Rivethead - Ben Hamper [20]
“Ben. BEN! GM just called you! They want you to come to work.”
“Shit,” I hollered, “it's about time those bastards rang me. On a weekend, no less. That gives me and the old Ricker here time to do some much-deserved celebrating. Did they mention what time they need me on Monday?”
“No, no, no! They want you to work TODAY! They said to be there at four and to wear some work boots if possible.”
“TODAY? Saturday? It is Saturday, isn't it? Four o'clock? WORK BOOTS?”
“Four o'clock,” my sister-in-law repeated. “Work boots if possible.”
This was some heavy shit. To be called in during the middle of the weekend smelled like an emergency. GM was now in the midst of one of their all-time boom-boom quota years, so I supposed reinforcements were needed on Saturdays, Sundays, Salad days—any time was the right time. This also marked the first time I ever remembered being asked out on a Saturday night by a corporation.
“I better move out,” I told Rick. “Mustn't keep Papa Jimmy waitin’.”
“Wear something sexy, ratboy,” Rick laughed. “And don't forget to write.”
I hustled home. I didn't have any work boots, so I just threw on a pair of old Converse hightops along with a T-shirt and a pair of filthy jeans. My head was reciting all the advice my distant aunt had filled me with: Keep you guard out for troublemakers. Don't be coerced into drinking. Be on time. Do everything you're told, try to do extra, don't engage in horseplay, address your supervisor as “sir.” Check, check, check.
Before we were to begin working, the group I was hiring in with was instructed to meet for a physical examination in the plant hospital. We were a sluggish-looking crew. There were about twenty of us all together—each person chain-smoking and staring at the floor, waiting in silence to be pronounced fit for active drudgery. We resembled some awkward casting call for the next Maynard G. Krebs. I had a strong hunch that there wasn't a marketable skill among us.
A doctor came out and directed us into a single-file line. The urine test was up first. We were each handed a small vial and told to line up for the restroom.
The guy standing in front of me kept looking over his shoulder at me. When it was his turn to enter the can, he spun around and asked if it would be all right if I donated a little of my urine for his vial. He seemed to be very stressed. This was long before drug testing was ever common in the workplace. I wondered what the big deal was.
“I just can't get it to flow right now,” the guy claimed. Apparently, the fear was that the Company might look down upon any prospective serf who was incapable of bringing forth the pee when it mattered most. No piss, no job, ingrate!
I didn't care much for the idea of passing around my piss with a total stranger. It didn't seem like a solid career move. Besides, for all either of us knew, I might be holding on to a bad batch. I had a long, painful bout with hepatitis when I was twelve. My formative years were spent wolfing down a wide variety of menacing chemicals. I drank like a sieve. I had an ulcer that ate at me like a cordless drill. Hell, who'd wanna take a crapshoot on the chance that any of that might come floating to the surface of their corporate dossier?
Evidently, this guy. He returned from the John and, true to his work, the vial he held before me was completely empty. “C'mon,” he said. “Just a squirt. I'll pay you for it.”
Christ, that did it. “Gimme the thing,” I groaned. It probably wasn't the most noble act of giving one had ever made on behalf of a needy Union brother but, somehow, it sure seemed like it at the time.
We were almost through with our urine samples when a member of our group, a late arrival, walked into the hospital and began to speak with our overseer. I sensed that the guy was in deep shit. He kept apologizing over and over—something to do with getting messed up in traffic and being detained. Judging by his performance,