Rivethead - Ben Hamper [121]
“Do it!” I yelled. “At least I'm not a fuckin’ cokehead like my foreman.”
Sanders's jaw dropped. I knew more about him than he could have ever guessed. I knew friends that he'd bought coke from. I had seen him snortin’ lines right in the supervisor's parking lot.
“Now, settle down,” Jackson replied. “Do you realize that I could walk through this department every night penalizing men for drinking and smokin’ pot? But I don't. You know why?”
“Hell yes, I know why! Because you know, as well as I, that those guys out there are keepin’ your fat ass high and dry. Those drinkers and pot smokers comprise one of the most highly rated departments in this factory. Don't pretend you're doin’ anybody any favors, all you're doin’ is dodgin’ the subject. I want Mr. Cokehead written up for supervisional harassment. He has absolutely no right to lecture me about things that I pursue outside of this factory.”
Things settled down. Sanders was made to apologize and agree to never mention my writing. I had Jackson so shook up, he even agreed that Schobel and I should be allowed a bit more slack in our double-up routine. I think Jackson was convinced that I was gonna instigate a total rebellion. He overestimated my power with the rivet crew. They'd have just yawned and gone back to their own private hells. In effect, I was once again holding a trump card that didn't even exist.
It wasn't only Sanders and Jackson puttin’ the eye on me. There were others watching. Doug was the first to notice. One night he pointed out some suit-and-tie spy peering around the boxcars at me. He had a clipboard and a beeper. This went on for a while until I just couldn't stand it any longer. I ran out in the aisle and hollered “Kiss me, you fool!” He immediately disappeared.
This was to become a frequent event. Someone would gesture down the line with their head and, lo and behold, there would be some mystery man peepin’ around the corner at me. What the hell did they want? If I made any motion to approach or yell in their direction, they would pivot and vanish. My nerves were bad enough without all this creepy cloak and dagger.
Bad enough that another bout with panic let me have it just after we entered ‘87, my tenth year at General Motors. This was getting truly distressing. Every few months I would topple over like some rag doll off the shelf. Dr. Kilaru relayed that I was also suffering from agoraphobia—an abnormal fear of being in open or public places. This went a long way in helping explain why I felt that I was being led to slaughter every time I entered a mall or movie theater, to say nothing of an assembly plant so large that it took up twenty city blocks.
Agoraphobia, don't leave home without it. Better yet, just don't leave home. Dr. Kilaru put me out on sick leave and for the next three months I rarely left my apartment. I did nothing but smoke, drink, watch TV, sleep, sleep, then sleep some more. I talked on the phone daily with my new girlfriend in Ann Arbor. I'd met her through a letter she had written me the previous fall during a period when Amy and I were experiencing one of our frequent fallouts. Her name was Jan. She didn't smoke or drink or eat meat. How'd she manage to get stuck with the Rivethead? Some folks just ain't got no common sense.
Jan was the first to suggest that I leave the shop. I explained to her that it wasn't that easy. The factory was all I knew. I was a shoprat, bruised brain and all. I had to forge on.
I went back to the Rivet Line in May. It was a total fiasco. I was hell-bent on keeping the demons far at bay. To do so, I began drinking outrageous amounts of beer and liquor. This did tend to squelch the demons but, at the same time, it was taking a costly toll on my work record. I was being written up on a weekly basis on a variety of counts ranging from insubordination to poor workmanship to immoral conduct. My committeeman was spending more time with me than his wife. Each time he came around, all I could do was shrug. He would ask me if I