Rivethead - Ben Hamper [56]
It did come as a surprise when Dave told me he had gone to college. He had spent five years at Michigan State majoring in telecommunications. This didn't jibe at all with the usual route of a GM thoroughbred. Dave explained that he was just biding time, takin’ a few years off to fool around before scrounging back home for that old familiar birthright.
“I always knew I'd end up here,” Dave confessed. “I wanted to be a nobody.”
“Well, you sure chose the right place.” I laughed.
“Exactly,” Dave continued. “I figure if you have to work, you may as well do something so lame and uneventful that you're not even required to think. I hate this job, but I hate it less than anything that would require daily human contact.”
And herein lay my real attraction to David Steel. I had finally met someone who was ultimately more cynical and sulky than I was. This was not an easy order. There seemed to be no end to Dave's miserable yen for pessimism and self-pity. He was the total opposite of my old friend Bob-A-Lou. For instance, if you were to ask Bob whether a glass of water on the counter was half full or half empty, he would most certainly reply with the former. If you were to pose the same question to Dave, he'd probably reply “bone dry and covered with leeches.”
Dave became my vicarious martyr. His rampant gloom and constant self-abasement made me feel comparatively blessed. Anytime I needed a quick fix of cheer, all I had to do was hook up with Dave for a while. It was like being cellmates on death row with Woody Allen.
We spent our lunch breaks together out in Dave's old Vega. We'd share a little whiskey, peering straight ahead at the barbed wire and the moonlight and the gulls pecking away on discarded chicken bones. I remember one night something occurred to me that I'd always been curious about. It was time to approach Dave for an answer.
“What is it with you and Henry Jackson? Why is he always reamin’ your ass?”
Dave took a slug off the bottle. “That fuckin’ gorilla hates me.”
“What'd you do? Spill tranny fluid all over one of his Italian suits?”
“Worse than that. I was born.”
“Knowing Henry, I suppose that would be grounds enough.”
“I used to work for him when I hired in. From day one, we've been at it. He hates me because he realizes I'm far more intelligent than him. But, then again, so is a lug wrench.”
“He reminds me of Muhammad Ali.”
Dave shook his head. “You're way off. Henry Jackson is the Idi Amin of the Western Hemisphere. God, I hate that prick. He's always whinin’ that I have an attitude problem.”
“Dave Steel…an attitude problem?” I laughed.
“Hey, fuck you. My supposed attitude problem could be quickly remedied if only a stock crate fell over and flattened his fat ass. That would improve my attitude immensely.”
We got in a few more weeks before the layoffs came calling again. Having spent a year on the pinup job, I was never so grateful to be handed another pink slip. My team spirit was lacking. I needed a seat on the curb to shove the stuffing back under my scalp. Dave was even more elated than I was. He was like some kind of foamin’ mongrel strangling to get off the leash.
However, a curious thing happened on our path to the curb. On the last night before we were to be released, Henry Jackson came stridin’ through our department and pulled Dave aside. Dave was told that he wouldn't be a part of the layoff. Instead, Henry Jackson had personally arranged it so that Dave would be shipped over to the Pickup Line to work. What made this especially cruel was the fact that there were several workers who didn't want to be laid off. Family men who could have used the monetary security of a firm forty-hour work-week. Henry Jackson wasn't interested in such sensible arrangements. He was too entangled in his personal vendettas.
Dave was seething. He wanted out the door with the rest of us. It wasn't to be. David had an attitude problem.