Rivethead - Ben Hamper [64]
Of course, this isn't to say that everyone was in Howie's corner. Opinions varied. For instance, Dave Steel hated Howie's guts. He insisted that having a giant cat parade around the factory espousing General Motors dogma insulted his intelligence and demeaned him personally on an adult level. I remember we constantly argued about Howie's existence. One night Dave had really had it with Howie.
“Christ, what's next?” Dave groaned. “They'll probably bring in Fred Rogers to pass out balloons and lollipops.”
“Chill out.” I laughed. “You're always taking shit way too seriously. Sure, having a giant cat rooting us on is totally ludicrous. But you have to admit the concept is at least humorous in a pathetic kind of way.”
Dave bristled. “I don't find anything the least bit humorous about having some suck-ass in a cat's costume roamin’ through my place of work. What they are tellin’ us is that we are so retarded growth-wise that all we can relate to are characters along the lines of Saturday morning cartoon figures. Bring out Bozo! Hail Huckleberry Hound!”
“Who would you prefer? Einstein and Thomas Edison? Face it, Howie fits the surroundings.”
“Fuck Howie. Fuck Einstein and Edison. What do I need this mascot bullshit for? Do they really think I'll perform a better job with a huge cat lurchin’ over me? If they really want to charge up all these boneheads, why not bring in some Playboy Bunnies? I'm thirty years old, not thirteen.”
“There's only one drawback to your suggestion,” I replied. “How long do you think it'd take before some drunked-up redneck mauled one of the Bunnies to shreds?”
“Oh, probably fifteen seconds, tops.”
“See what I mean? Dave, it's time for you to get on the winning side. Like it or now, Howie's our man.”
“Not this guy's. My fondest wish is that Howie gets his tail snagged in the chain gear and is mercilessly ground into Kibbles & Bits.”
On the other hand, my editor at the Voice loved hearing about Howie Makem. I can't remember anything that made him laugh harder. He'd double over and clutch his stomach, tears running down his cheeks. Plainly, this was the most hysterical gag Moore had ever heard of. The best part about it was that I didn't have to make up a single word. Everything that I told him regarding Howie was pure fact. I remember the first time I told Mike about Howie.
“You mean to tell me,” Moore sputtered between assorted snorts and cackles, “that GM has a guy who walks around the factory…dressed up like a…GIANT CAT! This is their idea of enticing Quality out of their work force?”
“Correct,” I replied straight-faced.
“Oh my God, oh shit,” Moore squealed. “You know what this means, don't you?”
“The end of Western Civilization as we know it? A communist overthrow?”
“No, no, no. You have to get an interview with Howie Makem for the paper. The Rivethead meets the Quality Cat! Oh Jesus, oh shit…”
“Not a fuckin’ chance,” I howled. “I'll write you a biography of Howie, I'll put together a Howie Makem diary, I'll interview workers on their feelings about Howie, but I absolutely refuse to talk with that…that cat-thing. Not now, not ever. Jesus, who knows what lurks inside that giant furry head?”
Moore kept pestering me to do the interview with Howie Makem. I held firm. The answer was and always would be a definite NO. Just watching Howie trudge by my job waving his big brown paw in my direction was freaky enough. Having to sit down and ask questions of the bastard would have sent me right over the wall. Still, Moore never gave up hope. He pleaded with me every time I went out to the Voice for passages from Howie. It became a very large nuisance.
Alas, the matter was resolved in a strange way. Tragedy had apparently struck. Weeks and then months went by without a single Howie sighting. Everyone at work was puzzled. Had Howie been promoted to the front office? Had Howie transferred onto the day shift? Had Howie