Rivethead - Ben Hamper [61]
The committee man arrived. We conferred while Hurley glared at us and stewed at his desk. The issue we were talking over had nothing to do with my height or lack thereof. I was informing my committee man about the propaganda Hurley had been passing me about my request to be transferred onto the night shift. According to Hurley, a transfer was impossible due to my low seniority. In truth, he was lyin’ out his ass just so that he could cover an unwanted job.
My committee man motioned for Hurley to join us. Oh, this was gonna be sweet. “Is it true that you have told this worker that he would be unable to transfer to the second shift because he lacked the proper amount of seniority to do so?”
Hurley was caught totally off guard. He was expecting an argument dealing with the height issue. He swallowed and attempted to smile. “Um, I suppose I did. The bottom line is that I have jobs down here that need to be filled.”
“I'll give you the bottom line,” my committee man growled. “There are a hundred workers with more seniority than Mr. Hamper who are struggling to be transferred onto the day shift. He has no business down here other than the fact that you have purposely deceived him into believing that he has no other recourse. I am prepared to write up a grievance on behalf of Mr. Hamper regarding this matter.”
“Let him slide,” I said. “All I want is to get the hell outta here.”
“He's free to go at the end of today's shift,” Hurley replied. Then he glared at me. “However, until then, he better not even think about walkin’ out on me.”
It was funny. I hadn't even entertained the thought of sneakin’ out early until Hurley had brought it up. As soon as first break arrived, I grabbed my coat and hit the door. I went back home and hit the bed just about the time most sane people were fallin’ out of theirs.
The next day I headed into the plant and wandered over to the Rivet Line. I had decided to see if there were any openings available on the night shift for a short, homesick ex-riveter. Through phone conversations I'd had with David Steel, I'd learned that Gino Donlan was now the supervisor in charge of the Rivet Line. Dave and I had both worked briefly under Gino the last time around and found him to be extremely fair and honest with his workers.
I waited for Gino in his office. He seemed surprised to see me hangin’ around. “Steel told me that you were workin’ the day shift back on the Axle Line.”
“Ancient history,” I replied. “Listen, Gino, you wouldn't happen to have any open jobs available by chance?”
“Are you shittin’ me? I've got a whole list of ‘em. In fact, your old pinup job is open. I can't find anyone who wants to cover that bitch.”
“You have now,” I smiled.
Gino laughed and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, my dear friend.”
Gino Donlan probably thought I was completely mad. Perhaps I was. All I knew was that there was something about those rivets that had gotten into my blood. I loved the way they looked jammed into those old rusty bins. I loved the way they felt rollin’ around my palm like dice. I loved to see their little round heads squashed beneath the incredible force of the rivet guns. I loved everything about those gray metal mushrooms. I was quite possibly a very sick man.
Things once again returned to a tolerable norm. Once again, I employed my pitiful collection of fantasies to help move the minute hand forward. I also began to take notes, scrawling down some of the more peculiar aspects of assembly life on napkins, stock tags, envelopes, anything I could find. When I returned home after the shift, I would try to decipher the resultant mess and work them into pieces for my new Flint Voice column “Revenge of the Rivethead.”
Dave Steel was once again across the line from me, this time down to my left on the rail-pull job. We fell back into our old routine of gripin’ and groanin’ about every vestige of assembly labor. It really amounted to nothing more than moany protectionism. We belonged