Rivethead - Ben Hamper [81]
“Monkeys could be doing this,” Jan observed and gazed around at the crew. It was a little sad. “I guess they already are,” she surmised.
It wasn't easy for a woman on the Rivet Line. They were under constant siege by legions of moronic suitors. Almost every guy down there perceived himself as some kind of rodent Romeo. A woman working in the midst of so many men was looked upon as willing prey. Personality, looks, marital status hardly mattered. If it had tits and ass and jiggled along, it was fair game. Being that she was young and attractive, Jan was swarmed nightly. She deflected them nicely, defusing their advances with talk about her husband and snapshots of her little boy. Sooner or later, the vultures would hang it up and drag their libidos toward the next shapely bottom.
There was also another dreary side to this situation with women on the line. Due to the fact that Janice and I spent so much time together goofin’ off, it was commonly accepted that we must be involved in some gooey love affair. Whenever Janice and I would slide out at lunch to race up to McDonald's, we'd arrive back to a chorus of oooohs and ahhhhs. The consensus was that we were fleeing at every given opportunity to find someplace to hump ourselves silly.
It pissed me off. Not that I really cared what others were dreamin’ up. It just bothered me that it was impossible to be close friends with a female in the factory without a bunch of dick-for-brains assuming that sex was the only bond. Maybe they were all jealous. Maybe they were confused as to why the new gal on the block would choose such a bland gigolo. Regardless, I could have done without their lousy assumptions.
We'd get over to the bar after work and it would start up. How large are her tits? Is she a screamer? Does she prefer it on top? Is her old man suspicious? When can we expect an in-depth article on the proper method of jumpin’ factory snatch?
Yuk, yuk, yuk. I'd sit there and drain my Budweisers, smiling wearily. At least it beat talking about foremen and financial planning. When I'd tire of the conversation, I would simply agree with everything that was being said.
“Yep, you boys are right. If I don't slow this thing down, my dick's gonna fall off. But, at least I'm gettin’ a female. It must be rough on you other guys having to make it with each other every night out in the parking lot. Come to think of it, that would make for an interesting article: ‘NOT HAVING ENOUGH WANTON WOMEN TO GO AROUND, MY SEX-STARVED LINEMATES WERE FORCED INTO A SHAMELESS HOMO JAMBOREE—GOBBLIN’ EACH OTHER UP, STROKIN’ EACH OTHER'S MULES, TWEETIN’ LIKE TURTLEDOVES—SO OUTRAGEOUSLY CORRUPTED BY THEIR OWN LUST FOR SUMMER SAUSAGE THAT THEY PLOWED OVER ONE ANOTHER IN A VILE FEEDING FRENZY FOR ANY OLD CHUNK OF GENITALIA THAT SPRUNG FROM THE SHADOWS OF THEIR FOGGED-OVER FAG WAGONS.’”
Before long, we'd be back to talkin’ about the usual stuff. Why doesn't Jack Morris just keep his yap shut and pitch the fuckin’ ball? How come Michelob makes you fart so much? Why don't they kill the bastard who keeps playin’ that Glenn Frey song? Why won't Roger Smith go bowling with us?
Why? Why? Why?
Exit Dave Steel. During the mad scramble of those who wanted to escape the Rivet Line, he had filed for transfer to Work Inspection. My nagging attempts to persuade him to stick around fell on deaf ears. Once the paperwork came together, he was gone in a wink. Dave couldn't believe that I wanted to remain. “I believe you are in dire need of psychiatric help,” he suggested.
Dave was way off. After years of being bumped in and out and around the plant, I was never more convinced that this is where I belonged. Tot lot for the toothless. A footstool lackey for the Rivet Lords. A snot-nosed megaphone for the rodents. Comfortable in my stinkin’ placement—glad only to scrawl