Rivethead - Ben Hamper [96]
“Those idiot paranoids must be tearin’ the place apart looking for my file.” I laughed. “Next time I talk with Owen Beiber, I'll be sure to mention this appalling demonstration of botchery. Goddamnit, heads will roll!”
By the time I had to leave for work, they were still stringing Alex along. He said he'd continue with his attempts on the phone and hopefully see me later inside the plant. “These people must really have it in for you,” he added. “I've had easier times entering federal prisons.”
I arrived at work just as Dougie bellowed out his resounding “ALL ABOARD!” As was custom, Eddie shouted back “SHUT THE FUCK UP, FOOL!” Rituals were rituals. The line began to roll and, just as it did, Gino came over to tell me that he had just received a call from the Personnel office. They had wanted to know what kind of worker I was—company man or misfit, friend or fraud. The boss said he assured them that I was fine GM timber. You couldn't force a fib out of Gino.
Moments later, the phone rang again. This time they wanted to see me down in Personnel on the double. This was not the best of times to be huffin’ beer breath so I crammed a handful of Certs in my mouth. I trekked off hoping this would be the end of it, regardless of the outcome.
No doubt about it, this time I was deep inside the GM digestive tract. I weaved around corners and wandered down hallways that seemed to extend underground for two miles east of the plant. I had to stop and ask directions countless times. The further along I went, the brighter the lighting became, the larger the glass tombs expanded.
I paused for a cigarette and some self-examination. Why, I wondered, had I ever set myself up for this? What had possessed me to get lippy in print when, sooner or later, I had to know that I'd become entangled in my own sarcastic web and be beckoned down a long hallway toward the very core of everything I most wanted to avoid in life? Why couldn't I be like all my other buddies and have normal hobbies like snowmobiles, softball and reefer? Why was it that I wanted to carve out Phil Collins's eyeballs with a linoleum knife? How come I never watched Michigan Replay with Bo Schembechler? Why hadn't I become a disc jockey or an ambulance driver like I was supposed to?
They were waiting for me in Personnel. I shook hands with a man in a three-piece suit and he ushered me into his office. I assumed that this man had to be someone extremely important. His desk was easily the size of my dining room.
The questions came. “Precisely, why does this reporter want to enter our facility?” I explained that Alex only wanted to observe my routine and ask my boss and co-workers a few questions.
“Why is it that this man has a particular interest in you?” I laid the blue-collar writer junk on him and mentioned that I wrote a column. Thankfully, he was obviously unaware of the Rivethead.
“In this column, do you ever broach the subject of General Motors?”
Uh-oh. I began scratching an imaginary itch. A certain evasiveness was my only hope. “Well, I suppose I've occasionally made small references to the fact that, yes, I'm a factory worker.”
All was silent for a few moments. I could sense a stalemate between the big cheese and little rat. I lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and was alarmed to notice a NO SMOKING sign on the desk. I quickly rubbed out the butt on my work boot as the Personnel chief stared into space.
Finally, he spoke: “You know, we just can't be too careful. We've been burned on stuff like this before.” I nodded like I knew what he meant.
Just when I was beginning to feel all was lost, he stood up and announced a compromise. One of his young assistants was introduced and it was explained that this guy would accompany Alex throughout every portion of his visit. First, the game rules: “My aide will monitor all conversation between your man and any member of management. If at any time an inappropriate question is raised, my man will intercede