Rivethead - Ben Hamper [89]
Well, I know what I did. I cut myself up a chunk of cardboard, took a big red felt marker and etched down the letters CKED. I then crammed a wad of tape on the back of it, stood atop the workers’ picnic table and slapped those four letters over the N in the word FUN. I hustled back to my job and turned around to gaze at my handiwork. Oh yes, this was much better: SQUEEZING RIVETS IS FUCKED! I was such a stickler for accuracy. My proud correction remained up there for about three hours until Gino, fearing the wrath of overlords, ripped it down amidst a chorus of heavy booing. It was all right. Gino was cool. Any other foreman would have torn it down immediately and reprimanded me for some muddled violation of Company policy.
This whole incident with the new message board disturbed us. We wondered exactly who was in charge of this vile effrontery. Were these the same deplorable loons, the same demented pimps of propaganda that had shamelessly spermatized the Howie Makem saga? Did these fuckers really believe that squeezin’ rivets was “fun”? If so, why weren't they all down here having the time of their lives? They'd have gotten no protest out of us: “Here you be, Jenkins, another dozen rivets to squeeze! Head ‘em out! More fun than a whore with three tongues!”
I had several definitions of fun. Riveting was nowhere on the list. Taking in a Tiger game from the right field overhang was fun. Listening to Angry Samoans records while gettin’ sloshed was fun. The episode of Bewitched where Endora hexed Dick York with elephant ears was fun. Dozing past noon with the phone off the hook was fun. Having sex in a Subaru was difficult—however, that was fun too. Squeezing rivets was not fun. It paid the rent and put Fritos in our kids’ bellies, but there was no way you could classify it as fun. Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow.
It made us wonder just what our precious union's involvement was with this brain-rapin’ contraption. They were coinvestors in the purchase of all these message boards. Weren't they obliged to be on our side? How could they sit idly by and allow GM to glut the screens with hysterical lies? Since we paid their goddamn salaries, you would think they'd have some balky mulehead assigned to monitor the mucus. A representative of the workin’ Joe who would step in and tell GM: “Hey, you chuckleheads. If you dare beam ‘Squeezing Rivets Is Fun!’ ever again, we reserve the right to broadcast ‘Squeezing the Plant Manager's Balls Is a Hoot!’
I believe the thing that grated us most about the giant message board is that it never once supplied us with anything we didn't already know or couldn't have cared less about. The possibilities for useful data were certainly there. For instance, why couldn't they flash the nightly lottery number? Several of us had money ridin’ with Frankie, our in-plant numbers runner. Why couldn't they post updates on scores from the Tiger and Piston games? What could be more harmless and righteously American than lettin’ us check in on our local sports heros? Why couldn't they run silent footage of the Three Stooges or Tom & Jerry cartoons? No lyin’, we'd have settled for home movies of Roger Smith's valet sortin’ through his sock drawer.
All we got was the same daily bullshit. I had a creepy suspicion that the message board was slowly driving us daft, especially Eddie. His job was situated just such that the messages were staring him right in the face. Several times I caught him glowering at the board as if he were on the verge of goin’ bughouse.
Eddie and I began firing rivets at the screen. We'd rear back like Seaver and Gooden, throwing our arms out in a desperate attempt to shut down the madness. It was useless. The damn message board must have been made out of Kryptonite. Once in a great while, Eddie would peg it hard enough to make one or two of the words temporarily disappear. Everyone would begin to applaud