Rivethead - Ben Hamper [67]
Hey, whatever turned them on. I was just glad to be back. Army trucks? Count me in. Tanks, bazookas, napalm? Hell, it was their hobby shop. I was in no position to argue. Conscientious objection might be a noble path come draft day, but with my meal ticket hangin’ in the balance, I was quick to respond “Hell yes, I will go!” Ronnie needed a new fleet of death wagons. It sucked, but so did starving.
As per my instructions, I rendezvoused at 0600 hours in the Personnel office. Just like old times, I fell into a herd of a couple dozen reclaimed shoprats, each of whom were taking long drags from their cigarettes and peering deep into their own separate nowheres. Within moments, a necktie with a pink head attached would enter the room, return our ID badges and guide us back into the Land That Time (and a half) Forgot.
As we waited, I scanned the faces behind me. Slumped in a chair away from the rest of the group was Dave Steel. He was wearing his traditional scowl, looking for all the world like a man boarding a boxcar for Belsen. I had to chuckle. No matter how many times they yanked us in and out of this buggy palace, Dave and I always managed to keep being paired together. I drifted over to say hello.
“Hey, wallflower, what's a semi-educated telecommunications expert like yourself doin’ in a place like this?”
“Go to hell.” Dave groaned. “As much as this is necessary, I'd almost prefer death.”
I felt better already knowing that my reentry into assembly life would be a little less harsh now that Dave was around to glaze the mood with his steady roll call of anguish and inspirational negativism. Misery loves company and a mutual loathing for the same ugly reality might not seem like a very constructive way of dealing with the winds of fate, but sometimes it's the only way.
Along came the bouncing necktie to scoop us up for deployment. Like some proud corporate Johnny Appleseed, he led the way, scattering an occasional rat into one of the boisterous orchards, all the while conferring with a clipboard the size of a storm window. We plunged on through the Motor Line, the Final Line, the Axle Line, the Ten-Items-or-Less Line.
We appeared to be on a one-way, no-frills collision course with the Frame Line—home to several departments, among them the Rivet Line. Dave was in a panic. I feigned dejection, but truthfully I couldn't have been happier.
Ah, the Rivet Line. Just say yes. A nice little spot to settle down and raise up a blister colony. A place where pipedreams spawned and delirium tremens held casting calls. A low spot in the valley where my partner and I periodically returned when the economy began to play boomerang.
Johnny Appleseed brought us to a halt in front of the General Foreman's trailer. He ducked inside to rouse the big boss while we stood outside contemplating our location.
“Mother of whores,’” Dave snarled. “We could wind up right back on the Rivet Line!”
“That would suit me,” I said.
Dave couldn't handle it. “What the hell is it with you and those goddamn rivets? The place ain't nothin’ but a shithole. I think that you and that Rivethead alter ego of yours are both sick in the fuckin’ head!”
“Doesn't it only make sense that I should resume my God-given specialty?”
“Nothing makes sense,” Dave stammered as the boss motioned us into his trailer.
The General Foreman forced us to listen to his drab little pep talk about the wonderful new military vehicle we were going to be building. He mentioned how grateful we should be that the government had chosen our plant to assemble all of these army trucks. Without the military contract, we'd all be on the outside a million miles away from any kind of shoprat redemption. To show our appreciation, it was mandatory that we return an immaculate product. Our long-term survival depended on gettin’ the boys in the Pentagon all a-twitter.
After the rah-rah was completed, the General Foreman told us to follow along as he escorted us to our new departments.
Panicking, not wanting to