Rivethead - Ben Hamper [72]
After a couple of weeks, it became clearly apparent why management was in such a commotion to spit-polish their darling new product. With much ceremony, it was announced that Roger B. Smith and a flock of Pentagon brass were coming to pay us a visit. It was time to unveil the first load of army trucks and Roger himself wanted to be there in person when one General Ball of the United States Army got all goosefleshed at the headlight's first glare.
As the showoff date edged closer, the honchos at the Truck Plant began tumbling around like rivets with their heads whacked off. The panicky pace of the past couple weeks accelerated into one big tremblefest. It was increasingly obvious that if these trucks somehow turned out to be puke-colored lemons, there was going to be one vast necktie party and old Roger B. himself would be the one operating the rope concession.
As for myself and the rest of my co-workers, we were overjoyed about the prospect of Rog's visit. I went out and had a personalized T-shirt made up for the occasion. In big block letters it read: ROGER, LET'S GO BOWLING! I had been on this crusade to commit ten pins with Roger Smith for nearly three years, and I had written several pieces on my quest for the Flint Voice. I figured he owed it to me. In turn, I owed it to all of my proud shoprat ancestors. After all, for almost seventy-five years running, the name Hamper and the words General Motors were damn near synonymous.
It was time for some recognition from those blockheads. All I was asking was ten frames of bowling with my boss. How damn American could one get? I reasoned that there were enticements in it for GM as well. We were forever hearing how management and the work force needed to develop more sturdy bonds. Here was their perfect opportunity to put their headpin where their mouth was. We could bring in the networks and press. The entire media would gobble it up. The walls of mistrust would tumble. They'd slap a photo of Smith and me on the cover of Time. Jesus, what a vast public relations coup dangled just beyond the yonder three-ten spare!
When the big day arrived, I was pumped. So were all my linemates. Even Dave had dropped his usual scowl and was behavin’ giddy. Within a few hours, our big gray barn would throw open its doors for THE MAN. The air was positively electric. History was in the making.
Then, around 9:30, a very strange thing happened. Our foreman came strolling down the line informing us we were being sent home at 10:00. We all stood at our jobs wonderin’ if our chains were bein’ jerked. They couldn't send us home now. The fuckin’ MAN was on his way.
I cornered our foreman as he traced his way back up the line. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “Management is sending us home in a half hour? Smith won't even BE HERE by then!”
“That's right.” He grinned. “By the way, nice T-shirt.”
“What's the problem? Did Cab Shop break down again? Are we out of parts?”
“No problems. They've just decided to give you people the rest of the day off.”
The rest of the day off? TODAY? No problems? Something reeked big-time. Impromptu generosity wasn't a part of their nature. And then it dawned on me: the bastards didn't want us around when Smitty showed. They wanted the factory rat-free! No unseemly peons pollutin’ the promenade.
I was infuriated. We deserved to be on hand. We were the ones who built all the trucks. It was our labor, our stinkin’ elbow grease, our drudged midwifery that plunked out the product. Those trucks didn't just show up droopin’ out of a stork's jawbone. How could they ignore the human element of the project? What was an assembly line without assemblers?
Just before I left for the day, I propped up a sign that faced out into the aisle next to my job. Chances were some bosshead would remove it, but what the hell. It read: SORRY TO HAVE MISSED YOU, KISS MY ASS. SINCERELY, THE RIVET-HEAD. It was always the thought that mattered most.
When the opportunity came, I wasted no time transferring back to the night shift. It felt good to be home. The evenings once again