Rivethead - Ben Hamper [99]
I assured my father that what I was up to would hardly incite either the union or GM to want to do me bodily harm. I was only writing a column for an underground newspaper.
“Don't be too sure,” my old man countered. “They've got the muscle to shut you down. Do you own a piece, son?”
“A piece? As in gun?”
“Well, I ain't’ referrin’ to no piece of ass!” My old man hadn't changed a lick. The more he drank, the more he indulged himself in flights of old-school machismo.
“I've gotta get ready for work now, Dad.”
“Just remember to watch out for those bastards.”
“Will do,” I replied.
I was almost out the door when the phone rang again. It was my editor calling from the Michigan Voice. “Listen,” Mike said, “some producer from 60 Minutes just called out here for you. He said he wanted to talk with you and that you should get in touch with him immediately.”
I scribbled down the number, grabbed a can of beer and began dialing.
“Sixty Minutes,” a voice answered.
“Um, my name is Hamper. I was told you were trying to reach me.”
“Oh yes, Ben. My name's Joel Bernstein. I enjoyed the article about you in this morning's Wall Street Journal. It sounded like something we might be interested in pursuing for the show. If it's all right with you, I'd like to fly into Flint next Tuesday so we can get together. How does Tuesday work out on your end, Ben?”
I paused and took a large swallow of beer. I looked over at the calendar. Tuesday was blank. Friday was blank. March was blank. September was blank. Every day of the year was blank. “I think Tuesday would work out fine,” I answered.
“Great. I'll give you a call when I get to town.”
I finally made it into work. One of the guys from first shift had already tacked up the Wall Street Journal on the bulletin board. Several of my linemates were gathered around readin’ the piece and joking about my face. I wormed in between them.
“One outrageously handsome rivetling, huh?” I snickered.
“Goddamn, Hamper, your face looks like a mudheap,” Joe replied.
“Who's your hair stylist, Beldar Conehead?” Al needled.
The Polish Sex God stepped in. “Shit, whatever you do, don't gaze into those swollen eyes! Prolonged contact with that satanic gaze could cause unspeakable damage to one's soul.”
Dougie wanted to know who Mike Royko was. I told him he was some guy who loved softball and wrote about minor social injustices and made twenty times the money we did.
Janice was reading the article at her desk. Dave Steel stood there reading over her shoulder. As I approached, Dave started shaking his head. “I can't believe how much mileage you're gettin’ out of this factory drivel. This guy acts like you're fuckin’ Steinbeck or something.”
“Mama didn't raise no blockhead.” I laughed. “Find a gimmick and milk those udders!”
Right then, the horn blew. The line began to lurch and Dave sprinted off for his inspection job. The rest of us reached above our heads for our rivet guns.
“ALL ABOARD!” Doug shouted.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, FOOL!” Eddie responded on cue. Ah, home sweet home.
I bought two cases of beer for the guys that night. We got stupid and rowdy and started acting like a bunch of Cub Scouts in a titty bar. It was forty souls vs. that old stubborn time clock and we beat its ass rather soundly. Nothing like a strange new distraction and a bellyful of beer to nudge on the night.
The Mike Royko of the rivetheads. Hell, whatever. It kept us laughin’. All I knew for certain was that for one crazy shift in the midst of a frigid Michigan winter the crew had plenty to gnaw on. Something that brought us closer, something silly and offbeat, something that reached out for the rivetheads and spoke their names, something that attached our oily grins to a small piece of the puzzle, a visibility or something, and something was better than nothing.
On Tuesday, Joel Bernstein called to tell me he was staying at the Hyatt Regency