Rivethead - Ben Hamper [50]
After an hour or so, a big black guy in snazzy threads came into the room and pointed his finger at me and a couple of the other recalls. He looked like a post-forty version of Muhammad Ali. He told us to follow. I had never seen this man before. Obviously, this didn't bode well. An unfamiliar face would likely assure an unfamiliar place. As fucked-up and filthy as Cab Shop was, I still considered it my home.
We were not heading for the Cab Shop. I began feeling nervous and betrayed. We walked on and on, finally coming to an abrupt halt downstairs on the Rivet Line. I had heard various condemnations of this area—hard work, hard bosses, hard hours. You could only get lucky just so often. My luck was up.
The Ali clone had us huddle together. He introduced himself as Henry Jackson. I didn't care for the way he was smiling at us. Whenever a member of supervision slapped you with that kind of grin, it was like an unspoken broadcast that you were about to be dealt a shitload of misery and flung on the rack.
Henry Jackson spoke. “You men are now property of the Rivet Line. You will find that like any other department the Rivet Line has its share of good jobs and difficult jobs. I will confess, mostly the latter.” He paused as if waiting for a chuckle that never came. “If there is only one thing that I want to stress to you men today, it is this. Follow me, please.”
At this point, Jackson walked over to one of the dangling rivet guns. He stooped over and picked up a nearby board. He stuck the board in between the pinch space of the rivet gun and squeezed the trigger. The board immediately crumbled to the floor, splintered in half.
“Men, that could have just as easily been your finger,” Henry Jackson stated. “Never, but never, for any reason put your hand anywhere near this section of the rivet gun.”
Having demonstrated the danger that lurked within the jaws of the rivet gun, Jackson announced that he would now show us to our supervisor. I looked over at the guys I was with. We all seemed to be thinking the same thing: thank God, I thought this prick was gonna be our boss! Jackson introduced us to some horn-rimmed fella who had ASS SUCKER stamped all over his giant forehead. He was probably one of those textbook Einsteins from the General Motors Institute who'd never spent one lousy hour workin’ the line and couldn't tell a callus from a collarbone. It didn't seem fair to have to take orders from someone who'd never gotten dirty or put a screw in its required locale. These guys were often marked for torment and mutiny.
Our foreman began dispersing us onto open jobs within the department. The Rivet Line was the starting point for all that went on during the three-day snake trail needed to assemble a truck. The complete birth procedure began right here. It started with a couple of long black rails. As the rails were hoisted onto crawling pedestals, the workers began riveting them together and affixing them with various attachments. There weren't any screws or bolts to be been. Just rivets. Thousands upon thousands of dull gray rivets. They resembled mushrooms.
Stanley, our foreman, stuck me on a job right near the beginning of the process. He introduced me to the guy who would be breaking me in. The lucky bastard was going back to his old job on sanitation. This realization caused the guy to start whoopin’ and hollerin’ and jumpin’ around like a man who'd just wriggled out of a noose. I took this as a bad omen. I waited as the ex-riveter finished his celebration dance.
Exhausted, he shook my hand. “I'm gonna give it to you straight,” he said. “This job fucking sucks. There's no sense in lyin’ to you. Until