Rivethead - Ben Hamper [60]
My new foreman, a Mr. Hurley, scribbled down my name and number. He told me to follow him to my new placement. “Have you ever operated a hoist before, Hamper?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I answered. “My specialty is riveting.”
“Sorry, no rivets down here, pal.”
I followed the boss as we weaved our way through countless piles of axles. Each one appeared to be a different shape or design. They lay there atop each other like missiles ready for launch.
“Hamper, this is Mark Garrison,” Hurley said. “You will be replacing Mark on the rear axle hoist job.”
This Garrison fella was bustin’ it so hard that he didn't have time to turn around for any formal greetings. He flung his right hand over his shoulder and I gave it a slap. It was only forty-five minutes into the shift and the poor bastard's shirt was already soaked through.
Hurley left us alone. In order to talk with Garrison, I had to race back and forth while he dragged his hoist around searching for the next axle that coincided with his schedule sheet. Once located, he hoisted the axle into the air and hustled back to the outstretched arms of the axle carrier. With one mighty heave, he slid the axle into place. Immediately, he pivoted and glanced at his schedule. It was time to fly off in the direction of another brand of axle. I could only shake my head. This job made thumping rivets look like a day at the Playboy Mansion.
First break arrived and I accompanied Garrison down to the cafeteria. I had many questions I wanted to ask—foremost, what were a couple of young guys like us doing on the first shift? Garrison explained that the plant was bringing back several rehires to plug up some of the shit jobs that the old-timers wanted no part of. “They figure that a worker fresh off the streets is basically optionless,” Mark relayed. “He has to take whatever's thrown his way.”
“Come on.” I laughed. “There has to be plenty of family men on second shift willing to take these jobs over. They'd take anything to get off nights. I believe we're gettin’ shafted.”
“It wouldn't be the first time,” Garrison replied.
The rest of the week unwound as one unholy nightmare. Try as I might, I just couldn't get the hang of the rear axle hoist job. I continually misread my schedule. I ran several wrong pieces. I dropped axles on the floor. I busted the hoist cable. I got shit so out of sequence that they had to shut down the entire line to straighten things out.
Something was missing. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew it revolved around the unloading of the axle onto the carrier arms. I asked Garrison to handle the job while I stood back in the aisle and observed. From this vantage point, the problem was apparent. It had nothing to do with brawn or style or technique. I WAS TOO FUCKING SHORT FOR THIS JOB! Where Garrison was long and lanky and could get eyeball-to-eyeball with the insertion process of the carrier arms, I was dwarfin’ in at five feet six and a half and constantly depending on blind chance when sliding in the axle.
I approached the boss to tell him of my discovery. He was gabbin’ to someone on the phone, so I slouched at the picnic bench and lit up a smoke. I felt better than I had in days. Wrong man, wrong job. It was that simple.
Hurley slammed down the phone and ran toward me. “Hamper, that was the General Foreman on the line. According to him, you've run three wrong axles in the past hour. God-damnit, I'm writin’ your ass up NOW!”
Now I was hot. “I don't give a shit how many times you try to write me up. The whole problem is that I am too fucking short to see what the hell I'm doin’ on that job. How can I hit the carrier arms when I can't even SEE the bastards?”
“Don't try to peddle me that line of bullshit. I've had short people run that job before.”
This was getting us nowhere. A different mode of attack was necessary. I had another trump card that I'd been saving and it was time to use it. “I want my committee man down here—NOW!” Hurley raced