Rivethead - Ben Hamper [80]
Henry Jackson ushered my new neighbor over to her job. He went through the obligatory demonstration of splintering a board between the pinch cycle of the rivet gun. “Darlin’, that could have just as easily been your hand,” he smiled. My neighbor wasn't smiling. She looked downright terrified. This made Jackson grin all the wider.
“That could also have been a bully's neck,” I heard myself mutter.
“You say something, Rivethead?” Henry Jackson demanded. In the background, I could see my new neighbor stifling a laugh. It felt good to have momentarily broken the tension.
“Just mumblin’ to myself, Henry.”
Jackson whirled around to resume his confab. After a few more minutes of bosshead oratory, he took off down the aisle. Somewhere in a distant alcove of the plant, there were more greenies to intimidate. More nerves to unsettle. More useless machismo to dump down the gills of the unsteady and vulnerable.
Kirk began the slow process of breaking in his replacement. His job wasn't all that tough, but it did involve a dangerous procedure—the buildup of the military cross members. Affixing the skid plate to the cross member called for plenty of caution. As with everything else that went onto these military trucks, the skid plate was double the normal thickness. It had extremely sharp edges that jutted out from the cross member at an awkward angle. One slip, one momentary loss of grip, and the skid plate could carve your arm to the bone or, if dropped, swipe off a couple toes.
The new female wasted little time pullin’ up her sleeves. By lunchtime, she had already mastered assembling the cross members. She was also doing an impressive job of hefting the finished product onto the frames and bolting them down. However, she wasn't having nearly the success with the riveting portion of the job. She'd grab the gun, wrestle with it, sway with it, curse at it and invariably slice the rivet. Exasperated, she'd throw up her hands and grumble.
I could sense that a visit from Dr. Rivethead was in order. I let her mangle a few more rivets before wandering over and introducing myself.
“My name's Ben. For better or worse, I am the local guru regarding the defiant nature of the rivet gun.”
This brought a smile. “My name's Janice and, for better or worse, I'm a total klutz.”
“Believe me, so is everyone when they first get ahold of one of these guns.”
As Janice looked on, I began to demonstrate the proper riveting technique. I passed on all relevant advice. To wit: Resist the urge to arm wrestle the gun. The gun will pin you every time. Do not yank the gun. The gun will cooperate better with a nudge. Wait until the rivet is aligned. If you strike too early, the rivet will wind up creased or double-headed. Become a passenger. Let the gun do all the work. Be patient. Glide instead of lurch. Close cover before striking. Induce vomiting. You can lead a rivet gun to water, but you can't make it surf. Blah, blah, blah…
By the end of the shift, Janice was gettin’ the feel for it. Her ratio of bull's-eyes to beheadings was running ten to one in her favor. Not a bad average for a greenie. It would come. It always did if you just relaxed. All one really had to do was get over the fact that he or she was navigatin’ a stubborn hunk of cast iron that packed up to 17,000 pounds of pressure per square inch and wasn't awfully picky about its menu. It would just as soon devour Mozart's fingertips as a boxful of rivets.
Janice thanked me for my bit of tutelage. Then she paused. “So you're the Rivethead guy,” she said. “I've heard about your columns. My girlfriends think you're a riot.”
“Basically, I'm just a peeping Tom. It helps keep the clock moving.”
“I can see how that might be handy around here.” Janice laughed. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“I'll be here.”
The arrival of Janice turned out to be a real blessing. She was intelligent, warm and witty. She was also just as twisted and desperate