Rivethead - Ben Hamper [76]
My big mistake was including one of the good old boys from the Rivet Line as a central character in the article. His name was Polson, one of the banana sticker Cro-Mags. He was forever singing the praises of the National Rifle Association, a tired old tune that he often enlisted when tryin’ to buffalo a fellow linemate into buying some stupid $15 membership into his gritty boys’ club. We managed to get along pretty well considering we hated each other.
The day after the issue with my deer hunting article came out, I was horrified to learn that someone had brought several copies of the Michigan Voice into the plant and was spreading them about. I knew that eventually someone would show my piece to Polson and he'd go apeshit. I gambled with my own ploy. Rather than wait around for the inevitable, I decided to present the article to Polson myself and act as though I'd intended to give him a harmless ribbing. Perhaps by doing so, I could defuse any confrontation. I should have had my brain X-rayed instead.
Twenty minutes after presenting Poison with his personalized copy of the article, I heard the unmistakable sound of jackboots thumping up the line. It was Poison, all right. Six feet two, eyes of blue, 245 pounds of snout and gristle. The veins in his neck looked like phone cables. It was stupid, but I thought I'd try to humor him. “Hey, Rambo, so what'd ya think of…”
I made it that far and would have gone further, however windpipes are such nagging mechanisms. They require a flow of air in order to have much success with speech. At the moment, mine was being used for a concertina.
“I should kick your worthless faggot ass!” Poison shouted. There was really no need to yell. Our mouths were almost touching. “I bet all your candy-ass writin’ pals think you're clever. Let me tell you what I think. You're nothin’ more than a dumb cunt with diarrhea mouth. The only way you can get your garbage printed is by suckin’ up to commie assholes who've got nothin’ better to do but sit around, all doped up, tearin’ this country down.”
When Poison was finished with his critique of my vast writing talents, he wadded up the article and flung it at my feet. As he stormed away, I thought to myself how wonderful it would be to somehow wedge his fat head in between the iron pincers of my rivet gun. To pull the trigger, over and over, watching as that thick cranium of his splintered like a moldy coconut.
When lunchtime arrived, I drove up to the liquor store with Dave to grab a cold forty-ouncer. I slammed it down quickly, hardly pausing for air. Dave, who worked right beside Poison, couldn't resist the urge to comment on my situation.
“Christ, have you ever got Poison seein’ red. I'd keep my eyes open the rest of the shift. A few of his redneck pals are down there eggin’ him on and gettin’ him stoked. Oh, by the way, did you know that you're a faggot-commie-pinko-candy-ass-punk-rock-dope-fiend?”
“You don't say.” I managed to laugh. “I hope none of that gets back to my pastor.”
We headed back into the factory. I glanced over at Poison as I passed his job. Dave had been right on the dime—our little spat was far from finished. Poison's eyes bore through me as if I were a twelve-point buck. As I walked on toward my job, I began thinking of new hobbies outside of the writing field. Projects that wouldn't require the use of one's arms and legs.
The horn blew and everyone resumed their duties. I kept one eye on my job and one eye glued down the line. From my vantage point, I could see several rednecks fuelin’ Poison's rage. They'd pick up a Voice, read a section, and point in my direction. I would have stood a good chance