Rivethead - Ben Hamper [36]
Dale also raised pigs. Now there was a combination you didn't run into every day—pig farmer/autoworker. He told me he had to get up at 6:30 in the morning to mess with his pigs. This allowed him about three hours of sleep per night. How in the hell did he do it? Why in the hell did he do it? I asked Dale why he didn't just give up the farm and pig biz, move down-state, and carve out a sweet living as just another rat in the pack. Flint wasn't Oz, but it had to pull rank over a town called Twining.
“Move…HERE?” he groaned. “Move to Flint?”
“Why not,” I answered. “Lots of bars, plenty of women, cable TV, a semipro hockey team, large shopping malls, superb Coney Islands, movie theaters, record stores…um, did I mention lots of bars?”
Dale was more interested in fishing holes and deer trails. He also chided me about the murder rate and whether people had to lock their doors at night.
“Now that's hittin’ below the belt, Dale.”
“I'll stick to Twining,” he said.
Despite our different lifestyles, Dale and I clicked well together. He was much more experimental than Bud had been. Dale shared the same commitment I had to tryin’ anything that would budge that minute hand in our favor. We quickly scrapped the hour on, hour off arrangement and went straight for the summit of the double-up system—a half day on, a half day off. This meant you could actually spend as little as four or five hours in the plant, get paid for the full time, and escape out of the chaos by sunset. What a setup.
This is how it worked: Dale and I would both report to work before the 4:30 horn. We'd spend a half hour preparing all the stock we would need for the evening. At 5:00, I would take over the two jobs while Dale went to sleep in a makeshift cardboard bed behind our bench. Having been up since sunrise, Dale was a very eager candidate for some shuteye. He'd stuff some plugs into his ears, crawl into his bed, and often be sound asleep before I had even finished my first truck.
I'd work the jobs from 5:00 until 9:24, the official Suburban/Blazer Line lunch period. When the line stopped, I'd give Dale's cardboard coffin a good kick and rouse him from his sweaty dreams of compression ratios and pork products. It was time for the handoff. I would give my ID badge to Dale so that he could punch me out at quitting time. This was the riskiest part of the operation. If a supervisor or security guard managed to spot a worker punchin’ out two badges, his ass was dead. Next to stealing and sabotage, this act was the most severe crime you could pull. Immediate dismissal was the result. I had seen it happen to a couple of careless workers and they were promptly put to the curb. No, this was not a solid career move; however, it had to be done to assure that the early escapee would get paid a full shift's worth.
As risky as it was, you really had to be a complete idiot to get caught ringin’ out two badges. All it took was common sense to do the job proper. The first rule was that you never used the same time clock for both badges. Since there were a dozen time clocks to choose from this wasn't difficult. You moved up to the first time clock, took a look around, always making sure you punched out your partner's badge first. This done, you quickly stashed his badge down the front of your pants. Then you moved on to another clock and punched yourself out. This way even if a guard caught you ringin’ out a second badge, at least that badge would be your own. If questioned as to why you were seen punching out twice, you became very upset, insisting that the first clock had malfunctioned, a frequent aggravation. If the guard persisted and asked to see what you slid down your pants, you really became livid, accusing him of a shameless come-on. Then, you hauled ass.
I have some wonderful memories of sittin’ on a barstool on a Friday night at the Limberlost Bar in Houghton Lake, Michigan—130 miles north of the truck plant—nursin