Rivethead - Ben Hamper [57]
On my way out, I stopped to wish Dave the best. He was hardly in a talkative mood. I told him that someday we would both laugh at this ill turn. It seemed strange that I was trying to soothe the rage of a man who was doomed to keep his job while all around me there were scores of dejected workers shuffling for the exit bemoaning the loss of theirs.
There was so much that I just didn't understand. Less each day, in fact.
Meanwhile, I was becoming somewhat of a favorite read in the pages of the Flint Voice. I was being prodded on by my editor who saw me as some kind of Chuckie Kuralt from Septicland. He was obviously using me as a loony wedge to pry between all the weighty prattle regarding police atrocities, chemical dump sites, women's rights and the ongoing conflicts in Central America and the Middle East. I knew nothing of this shit. That suited Mike Moore just fine. He even temporarily stopped pestering me about writing shoprat chronicles. I was grateful.
As the official Voice buffoon, I was enlisted to cover a series of oddball events. I wrote about gettin’ drunk and bounced from an Osmond Family concert. I was assigned to undergo the head-whackin’ miracle cure at an Ernest Angley revival hoedown. I did an interview with Buddy Holly, who, curiously enough, had been dead for over twenty fuckin’ years. I wrote about having intercourse with a woman who damn near dejeweled me after lathering through an Elvis impersonator show. In short, serious goddamn journalism that the nuns had never taught me.
Then came the “Toughman Contest” assignment. Nothing on the face of this planet could have been more representative of the Flint Experience than this human cockfight. An old-fashioned, city-sanctioned bloodletting. Total lunkhead theater. (For the unfamiliar, a “Toughman Contest” is an event where people pay money to watch any asshole off the street try to pulverize any other asshole off the street in hopes of winning a thousand-dollar grand prize.) Several states had outlawed these contests for their sheer primitivism. But this was Michigan. Better yet, this was Flint. Let the pummeling begin.
I remember insisting that I not have to attend this carnage by myself. I surely wasn't going to invite my girlfriend along and no one else I knew was this hard up for kicks. My companions for this ugly venture turned out to be Molly, the world's most sorely underpaid office manager, and Mike Moore, her camera-totin’ boss.
We took our seats just as two heavyweights entered the ring. The fighter in the blue corner was introduced as “representing GM Truck & Bus.” I immediately stood and applauded. Opposing my gallant union brother was a two-legged mobile home with a Pancho Villa mustache who appeared ready to gnaw through the breastplate of the next thing that moved. The odds looked bad for the good guys.
The bell sounded and the two hulks came out charging. It didn't take long to realize that defense was a worthless priority to these toughmen. They attacked in a continual forward lurch, arms flailing like crazed pistons, legs spread wide and wobbly, their careless chins poking straight ahead like heat-seeking greeting cards. It was total global warfare with nothing held in reserve. A kamikaze rage that had about as much to do with the true art of pugilism as slam-dancing had with classical ballet.
By the third and final round, neither of the boys had much left. Both fighters looked as if they were sleepwalkin’ back to the boneyard. Bloodied and swollen, they staggered to and fro in each other's arms, occasionally separating to launch one last feeble attempt at a haymaker. At the same time, the crowd was screeching for a kill. “Hit him with your purse, you pussy!” shouted one fine American down below us. Nothing short of decapitation was gonna soothe the bloodlust of these patriots.
I remember glancing over at Molly. She had her hands over her eyes. I turned my attention to