Rivethead - Ben Hamper [120]
“Since when does tastelessness preclude good writing?” I grumbled. “I thought that was one of the better things I'd written.”
“I thought it was a hoot,” Mike added.
“Shit, I swear they oughta change the name of that rag to Mother Teresa. I say screw ‘em. You'd have more creative freedom writin’ for Tass.”
“Maybe so,” Moore replied, “but it was still a job.”
A few days later, I received a letter from the managing editor of Mother Jones. In it, he stated how much the magazine would enjoy having me stay on as a columnist. He mentioned that he hoped Mike's firing wouldn't have a bearing on my future contributions to the magazine. He even went on to state that bringing me aboard was one of the best moves Mike had made during his brief tenure as editor. Say what?
The bullshit quota was smellin’ darn nasty. Somehow I was bein’ wedged in between these two corners and it made me feel uneasy. Not knowing who to believe, nor really caring, I opted to stay out of the matter. I was in it for kicks. This shell game hardly qualified as such. I knew where my allegiance was and it didn't lie within the lap of anybody's Mother.
I took the Rivethead over to the Detroit Free Press where my chronicles of factory life became an instant hit. Detroit couldn't resist a smartass. I wrote for their Sunday magazine and was allowed all the freedom, space and time I needed. Kathy Warbelow, my editor, was always there to coax and coddle me. Even at this late date, I still needed reassurances that the writing was okay. More importantly, I needed to know I was okay. The Rivethead may have been a slicker, but the guy inside was quivering badly.
My notoriety was anything but a source of pride and pleasure back on the front lines. Sanders and Jackson, the Oreo brain police, were beginning to hawk my every move. Sanders was especially eager to burn my ass. He'd been steamed at me ever since he'd been forced to become my mailman. This humorous development began to occur after my appearance on The Today Show and the cover of Mother Jones. People started writing to me and, not knowing my home address, some of them simply mailed their letters to: The Rivethead, Suburban/Blazer Line, GM Truck & Bus, Flint, MI. I was stunned that the front office people didn't just incinerate these letters. Instead, they sent ‘em down to Sanders for delivery. Christ, you could have fried bacon on his scalp.
Attention such as this convinced Sanders that I had some kind of evil stranglehold over the minds of my linemates. Anytime anything went wrong, he converged on me as if I was somehow orchestrating a mutiny with just a nod of my head. I could only wish that it were true.
One night it all came to a boil. I was sitting at the picnic bench when Sanders stalked over and motioned me into his office. I sat down in a chair wondering what the hell I had done now. My foreman grinned. “I've called you in here to discuss an article you wrote for the Detroit Magazine. According to this article, you admit to being off plant grounds at a tavern across the street while the line was in operation.”
Now it was my turn to grin. “Yes?” I said.
“As you are well aware by now, leaving plant grounds without prior permission from a member of supervision is in direct violation of…” It went on and on. This woeful bleating. This megaphone of hurt. It was like a strange and intoxicating form of music and I sat there bathing in it. I blew smoke rings around the office and stared out at the guys on the line. There was Eddie and Cam and Schobel and Herman and…“…can not and WILL not be tolerated in as far as the recognition between management and the labor force and the agreement pertaining to the aforementioned transgression…” Something like that.
“Do we have an understanding?” Sanders concluded.
“I understand this,” I answered. “I'm gonna write your sorry ass up for harassment. What I do or say outside of this plant is none of your fucking business.”
Moments later, my committeeman and Henry Jackson were on the scene. Jackson immediately struck out on the offensive, accusing me of smelling like