Rivethead - Ben Hamper [118]
The crew from NBC spent four days following me around. Besides myself, they spent time interviewing my grandfather, my daughter, Mike Moore, my grandmother and assorted friends. They wanted something from the shopera so we got the band together and they filmed us ripping through a particularly hot version of “Rat Like Me.” Dave's pompadour looked like a large exotic bird.
The producer mentioned that he wanted to take the cameras inside the shop to film me on the Rivet Line. Sheesh, what a comedian. I explained to him that I was hardly GM's favorite son and that getting clearance to film inside the factory would be about as likely as receiving permission to film the Pope taking a crap. The producer remained unfazed. He represented America's top-rated morning show. Confidently, he drove straight down to GM headquarters in Detroit for the go-ahead.
The next day he phoned me. “Jesus, you were right on that call,” he reported. “The best that I could do was to get permission to film you in the parking lot.”
“I warned you.” I chuckled. “GM believes a creative mind is a flawed mind.”
The producer continued. “All I know is that everything was proceeding fine up until the point when I mentioned your name. From then on, I might as well have been talking to a cement wall.”
We arranged to do the shoot in the parking lot. I told the producer to have his film crew ready and waiting at 9:24, our lunchtime. I showed them exactly where they should set up—surrounding the back of Al's pickup camper. I told several of my linemates to show up. At first break Al and I went out and bought three cases of beer. We threw them on ice so they would be nice and chilly for the filming.
Once again, I was bewildered by GM's sense of logic. All NBC wanted to do was get some uneventful footage of the Rivethead and his cronies going about their jobs. A tidy, innocuous venture into the workaday world of an American assembly line. How harmless. How natural. NBC was gonna parade us before the nation so why not have it situated in a locale where GM could monitor the content? We would certainly project a proud image. With Sanders and Henry Jackson hunchin’ over us, outstanding behavior would be guaranteed. It was foolish.
GM probably wound up wondering the same thing. For instead of harmless footage of men going about their workday routines, they were to be eventually treated to the cringin’ eyesore of twenty or so shifty rivetlings pile-drivin’ cans of Budweiser like parched boat people. I had a hunch that this vision would cause some squirmin’ down in Detroit. Tough shit.
The producer had one final idea for the segment. The next evening he wanted me to assemble some of my closet Rivet Line chums and bring them over to Mark's Lounge. He wanted to do a bit on the post-shift conviviality of factory folk. He added that NBC would be pickin up the tab for all the drinks. For his sake, I hoped he wasn't operating on a thin budget.
The next day I was shaving while listening to the noon news on television. The same old shit came rolling forth about deficits and plane crashes and world turmoil. The anchorman then proceeded into the local news. What came next very nearly caused me to cut my lip off. I ran into the living room unable to believe what I was hearing.
“THE SAVAGE ATTACK ON THE TWO WAITRESSES HAPPENED EARLY THIS MORNING AT AN ESTABLISHMENT IN FLINT CALLED MARK'S LOUNGE. THE WOMEN WERE ALONE IN THE BAR WHEN AN UNKNOWN ASSAILANT AMBUSHED THEM, STABBING EACH REPEATEDLY. THE VICTIMS ARE LISTED IN CRITICAL CONDITION AND THE POLICE HAVE NO MOTIVE FOR THE ATTACK AT THIS TIME.”
I sat there in shock as the television showed the two barmaids being hustled by stretcher into an ambulance. There was much blood. I turned off the set. Who