Rivethead - Ben Hamper [122]
“Goddamnit, Hamper, you're hangin’ yourself. Pissin’ in the fuckin’ aisleway? Listen, you have to pull it together or you're on your way out the door.”
My committeeman was an all right guy. I just felt weird calling him Boogie. The word belonged in an arena full of metalheads cheerin’ on a thundering drum solo. Alas, it was sorta comical and befitting that my personal liaison between myself and the GM bureaucratic juggernaut would turn out to be a guy in a sleeveless Jack Daniel's T-shirt named Boogie. It was like facing a murder rap with an attorney named Killer.
However, Boogie was right. I had to pull it together. I met with Dr. Kilaru and he once again suggested that I enter the mental health clinic. This time I agreed.
I was assigned to the Anxiety and Panic group. Each morning would begin with a rehash of what we had done the previous night. The fact that we were all afflicted with varying degrees of agoraphobia prevented much of a chance for any amazing yarns. A typical briefing: “Went home, cooked a frozen dinner, watched the news, took my medication, went to bed.” Next!
The rest of the day was spent attending various sessions: group therapy, occupational therapy, goal planning, stress seminars, relaxation techniques and, my personal favorite, volleyball. Hell, everybody loved volleyball. We'd break up into teams and have at it—the loons, the paranoids, the manic depressives, the weeping old women, the scary young men, the multiple personalities. We shrieked and cheered. We dove for wayward shots and belly-flopped across the waxed gymnasium floor like crazed barking seals. It was just like fifth grade all over again except this time around the beards were much heavier and we didn't have as much to lose.
Frequently, I would feel totally out of place at the clinic. Many of the woman there had histories that were so tragic I almost felt ashamed nursing my little phobia in their midst. Women who were abused as children and whose own children were ragin’ miscreants stashed in penitentiaries. Women whose entire families had disowned them and left them to weep away in lonely rooms. When it would come my turn to speak, I'd feel like the world's biggest sham: “My problem? Um, I can't, um, relax at my, um, job.”
During my stretch at the clinic, the transfer to my new job in Pontiac went through. On July 17th, I came off sick leave ready to resume my calling. I was unaware that I no longer belonged in Flint. I went down to the Personnel office to hire back in and was immediately pointed southward. The people in the front office seemed especially excited to inform me that my tenure at Flint GM Truck & Bus was at an end. Was it something I had said? They handed me some fuzzy map to my new home at Pontiac East Assembly and instructed me to be at this destination the next day at 6:00 A.M.
As I headed for the door, a strange thing happened. Some white-collar tapeworm came hustling up behind me hollerin’ my name. I didn't recognize this person—just another gung-ho errand boy from the bright tomb district. As I paused, he thrust an index card and a pen at me. “Would you mind autographing this card for my wife?” he asked. “Her name is Becky, she's a big fan of yours.”
I looked at him incredulously. This seemed beyond the bizarre. The timing was the strangest part. Here I was stridin’ out the door for the very last time and my last official duty had nothing to do with spot-welders or axle hoists or rivet guns. Some fly-boy's bored spouse wanted my signature. What the hell. I took the pen and wrote: “Dear Becky, I'm looking forward to death. Best Wishes, the Rivethead.” The guy shook my hand and I departed.
Returning to the factory was eerie enough without the added complication of entering a totally new environment. From everything I'd heard about Pontiac East Assembly, the place was pure Gulag City. The jobs were timed-out to make sure the workers wouldn't be allowed a moment's intermission. Anyone caught reading