Rivethead - Ben Hamper [84]
Eddie was responsible for another one of our favorite amusements. He called it Dumpster Ball. To play, all you did was round up some empty boxes, fold in the cardboard flaps, set the box on its side, and attempt to kick it on a high enough arc that it would clear the center of the dumpster next to the wall across from Eddie's job.
Dumpster Ball wasn't as easy as it might seem. It took practice to get those boxes airborne. There was a certain art to the required motion and, before long, Eddie was givin’ out lessons. He would demonstrate the proper approach and follow through. He was damn near automatic, smooth as Jan Stenerud, powerful enough to occasionally deposit one of the boxes into the rafter stratosphere. We called these moon shots and they were truly breathtaking. Everyone in the pack had some goofy talent and, for whatever it was worth, Eddie's was Dumpster Ball.
In time, we all started to get the feel for it. We'd hustle through our jobs and race down to polish up our kicking game. All of us kept improving until we were able to give Eddie some decent competition. Thus began Dumpster Ball wagering and, with it, Eddie's mysterious backslide from the very sport he had invented.
The problem was Eddie simply got the yips whenever money was on the line. We'd bet a dollar a field goal, ten chances per taker. I don't know whether it was a fear of losin’ a few bucks or all the pot he was smokin’ (I used to get contact highs just lookin’ at his eyes), but Eddie just couldn't hit for shit when it mattered most. Eddie would become so enraged that sometimes he'd kick a box so hard the damn thing would explode into scrap the moment it met his toe. This was a very impressive feat, but hardly any way to win your money back.
To lessen the stakes a bit, we started kicking to see who would have to bring in the alcohol on Friday nights. Kickin’ for booze revitalized Eddie's game. He had an edge on us. Where we all drank vodka or Jim Beam, Eddie's drink was Hennessy. A fifth of that stuff ran about twenty bucks a pop. With such a cost discrepancy running in his favor, Eddie relaxed and soon his towering blasts were once again penetrating the dumpster's gut, bangin’ a good forty feet up the wall.
Eddie was the only guy in the department who could match me drink for drink. The Polish Sex God was good with the beer, but couldn't handle the hard stuff. Hogjaw could knock back anything, but had problems with the long haul. Doug had already shot out his belly and Tony lacked stamina.
Fridays became special. Eddie and I would start knockin’ down the bottles early in the shift. Whenever we'd get caught short, I would arrange for Jerry and Janice to cover my job while I snuck up to the liquor store. I always enjoyed this trek. It excited me to know that I was up to something that was rigidly forbidden. I was leaving the department without permission. NOT ALLOWED! I was wandering off plant grounds without punching out. NOT ALLOWED! I was intoxicated during working hours. NOT ALLOWED! I was smuggling alcohol onto GM property. NOT ALLOWED! I never once got nabbed and it made me feel like laughing at the bossmen but…NOT ALOUD.
The only problem with Eddie was the more he consumed, the more maudlin he became. We would sit in my Camaro after the shift was over, uncapping a new bottle or finishing an old one, and Eddie would start running all this worthless shit at me concerning race-mingling. It was stupid. So what if we were different colors? I listened as Eddie let it out.
“Ben, we're all brothers. We all bleed red. Why the hell we gotta fight?”
“Goddamnit, Eddie, who's fightin’? We certainly aren't. We're drinkin’. This is supposed to be fun, remember? Why bring up that bullshit? It doesn't concern us.”
“The thing is, I never spoke with any white folk until I was fifteen. Where I come from, the two just don't get together.”
“Well, shit, I wasn't exactly Don Cornelius's houseboy. Listen, Eddie. If some of these bastards got their heads stuck up their asses, that can't be our problem. As long as we hit it off, who cares what those