Rivethead - Ben Hamper [92]
Hold on a second. No Rivet Line? Jesus Christ, what kind of alien broomshack were they building down in Ponti-yuk? NO RIVET LINE? No Rivetheads? No Rivetettes? Don't tell me those damn robotics had finally eaten away at the one and only profession I'd ever been able to nurture, conquer and dominate? It was like tellin’ a pollywog there was no such thing as frogs.
To hell with resettling. I'd been at GM long enough to grow accustomed to their habit of hollerin’ “Earthquake!” at every little speed bump on the road. It only made perfect sense that if General Motors was offering me a rubber raft in one hand, chances were way more than likely that they had to be packin’ a harpoon in their other paw. I would call their bluff and stay put. Go ahead and bring on that World Van you've been whisperin’ about. I know you frauds are hidin’ something up your sleeves. I won't be takin in. Furthermore, I won't be taken away.
The day arrived when we were scheduled to accept or refuse our transfers to the upcoming plant in Pontiac. Group by group, they called us down to the small conference room adjacent to the workers’ cafeteria. I walked down with Tony and Kirk, who were heatedly debating which was the better option. I found myself beginning to flit from one line of thinking to the next. The plain truth was that I was a complete wuss at decision making. Maybe that was one of the reasons I chose to become a shoprat in the first place. GM always made your decisions for you.
Inside the conference room, union reps and recruiters from Pontiac were seated behind long rows of tables. They all wore large name tags as if we really gave a shit who they were. Kirk, Tony and I stood in line waiting to be popped the offer. I spoke with Kirk. He was starting to vacillate as crazily as I was. Stay put or venture south? It was an enormous decision, one that would affect the rest of our careers. We both were able to agree on one thing. The only prospect more dreadful than having a job at GM was not having one.
My name was called and I slid into a chair across from some stern-lookin’ union shill. I told him I had severe reservations about leaving my hometown and forfeiting all rights to ever return to Flint in the future. He asked for my seniority date. “Seven nine seventy-seven,” I replied.
The union man shook his head. “If you stay here, you'll be out of a job within two years.”
“That's a long time off,” I said. “Things could turn around in that span.”
He seemed angry that I would quibble with his assessment of the situation. “Anything's possible, but your safest bet would be to transfer down to Pontiac.”
I looked down the tables at Kirk. Further down, I could see Tony. Both of them were scrawling their signatures to the transfer contracts. Reluctantly, I followed suit. Though the plant wasn't even entirely built yet, though it would be another two years before I ever set foot inside that cretin farm—I was now signed, sealed and delivered as sole property of the Pontiac Truck & Bus division, Union Local 594. I walked back to the Rivet Line feeling like a rotten Judas.
That very same night, I found that I couldn't sleep. I felt as though I had made a terrible blunder. I turned out all the lights in my apartment and stood at the window drinking bourbon from a plastic mug emblazoned with the motto: WE MAKE OUR OWN HISTORY—50 YEARS, UAW. I stared at the apartment building across from me. Nothing was going on. Just a bunch of self-assured Americans tucked beneath the sheets with three hours to go before the alarms started to ring and it would all unwind again. The meetings. The deadlines. The parking spot. The boss. They were truly amazing specimens. They adapted to everything.
The next afternoon, I got to the plant early. I was