Rivethead - Ben Hamper [82]
After Dave had transferred, I occasionally visited him on his new job. I couldn't find a solitary reason to envy his relocation. All Dave did all night was shuffle back and forth poking an occasional dipstick into some half-hidden hole and yawning like a hippo in the mud. His neighbors resembled Stepford Wives at a linen sale. It was fuckin’ eerie. No revelry, no pranks, no communication, no turmoil, no nothin’. No, thank you.
Thus began a constant routine between the two of us of sniping at each other's jobs. I would condemn Dave for wanting to become a part of this silent mausoleum. I assured him that the clock would eventually tear him apart in such a lifeless outpost. Dave would counter by insisting that the Rivet Line was a lake of fire, a dungeon full of lamebrains and misfits who looked like they were all fresh off triple homicides. On and on it would go. Denouncements, slander, scorn. The trouble was clear. Neither one of us could understand each other's motives for the paths we had chosen.
The simple truth was that Dave had zero use for humanity. Had he been able to swing it, he'd probably have taken a job sittin’ in a shanty on top of the factory roof fiddlin’ with a busted Etch-a-Sketch all night. Camaraderie was a useless priority for Dave Steel. I was his only friend and, half the time, I think that was one over his limit.
For myself, comradeship had developed into a must. I needed drinkin’ buddies and fellow clock maimers. The Rivethead was no working class hero. Not by a long shot. He was only a conglomeration of the hucksters and slickers around him.
Folks like Janice. Within weeks of her arrival on the Rivet Line, we had grown to depend on each other for assistance in knockin’ down the humdrum. She became my personal sounding board. On each shift I would write for a couple of hours before lunch. When I was finished with whatever I was working on, I'd hand my stuff over to her. Being that she walked that same murky strip, she was an excellent barometer for what needed to be said and what should be scrapped. She could tell when I was on to something. She also knew when I was just ramblin’ on. Several times I used her suggestions for themes in my Michigan Voice column.
Then there was Jerry, the lady-killer from Bay City. I'd never seen a smoother operator. I quickly dubbed him the Polish Sex God—a handle he was enthralled with, always pestering me to fork over any articles I might write containing references to his title.
In the absence of Dave Steel, Jerry became my new beer chum. We often worked out this scam where we would volunteer to work a couple hours overtime cleaning up the department. As soon as the line stopped, we'd race for the brooms. Jerry would start at one end of the department and I would head for the other. We'd begin a furious system of kicking, sweeping, sliding and hiding the night's debris under benches and stock pallets. We worked like absolute maniacs for about fifteen minutes. Our boss had us written down for two hours. However, our boss was long gone and, soon enough, so were we.
We'd scram over to Mark's Lounge with an hour-plus still ringing on the overtime meter. This was a much more agreeable way of earning extra cash. Dark lights, cold beer, shootin’ pool and, without fail, an encounter with a bunch of tipsy bimbos. Jerry sure knew how to spin that web.
I can remember one night whisking off for the can and by the time I returned, the Polish Sex God was holdin’ court. He had one chick in his lap and another one draped on his shoulder. These women were buying him drinks. I tuned in on some of the conversation and wanted to puke.
“Doreen, has anyone ever told you that you're a ringer for Natalie Wood?”
“Are you serious? She's gorgeous!”
“Precisely my point.” Jerry grinned.
Only the fact that we were bein’ paid twenty-some dollars an hour made this charade tolerable. Doreen was Natalie Wood like my grandma was