. We were beaten and desperate and bored like never before. It felt as though something was about to break.
Sadly, it did.
Wednesday, July 16, 1986. There was nothing particularly askew on this date, noting to remotely suggest that this shift was to be any different than the few odd thousand that had gone before. I weaved my way through the rivet guns and cross members, the waltz of the unblessed, awaiting the next frame and the one after that. Thirty-seven frames an hour. Thirty-seven clumsy muffler hangers. Thirty-seven rear spring castings. Thirty-seven invitations to dance.
First break arrived and I plopped myself down at the workers’ picnic bench for a smoke and a glance at the box scores. It was precisely 7:08 P.M. As I stared at the paper, the words and numbers started swirling together. I stood up. I could feel a numbness in my arms and legs. I began having major difficulty trying to catch my breath. I stepped away from the table feeling totally disoriented.
A stroke, I figured. I'm having a FUCKING STROKE! Thirty-one years old, a mere minnow in the scheme of the dream, and here comes the big daddy death rattle himself, smug as can be, marchin’ right down the center of Screwball Lane. What kind of filthy, poetic injustice was this? Choking over dead like a sack of yams only ten yards away from some moron's half-tinkered embryo of a Suburban. To top it off, Sanders would probably write me up for expiring without permission. I can joke about this now. However, I can assure you, I wasn't then. I was too busy searchin’ for air.
I remember racin’ into the phone booth, though I wasn't sure why. I wasn't sure of anything. All I knew was that I didn't want to die. Then it occurred to me. I had to dial for help. That's why I was in the booth. I was in such a state that I couldn't remember the phone numbers of my best friends or family. I hit zero and told the operator I was having an impossible time dialing. I had her ring my girlfriend's apartment. No answer. I should have guessed. As their men stood crackin’ and crumbling in barbed wire vomitoriums, the women were all out at the mall tryin’ on shoes.
I suddenly remembered that Mike Moore was back in town to sell off all the junk left behind at the Michigan Voice. I had the operator dial out there, praying that they hadn't disconnected the phones yet. After a long wait, Moore answered.
“Goddamn, listen to me, Mike. I'm in a phone booth on the Rivet Line and I believe I'm having a stroke or a nervous fuckin’ breakdown. I'm losing my vision, my arms and legs are tinglin’ and I can hardly breathe. Help me!”
“Try your best to calm down,” Mike advised. “It sounds like anxiety. The best thing you can do is to get the hell out of there. Go home immediately, then call me back.”
I stepped out of the phone booth into a nightmare. Everyone's head seemed enlarged. Their eyes seemed to converge on me. I made it to my workbench and grabbed my keys. Paul was buildin’ up some cross members and I approached him. I had to notify Paul I was going. By now, I could barely speak. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but tears were rollin’ down my face.
“I have to leave,” I warbled. “Tell Sanders I puked or something.”
Paul didn't press the matter. He could see things were seriously amiss. “Don't worry about Sanders,” he said. “Just take off.” His voice seemed to be coming out of a transistor radio.
I bolted out of the factory and into the sweet outdoors. It was a great relief to be free from that freak show. My memory was shot. I spent about fifteen minutes trying to locate my car. When I did, I sped straight for home. The two-mile drive seemed to take hours.
My mind was completely unhinged. I paused at streetlights and snuck glances at people in neighboring cars. It was hideous. I saw insects driving