Rivethead - Ben Hamper [124]
The workers from Pontiac seemed cold, indifferent, resigned to the fact that their union was nothing more than a charade and that management took full advantage of the fact. The only guy I ever spoke with was the worker right beside me, a Pontiac native named Jim. The guy was a total mess. He used to show up for work drunk—an astounding accomplishment when you stopped to consider it wasn't even daylight yet. It wasn't long before the two of us were tippin’ together.
I'm amazed I didn't kill myself considering all the medication I was taking. Jim and I would each drink a forty-ouncer at first break, another one at lunch, then smuggle in a pint or two of whiskey for the last part of the shift. That was an average day. I recall the time I inhaled 120 ounces of beer in the span of a forty-minute lunch break. Even Jim was impressed. The demons kept their distance.
This behavior was truly absurd, not to mention incredibly dangerous. It got so bad that I couldn't even remember making the thirty-five-mile commute back to Fenton each day. It was as if the Camaro was being watched over by some freeway guardian angel. My wife was less than happy. I'd regularly stumble through the door and collapse into bed without bothering to remove my shoes. The next morning, Jan would ask me if I remembered driving home the previous afternoon. Driving home? Shit, I couldn't even recall leaving the plant.
This went on for a while, a very short while. Anesthetizing one's self in an effort to fend off the dreaded panic was one thing. However, driving across the median at eighty miles an hour into oncoming traffic with a booze level that could've boiled mercury was quite another. It was either drop the drinking or run the risk of killing innocent commuters. It was a difficult choice. I opted to stay sober.
Things settled down to a point where I truly believed I was gonna make it. I still had the occasional flirts with anxiety, but I was always able to talk my way clear of total panic. I would bury myself in my job, reinducing my old ploy of pretending my job was an event in the Olympics. I'd muscle and tussle, all the while inwardly narrating the frantic action: “We haven't heard much from Hamper, the ex-riveter from Flint, Michigan, who provided such a startling Cinderella story back in the ‘82 games. He appears to be in great shape as he prepares himself for his latest specialty—the four-wheel-drive shifter installation. Who will ever forget the stunning triumph he provided his country…blah-blah-blah.” Needless to report, I swiped another gold medal.
I suppose there was always gonna be an April 7, 1988. It just hid there like a heartless sniper behind the diesel haze and the minute hand. It knew my name. It knew my brain. It could smell fear a mile away. Its aim was true. The kill was a clean one.
I felt it on the way down to Pontiac that morning: the numbness, the screwy vision, the hovering dread, the disorientation. I chewed down an extra Triavil and drove on. There would be no rest area bailouts this time around. I was stickin’ to the path. I was gonna ride this bastard until it either dissipated or completely felled me.
Inside the plant, I attempted to bury myself into the strenuous labor of my rut. It didn't help matters any that my heart felt like a trampoline full of ferrets. I did my best to avoid eye contact with my neighbors. I was certain that they were all staring me down. I kept trying to hold it together. Just let me hang in there until break. April 7, 1988, would have none of my resistance.
I surrendered. I called the foreman over and asked for a pass to go to the plant hospital. He immediately started bitchin’ about how he was short of bodies. I assured him that it was an emergency. Reluctantly, he rounded up the Quality man to cover my job.
It