Rivethead - Ben Hamper [95]
My foreman decided he would have to take it up with his boss. That meant dickering with the Penguin. No sweat, I figured. Surely that bloated autocrat would be duly impressed that the businessmen's Bible wanted to pass the poop with one of his devoted underlings. I returned to my job feeling semiconfident.
A couple hours later, Al came over to spell me. He told me that I was wanted on the phone in the foreman's office. It was Gino calling from over at the Penguin's place.
“What the hell did you say the name of that paper was—something about walleyes?” I made the necessary repairs with the paper's name and hung up. I began dwelling on the little liquor store near my apartment. How good it was gonna feel to do some trade with those people tonight.
The Penguin wound up telling Gino that his “hands were tied.” Accordingly, we would have to go through Labor Relations to get permission for Alex to visit. Gino found someone to cover my job and, reluctantly, we hiked off for the Labor Relations office.
At this point our story really begins to fester into a cesspool of terrible dreams. I'm telling you I was on mighty strange turf for a riveter. An alien frontier full of neckties, wingtips, belt beepers, bright lights, serious cologne and high command. Well-groomed fly-boys sucking on silver pens with pictures of children propped like tombstones on their desks. From nowhere and everywhere came the strains of Muzak—“Eleanor Rigby” and “Mandy” moanin’ in the boneyard. If there had been a window, I'm certain I would have jumped.
One of the high rollers from Labor Relations motioned my foreman into a glassed-in office. I was told to stay put. Inside the room I could see two men wearing very solemn expressions as they chewed it over with my boss. Now and then, their heads would bob and they would peer out at me as if they half expected I might try to filch an ashtray or pee on the carpet. It occurred to me that these men were aware of the Rivethead. It promised to be an uphill battle from here on out.
When my foreman returned, he said that we would have to go through Salaried Personnel. “They told me that their hands were tied,” Gino added. This euphemism was growing stale. Why couldn't they just substitute the truth and admit their spines were putty.
The following Monday, Gino got in touch with Salaried Personnel. He was told to call back on Tuesday. Tuesday spilled into Wednesday before we were told that we would have to take up our request with General Motors Public Relations. In a stunning development, they had explained to Gino that their hands were not tied, however their feet were webbed and their heads were hollow.
By Thursday, the day the Wall Street Journal was to arrive, the situation was still unsettled. It was ridiculous. I probably would have stood a better chance tryin’ to smuggle Ted Bundy through a sorority house. Had I known beforehand just how difficult this visitor's pass would be to secure, I would have skipped all the red tape and simply instructed Alex to bring along some filthy duds and a three-day beard. With 3,500 workers on our shift, he could have easily waltzed through the door and taken up residency anywhere he damn well chose to.
Alex Kotlowitz arrived at my place around noon. He was disappointed to hear about the problem with the visitor's pass. I assured him it wasn't due to any lack of effort. I recounted the path so far, adding that the ball now seemed to rest in the hands of GM's Public Relations office. Alex decided that it might be best if he gave them a call and explained his harmless intentions.
“Good luck,” I said. “If you hear the term ‘hands are tied,’ you know you've dialed correctly.”
Public Relations listened to the request and told Alex to call back in an hour. I decided that this was a good time to start drinking.