Rivethead - Ben Hamper [77]
Suddenly, it was time for round 2. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Poison jumping the line and heading in my direction. He had another copy of the Voice balled up in his fist. Damn, what I wouldn't have given for a stun gun and a can of mace right about then.
Polson stormed up to my job and pinned me against my workbench. Despite appearances, he wasn't here to dry-hump. He spread the deer article open and slammed his fist on it. Meanwhile, my job was going down the line unattended. It wasn't my greatest concern at the moment.
Poison started in. “Where in the hell do you get off writin’ that I rented my wedding tux from Outdoor Life? Listen, shitbag, I'll have you know I was married in my MARINE DRESS OUTFIT! And what about this part where you state that the NRA stands for Nuts Run Amuck? Where do you come up with this crap?”
“Just a joke,” I answered. “Can't you take a simple joke?”
“This whole goddamn article is a joke. Do you realize if it wasn't for dues-payin’ members of the NRA, the deer would overpopulate and starve to death?”
Christ, not that stale serenade. In other words, I was supposed to believe that out of the boundless mercy of their hearts, these wildlife assassins were willing to trek 200 miles to the northern timbers to blast large holes in deer bellies, all in the name of preservation of the species. I guess part of it made sense: if you were dead, it was unlikely you'd be crowdin’ anyone's rump out of the chowline.
“If you ask me,” I injected foolishly, “I think you just enjoy killing things.”
“And faggots are at the top of my list!” Poison exploded.
It took Al, our no-bullshit Quality man, and a couple other beefy sorts to pry the bastard off me. The ruckus brought Gino out of his office. He hustled over and instructed us to settle our differences elsewhere. He wasn't at all pleased that we had been letting our jobs sail by incomplete. GM didn't give a shit about dead deer or humorless rednecks or commies. They needed all available muscle attending to the production of recreational vehicles and military gas hogs.
After work let out, I prepared for an ambush that never came. Poison sped off in his pickup and I went out and got miserably drunk. From that night on, we avoided each other completely. He went back to his gun manuals, I returned to my little yellow notepad.
When Mike Moore got wind of my close call he suggested that I make Polson a running character in my column. My editor surely loved to stir up trouble. “Fat fuckin’ chance,” I responded. “All these bikers and tough men and gun freaks belong in someone else's diary. I'm supposed to be on shoprat detail, remember?”
Mike nodded and put his chin on his fist. I was tempted to tell him that such posture was a proven element in the stunting of one's facial hair. Instead, I said so long and headed for the factory where several thousand rivets were waiting to be pummeled. It was nice to be needed.
Go to any General Motors plant in Flint. Turn your back to the building and gaze directly across the roadway. I guarantee you'll be peering at a tavern, perhaps several of them. This bit of truism is as unfailing as spotting a bail bondsman's office across from a jail or a motel next to an airport. Find a factory, you'll find a bar.
Our local version of this concept was a long, dark room located right on the ribs of the train tracks called Mark's Lounge. It was here that the coverall brigade would retire each night to suck ‘em down and spoon-feed one another a thousand years’ worth of their dead fathers’ lies. The conversation always consisted of shop talk: denunciations of tyrant supervisors, unwanted mandatory overtime, sore joints and dreary labor. Second verse, same as the first.
Dave and I quickly adopted Mark's Lounge as our post-shift sanctuary. In a way, we were outsiders. We enjoyed the atmosphere, the red Naugahyde booths cloaked in darkness, the ice-cold beer—however, we weren't much into jabbering about