Rivethead - Ben Hamper [51]
“Are there any advantages to working down here?” I asked pitifully.
The guy scratched at his beard. “Well, the exit to the time clocks and the parking lot is just down those stairs. Come lunchtime or quittin’ time, you can usually get a good jump on the rest of the pack.”
That was it? A head start to the parking lot? A shot at bein’ the first guy in line at the beer and wine store? Shit, maybe I should've gone to college or attended Bartender's School.
For the next couple hours I stood back and studied the routine. You were given three days to learn your assignment. I didn't plan on jumpin’ in until absolutely necessary. I looked around at those who would soon be my neighbors. I'd seen happier faces on burn victims.
When our first break arrived, I snuck across the train cove and sped up the stairwell to the Cab Shop. I was in desperate search of Lydia, my previous supervisor. I was hoping she might be able to pull some strings and get me the hell off the Rivet Line. I was a Jungle boy. Rivets and rails weren't in my blood. I needed a transfusion of screws, sparks and sheet metal.
I caught up with Lydia as she was heading down to the supervisor's cafeteria. She stopped and smiled brightly. Damn, she was pretty.
“Ben, it's great to see you back to work,” she said. She looked down at my belly and giggled. “It looks like the layoff didn't hurt your appetite any!”
“I'm pretty good with the beer,” I replied.
“So, where are you workin’ now? Are you still upstairs?”
“Unfortunately, no. They stuck my ass down on the Rivet Line. That's what brings me to you. Is there any possible way you can twist things around and get me back up to Cab Shop? I'll take any job you have open.”
Lydia thought for a moment. “The person you would really have to talk to is Art.” Art was our old General Foreman. “We've got a couple of openings, but you would have to go through him.”
“Do me a favor, Lydia. The next time you see Art, tell him I have to speak to him. Remind him of what a great worker I've been. I hate to ask you to lie, but I don't think I can hack it on the Rivet Line.”
“I'll pass it along, Ben. Hopefully, something can be worked out.”
I hustled back down the stairwell and, once again, cut across on one of the boxcars. Taking a shortcut through the trains was strictly forbidden by management. It was a definite safety hazard, one that everybody ignored. If you happened to be caught cutting through the train, there would be a firm lecture and a reprimand waiting on the other side.
This part about having trains moseyin’ in and out only twenty yards away from my new job struck me as odd. It was just an example of how large the Rivet Line area really was. One gigantic, barn-like cavern where the trains pulled up, unloaded and departed again. It was all somehow spooky. Trains belonged in train yards. Trains belonged on hillsides. Trains belonged on bridges. Above all, trains belonged outdoors. It made me nervous to be in the same room with a train.
The whistle blew and the Rivet Line began to crawl. I took a seat up on the workbench and watched the guy I was replacing tackle his duties. He'd grab one end of a long rail and, with the help of the worker up the line from him, flip it over on its back. CLAAAANNNNNNGGGG! He then raced back to the bench and grabbed a four-wheel-drive spring casting and a muffler hanger. He would rivet the pieces onto the rail. With that completed, he'd jostle the rail back into an upright position and grab a cross member off the overhanging feeder line that curled above the bench. Reaching up with his spare arm, he'd grab a different rivet gun while fidgeting to get the cross member firmly planted so that it aligned with the proper set of holes. He then inserted the rivets and began squashing the cross member into place.