Rivethead - Ben Hamper [123]
My sources hadn't lied. Everything about this plant reeked of science gone too far. They set me up on a ferocious maze, something to do with brake boosters. I had so much medication flowing through me that I felt woozy. It had to be that way. I'd promised myself that, no matter what else happened, I would sooner lapse into a drug-induced coma than have another panic attack.
So much for that theory. Driving down I-75 for my second day on the job, I had the grandpappy panic attack of ‘em all. I got about halfway down there, near a small town called Clarkston, when the wheels fell off. I whipped into a rest area and took a seat in a bathroom stall. I sat there for nearly two hours, alternately sobbing and deliberating. All the while, construction workers and salesmen and gas haulers, men who keep this country in motion, were grunting and farting in nearby stalls. They were gonna wipe their asses and wash their hands and go get it done. It was only a routine, not much different from breathing.
Finally, I snuck out of my stall and splashed some water on my face. I got in my car and drove over by Lake Orion to my brother Matt's house. He was a shoprat too. The same with his wife. I roused them out of bed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” my brother asked. “Aren't you supposed to be working?”
I walked over and grabbed a beer out of his fridge. “It's over,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about General Motors. It's all over between us.”
Actually, I had been a bit hasty in my remarks with Matt. It wasn't over though it really should have been. The next day I was placed back in the Holly Road Mental Health Clinic. I never worked another day in 1987.
During this period, Jan and I got married. We moved to a small town just south of Flint called Fenton. It was a rather awkward way to begin a marriage. Each morning Jan would set off for her teaching job in Ami Arbor and I would straggle off to the mental health clinic for therapy and volleyball. Not exactly the way Ward Cleaver worked it. Shit, even Herman Munster had a job.
Dr. Kilaru added a new medication to my supply, a combination sedative and antidepressant called Triavil. This drug made me feel extremely sluggish and apathetic. I thanked him profusely. Dr. Kilaru also began advising me strongly against ever returning to work in the factory. He was aware of my writing sideline and suggested that I move in that direction. His intentions were sincere, I had no doubt that he meant well, but the good doctor was missing the whole point and I felt that I should inform him regarding the obvious.
“Doctor, in case you're not aware, all I do is write about the factory. In order to do so, it is absolutely necessary for me to work in a factory. Otherwise, I'd be an imposter.”
“You could write about other topics of interest,” Dr. Kilaru responded.
“I have no other topics of interest. I'd just as soon give the factory one more shot.”
And, after seven long months at the clinic, I did just that. I marched back to Pontiac to continue my quest for my thirty-year pin and ten frames of bowling with a certain freckled automotive czar.
My reception upon arrival was hardly gracious. My foreman took one look at me as I entered his office and put his hand to his forehead. “Well, if it isn't the one-day wonder. Tell me, how long do you expect to hang around this time? An hour? A day? AN ENTIRE WEEK?”
“Anybody's guess,” I answered.
The job he assigned me was sheer insanity. I had to lie down inside the truck cabs, divide all these tangled wire harnesses, tape the wires along the floorboard in four very specific locations, then bend and droop them through the dash. Once that was done, I had to race over and insert two plastic clips onto the four-wheel drive shifter. This completed, I had to scurry back to the cab and bolt down the shifter with this cumbersome air gun that kicked like a mule and was as large