Rivethead - Ben Hamper [49]
Anyways, one afternoon after the game shows had faded and the beer was kickin’ in nicely, I decided to write up a record review and send it off to the Voice. They had a music section in the paper that was as bland and retro as a faded Nehru. I typed up a review of an album by a band called Shoes and tossed it in the mail.
A couple days later, Moore called me and asked if I would come out to the Voice to meet with him. Apparently, he had enjoyed the record review. Either that or he just wanted to know whether my basement would be available over the weekend to host one of Harry's gigs. No matter, just the prospect of gettin’ off my sofa for a few hours, for any damn reason, had me feelin’ mighty chipper. It was July 15, 1981.
The next afternoon I drained a couple beers and headed off for the Flint Voice office. I kept thinking maybe I was on to something. Something that might provide a buffer against the increasing humdrum of unemployment. Something that might distract me from the terrible lagoons in Richard Dawson's eyes. Something. Any damn thing.
I was about two miles away from the Flint Voice when the guy on the radio let it fly: “Popular musician and songwriter Harry Chapin was killed today when his small car collided with…” I pulled into the first convenience store I saw, bought a twelve-pack, and drove back home.
Eventually, I had my meeting with Michael Moore. We hit it off well. He was in no way the jaded hippie leftover I had come to envision. Moore shared my twisted sense of humor and, underneath his cocky veneer, he was just as mixed-up and insecure as I was. The only major difference between us was that he was loaded with drive, where I was just prone to bein’ loaded. Moore put me on the staff as a music critic. It was the only thing I knew much about besides shoprats.
Without the generous benefit money raised by Harry Chapin, the Flint Voice soon began tilting toward debt. It was a strange period. Moore would insist that the Voice staff have a meeting once a month. Rarely would much be accomplished. Moore would stand up in the middle of someone's living room, plead for financing schemes, outline a new subscription drive and collapse on the couch while everyone turned their attention to their bawlin’ infants or some pukish-lookin’ asparagus dip one of the veggies was passin’ around.
I could never figure out why I showed up for these briefings. There were never any ashtrays, no one smoked. There was never any beer or liquor, no one drank. I couldn't chime in on their heated discussions about El Salvador, I didn't even know where the damn place was. Everyone seemed to know everything about something and nothing about anything. Polyester rebels with fine homes and pretty wives and economical Japanese cars parked in the drive. I imagined their idea of revolution might be to refrain from mowing their lawns on consecutive Saturdays or cranking their goddamn Fleetwood Mac albums so loud that the mailman would frown.
Michael Moore would frequently approach me after these meetings, asking whether I would be interested in writing features for his paper. I would remind him that I knew very little about the struggles of mankind and all the other atrocities that seemed to rankle these people so. Never mind that shit, he'd tell me.
One night we were standing on the porch watching the others drive off. With El Salvador packed neatly away on the shelf, they needed nothin’ but prompt shuteye. “You work in the shop,” Moore mentioned. “Why not write about that kind of experience?”
“Write about working in the factory? Who'd wanna know anything about that kind of shit? Besides, half the time GM keeps my ass out on the street. Where's the appeal in that?”
“You'd be surprised,” Moore said.
A few weeks