Rivethead - Ben Hamper [68]
“Um, Mr. Gibbons, sir?” I said.
“Is there some kind of problem?”
“Not exactly. I just wanted to let you know I'm intimately acquainted with the jobs on the Rivet Line and I volunteer to return to that department.”
The General Foreman gave me a puzzled onceover. Shit, he thought I was nuts too. He waved the group to a halt and thumbed through his papers. “What's your name?” he asked.
“Hamper, sir.”
He flipped a few more pages. “Well, Hamper, my sheet has you down for assignment in the body drop area.”
Oh, shit. Now we were talkin’ very dangerous yo-yo slave labor. The body drop area was where the cab portions of the trucks came zinging down on cables from the second floor. The cabs plunked themselves down on their matching frameworks while workers ducked for cover and then humped to fasten the two together. To top it off, this was where Henry Jackson camped his fat Nazi ass the majority of the time. I would kill or be killed within days.
It was time for full-tilt grovel. “Mr. Gibbons, you just spoke to us about the importance of Quality workmanship, a concept I fully embrace. I believe that by returning me to the Rivet Line, I would have more value to the Company considering the expertise I have in this area.”
“Hmm,” Gibbons pondered. My knees became butterscotch pudding supported by broken Slinkys. Icebergs danced with suntan lotion billboards. Jets swooped into the sides of skyscrapers. Drunken herds of hippos shinnied up radio towers. And then…
“Go ahead and report to the Rivet Line,” the big boss stated. “I'll move someone else over to the body drop area.”
I could have kissed the bastard. Instead, I whirled around to find Dave staring at me. He had been hangin’ on the fringe pickin’ up pierces of my sorry butt-smooching. He shook his head. “That had to be the most pitiful display of brownnosing I have ever witnessed,” he said. “To think that someone would actually go out of his way to be sent to the Rivet Line. It's too absurd to comprehend.”
“At least I know where I'm headed. For all you know, you'll be stuck heavin’ transmissions.”
“I'll take my chances,” Dave replied bitterly.
The Rivet Line had undergone an extensive facelift as jobs were rearranged to accommodate the production of the army vehicles. The change appeared to be for the better. There were more workers to attend to the extra duties and some of the more aggravating jobs had been busted up into less strenuous routines.
I was placed on a job directly across from the foreman's office and picnic table area. The job turned out to be a cinch. The four-wheel-drive castings and dual exhaust muffler hangers that had been a part of my old pinup job had been slid down the line and were now part of my new job. The big difference was that now I wasn't required to wrestle with the rails or attach any cross members. My groveling had paid off. I could see plain sailing straight ahead.
Meanwhile, management was having all kinds of problems attempting to start up the line. The military vehicles were responsible for introducing numerous new items and it seemed like every time the supervisors thought they had everything covered, some precious new part would turn up missing or defective. The line would budge for just a moment and then some hysterical bossman would come racing down the aisle bellowing “Stop the line! Stop the GODDAMN LINE!”
About the third day into this herky-jerky chaos, I was sittin’ on my bench when I happened to glance out into the aisle. Passing through to the foreman's office was Henry Jackson. Shufflin’ along right behind him was a very dejected-looking Dave Steel. “Hey, nomad, welcome home!” I yelled. Dave gave me the finger.
After a brief meeting with the foreman, Steel came sulking out of the office headed in the direction of his old rail-pull job. Poor Dave, there was no way to dodge destiny, no escape from the undertow of stubborn fate. His bed was made.
Passing back on his way out of the department,