Rivethead - Ben Hamper [59]
At last, our lawyer motioned us into the courtroom. It seemed as though we were sitting in pews. No one smiled. I could smell foul lies and old tears. The court typist stared blankly ahead as if she had just been sentenced to hang for omitting a comma.
The judge weaved his way through the hopelessly legal introduction to the case. When he finished, our lawyer stood and prepared to begin his opening remarks. All at once, the judge stopped him—leaning back with a huge grin, fixing his eyes directly on Moore and me.
Holy shit, I shuddered. He's laughing at us! We're guilty as sin. We reek of guilt and ooze with fault. Oh, sweet Jesus, I'll probably wind up in a cell with some droolin’ psychopath who ain't had any rump since LBJ croaked. This couldn't be happening. The court typist looked up at us with dead floating porpoise eyes. She'd probably been a fuckin’ nun! I felt like swan-divin’ right out the third-story window. Whatever happened to justice for all?
The judge finally spoke: “Gentlemen, I feel it is only fair to both parties that I disqualify myself from this case immediately.” Huh? The judge went on to explain that he'd once rented office space from my editor's grandfather, that he was good friends with my editor's parents, that his wife had served on some stupid committee with my editor, and that he had once purchased ad space for his reelection in the Flint Voice. Why couldn't this guy just have kept his yap shut? Here we had a judge in our hip pocket and he was bailin’ out on us. Forget the damn photo album, let's gavel this libel bullshit right out through the metal detectors. The bottom line was that we were INNOCENT MEN. Who cared about these untidy incidentals? Just because so-and-so knows so-and-so doesn't mean the Good Times Lounge was suddenly the Vatican.
Urrrgh. The case was rescheduled for the next month, supposedly with a judge who hadn't been Mike Moore's Cub Scout leader, poker buddy or gay lover.
While awaiting the next hearing, we were pleasantly shocked to learn that the Good Times Lounge had suddenly dropped the whole lawsuit. Apparently, the owner had shut the place down and moved away to Alaska. It seemed like a terrific relocation to me. This whole business of attorneys and plaintiffs and motions was making me one goddamn nervous wreck.
My editor realized this and, with it, an opening. He asked if I would meet him at his office. I drove out and he put it to me: “Instead of dealin’ with all of this other nonsense, how about writing a factory column each issue?”
I didn't hesitate. “Sounds like a solid career move,” I agreed.
I was eventually reeled back into the GM nest. However, this time, a big curveball was awaiting me. I was told to report for duty at 6:00 A.M. the following morning. Something had to be terribly wrong. Six A.M. was the start-up time for the first shift. First shift was always reserved for the old-timers—guys who enjoyed wakin’ with the roosters and rollin’ into the plant with industrial-sized buckets of convenience store coffee splashin’ all over their floorboards.
Considering my comparatively low seniority, how did I figure in with this pack? I was a relative youngster. I didn't have fake choppers or war tattoos or Benny Goodman on eight-track. I hated fuckin’ coffee. I hated birds tweetin’ and alarm clocks and disc jockeys reciting the wind chill factor. There was just no figurin’ General Motors. When it came time to make a move, I think they just threw darts at a board or yanked on straws.
To compound my misery, I was told to report to the Axle Line. The Axle Line was only a short distance from the Rivet Line; however it may as well have been a thousand miles away. The Axle Line area was eerie. The lighting was a very dingy yellow. The workers looked like ghouls dippin’ between fog banks. Just as disturbing was the awkward silence. Instead of the