Rivethead - Ben Hamper [98]
Reading on, I came across a disturbing part of the article. “The vast public has not seemed very interested in reading about work,” noted a New York University expert on the blue-collar trend. “Work is not considered a hot literary topic.”
Though I felt angered, I was hardly surprised. After all, who had time to wade through the murky pathos of an average Joe like the longshoreman when the best-seller list was clogged with real revelations of the here and now. Momentous dispatches like “Oaf Surfin’ with Belushi's Lukewarm Corpse” or “I Slept with Shemp Howard.” The “vast public” wanted to know about turds and maggots, but only the name-brand variety who hid behind ghost writers in the display windows of the local book mart.
If the “vast public” weren't entirely satiated by the trendy grief of others, they merely got a hold on their own. How many gold-diggin’ knotheads had spun the web of the ever-popular self-help book? Everyone but the Hillside Strangler and my mailman, that's who! Face it, the plain truth is that most Americans feel left off the bus if they can't hitch up their rattled psyches to some fashionable new malady bein’ bandied about on Phil and Oprah. The longshoreman or the guy from the pickle factory were survivors and survival didn't play very well within a nation drenched to its Valium-gobblin’ core with luckless visions of self-hate and unendurable dejection.
Kotlowitz finished up his story by referring to me as “the Mike Royko of the rivetheads.” Given a choice, I'd have preferred “the Mark Twain of Mark's Lounge” or “the Johnny Holmes of the second-floor cushion room.” Mike Royko? Shit, they buried his grunt in the middle of the editorial page. Not many shoprats bothered with that portion of the paper.
It was time to retreat back to bed. The Rivet Line would be beckoning soon enough and I had to be properly rested. I was almost asleep when the phone started ringing. It rang and rang. Whoever was on the other end wasn't giving up. I stumbled to the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.
“Yes,” I said.
“Is that you, Hamper?” a voice shouted.
“Yes,” I repeated.
It turned out to be some guy I had gone to high school with. Matt somebody. I hadn't spoken a word with this individual in over a dozen years. In fact, we never talked way back then. We had never even liked each other. Hell, I hated the bastard's guts and he'd hated mine.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked.
Matthew somebody explained that he was a stockbroker nowadays living in San Francisco. He was calling me to express his dumbfounded shock at seeing my swollen face staring back at him from his morning's Wall Street Journal.
“Christ, I thought my eyes were playin’ tricks on me,” he said. “What the hell would Benny Hamper's face be doin’ on the cover of Wall Street. I thought maybe you rolled a bank or something.
I always hated people who called me Benny. “I understand,” I replied. “I have to go to back to bed now. Nice chatting.”
I never did get back to sleep. Every time I got close to noddin’ off, the phone would ring. A Flint television station suggested an interview. A lady representing a film production company in Los Angeles called. A book agent buzzed in. A few more jerks from high school called. I couldn't understand it. Since we seemed to be having an impromptu class reunion on my phone, where were all the cheerleaders? Coverboy or not, those sluts still hated my ass.
In a startling gesture, my old man called me from Florida. Some bar patron had shown him the article. The old man was already in the bag. He mentioned that he