Rivethead - Ben Hamper [23]
Bud introduced me to some of the nearby natives. There was Dan-O, the resident prankster, who mig-welded the truck beddings. He constantly chewed cigars while keeping up a running racial tease with the black guy who worked next to Bud and me.
Another was a guy they all called Bob-A-Lou. He had this gleaming crew cut and a belly that hung down halfway to his knees. Bob-A-Lou worked down the line a bit and it was fairly obvious that whatever he did involved some heavy-duty welding. His T-shirt was dotted with a few thousand burn holes and his forearms were a road map of tiny pink scabs. Bob-A-Lou had a voice like Andy Devine and it was funny to hear him gripe about something. The guy never cursed. “By golly, men, it's a steamer in here today. I wish these goldarn fans would kick out a little more air.” I liked Bob-A-Lou right off.
Then there was Robert, the black guy who worked next to Bud and me. He was the sullen type and I had a hunch he didn't warm up to rookies quickly. I shook his hand and he muttered something to me. “Okay,” I said. Turning away, I asked Bud what the hell Robert had said. “He told you to make sure you keep the fuck out of his area. He doesn't like getting pushed into the hole.” The hole? Bud explained the hole was a term used to describe falling behind. I waved at Robert. Hard work, hold the hole.
By the end of my first week on the job, Bud was already pestering me to double-up jobs with him. I was uneasy about the offer. Doubling-up with Bud meant that I would have to learn how to navigate his fire-breathing spot-welder. I had my reservations about coming within ten feet of that flaming albatross. Besides, I was quite content with my jerky little air gun. The screws and the J-clips shot right in and all you had to do was stand there and hoist the thing like some bad-ass cop pointin’ his piece.
Another consideration was that I was a new hire. I worried about the foreman's reaction to seeing me sitting on my ass half of the day. They liked to refer to this place as Generous Motors, but I had my doubts whether this pet phrase extended itself to greenhorns like myself who lacked the necessary seniority to operate their own scams.
“You're worried about Brown?” Bud whined. “Fuck Brown. He don't give a shit what goes on around here as long as the quota's met and the general foreman isn't gnawin’ his nuts.”
And I suppose it was true. One night Brown was hanging around the back of our workbench, scrunched up on a palletful of #202 screws. I was convinced he was here to eyeball me for possible infractions against the rule manual. I moved swiftly from job to job all the while attempting to affix this professional square-jawed look to my face. After about fifteen minutes of this nervous setup, I whispered to Bud asking what Brown was up to.
“By the looks of it, he's giving me the once-over,” I told Bud.
“Is that what you think? Listen, you've got that silly-assed job whipped. Brown doesn't even know you exist.”
“Then WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING BACK THERE?” I demanded.
“He's drinking beer,” Bud said.
“DRINKING BEER? Brown? Our foreman? Where'd he get it?”
“I brought him in a six of Miller's at lunchtime. It's hidden in an empty J-clip box under our bench.”
I looked over at Brown. He had a big dumb smile on his face. Every thirty seconds or so, he'd pivot his head around toward the aisle and then dive-bomb out of view behind our workbench. It was hot in the Cab Shop and I couldn't help but envy his access to a cold beer.
“And I bet there's a payoff for you, right?” I asked Bud.
“Now you're catching on. See, I have information that the Suburban tailgate buildup job will be open in a week or so. I asked Brown about it and he told