Rivethead - Ben Hamper [31]
Besides his violent streak, there was something else about Franklin that had me very intrigued. He was forever writing stuff down on little notepads, scraps of cardboard, napkins—anything he could find. Several co-workers I talked to joked that he was probably just scrawling down ransom notes or bomb threats. One thing was for certain. Franklin wouldn't allow a soul to see what he was writing. If you came anywhere near him while he was jotting, he'd quickly cram the paper away.
My curiosity was getting the best of me. Jerome Franklin. Bully. Terrorist. Cutthroat. Man of letters? I had to find out what was behind his mysterious sideline. One evening, while Franklin was covering Roy's old job across the line from me, I went over to the picnic bench and began thumbing through the sports section. In between jobs, Franklin was furiously hammering out something on a piece of paper towel. I decided to make my move.
“Shit, Franks, you rewritin’ the Bible over here?”
“Just some bullshit to pass the time,” he muttered.
“Mind if I took a look?” A big pause. A brutal pause. A pause with a vanity plate that read U EAT ME. Finally, Franklin gave me a nervous grin. “Go ahead,” he said. “But I don't want one word of this shit bein’ spread through the department or it's your ass.”
I laid out the paper towel on the picnic bench. The printing was barely legible. Grease spots and sealer smudges covered the page. I began reading and was quickly amazed. Franklin was writing poetry of all things. The poetry was not only a surprise, the damn shit was red-hot. He had some great lines in there, plenty of imagery and anger and this passionate raw beauty that welded together in a furious glide. The guy wasn't writing as much as he was attacking the beast. The poetry leapt at your spine and shook you down.
“Jesus, Franks, this stuff really kicks ass.”
Franklin shrugged and dumped another load of pencil rods into his bin. He said nothing. He was obviously uncomfortable about being exposed as someone who could actually accomplish something more than pounding skulls and bustin’ out teeth.
I read on. Who'd have ever believe it? The resident high priest of mayhem was a poet of enormous talent. No whiny art-fag lip service here. No candy-ass dime-a-rhyme. Franklin got in and got out. No excess baggage, no gristle. It was all red meat and arteries burstin’ wide open and gray matter boiling in flame. He had the goods, the bads and plenty of the uglies. I put down the paper towel and was about to say something. Franklin cut me off.
“Not a word. Let's just fuckin’ drop it.”
In the nights to come I hounded Franklin to let me check out his writings, but he always blew me off. I knew better than to press the matter too far and run the risk of having my face flattened, so I just gave up. It was sad that he couldn't funnel his hostility into something more worthwhile than brawling with co-workers and behaving like the campus bully.
Franklin never did change his stance. Within a couple of months, GM had him by the balls. His constant fighting combined with his atrocious attendance record had finally dug him a hole so deep that even the union couldn't bail him out. He was fired and they had to bring up three guards to haul him away.
There's probably no tellin’ what he's whalin’ on today, nine years removed from the Jungle. Apartment walls. Cell bars. The skulls of the bewildered. Possibly, there's a typewriter mixed in there somewhere. I hope so. I would hate to think that all of that rattlesnake scrawl died along with the job. What a waste.
After a few weeks I managed to develop a good rapport with another black dude, Robert, the mig-welder who worked right down from me. Having been sequestered in Catholic schools my entire youth and adolescence, I didn't have much of an opportunity to meet many black folk until I hired on with GM. You just didn't find too many bro's hangin’ around the communion rail hummin’ verses of “Holy, Holy, Holy