Rivethead - Ben Hamper [125]
I went back to my department and handed the slip to my foreman. My arms and legs felt like they had gerbils running through them. Sweat was pouring down my back. My foreman read the slip and launched into a tirade. Just what I needed.
“I've about had it with you goddamn pussies that don't want to work,” he yelled, making sure half the department could hear him. “You're a bunch of sorry bastards and, believe me, I'M GONNA START MODIFYIN’ SOME CHANGES AROUND HERE!” (This guy loved big words, context and meaning be damned.)
“Listen, all I know is that I was supposed to give you this slip. I know exactly what it says so don't try pullin’ this bad-example bullshit on me. I'm outta here.”
The foreman flew into a rage. He took the slip, wadded it up and threw it at my feet. In another time and place, under a different set of circumstances, I would have enjoyed this tantrum to the hilt. However, right then, I was hardly in the mood for idiot drama.
“Why don't you kiss my ass,” I said while brushing past him.
“When you come back, I swear I'm gonna KICK YOUR ASS!”
However, he was out of luck. April 7, 1988, saw to it that he'd never get that chance.
EPILOGUE
A BEAUTIFUL, SUNNY DAY NEAR THE END OF A VERY HOT SUMMER. Since it's Tuesday, the Anxiety and Panic group is out for its weekly field trip. Typically, not all in our group are present. A few have chosen to remain back at the mental health clinic, the thought of mingling about in society simply too abhorrent.
Today's outing is miniature golf. It's not so bad. At least we've received another week's reprieve from cowering through the mall.
By the third hole, we are already down to a fivesome—myself, Pat, Debbie, Marge and our faithful psychologist/babysitter, Lenice. Lucy has retired to the van complaining about the heat. We shuffle forth, hole by hole, urging each other on, applauding nice putts. Through the first nine, I am in firm command of the lead. Everything is running smoothly.
However, on the fourteenth hole trouble brews. Pat has smacked her orange ball into some swinging donkey appendage and the ball careens all the way into the parking lot. Everyone, including Pat, is in complete hysterics.
“That'll cost you a penalty stroke, Patty,” I announce.
“I'm just gonna play it over,” she replies.
“Go for it. It's still gonna cost you a stroke for a ball out of play.”
“What DIFFERENCE does it make?” Pat howls. “It's only a GAME! Just like volleyball. IT'S ONLY A GAME! Why do you treat it so importantly?”
I can't answer. There is no answer. Rivet Hockey is now volleyball. Putt-putt is now Dumpster Ball. It only makes sense to win.
We play on. With tremendous ease, I'm able to salvage the victory. Patty cools down. She is old enough to be my mother. I give her a cigarette and we stand beside the van puffin’ like fiends. I rib her about how I'm gonna destroy her ass in volleyball when we get back to the clinic.
Lenice parades us into the van. She hands each of us a small envelope containing our four dollars in lunch money. We begin our search for an unpopulated eatery. I take command of the radio and find a Paul Revere and the Raiders tune on an oldies station. The old women in the back of the van crack up as I mimic Mark Lindsay's vocal and pound on the dashboard during the organ solo. The old women love me. They keep repeating that they wish they had a son like me.
Jump ahead a few months. One evening I decide it's time to pay a visit to the Rivet Line. I haven't been back there in a year and a half and I'm curious to see how everyone's doing.
I slide right past the guard booth, right on by the old time clocks, up the stairway and onto the Rivet Line. At first, it feels as if a day hasn't passed since I'd been bangin’ away on that