Rivethead (30 page)

However, Janice surprised me. Instead of deliverin’ some hopeless gush, she snuck around my workbench and began singing. The tune was “Forward to Death” by the Dead Kennedys, one of several warped ditties I had polluted her with. I got a big grin on my face and joined in on the raucous chorus: “I don't need this fuckin’ world, I don't need this fuckin’ world—this world brings me down, I gag with every breath, this world brings me DOWN, I'm looking forward to DEATH!”

We hugged each other and laughed. It was like being paid to flunk high school.

When it came time to fill the vacancies left behind by Jerry and Janice, we got lucky. Henry Jackson, always in a mad quest to break up the chemistry of the Rivet Line by importing snitches and milksops, bungled the opportunity and sent us down a pair of jokers who fit right in.

Jerry's replacement was a small black guy named Jehan. He came to us with excellent credentials. For the past several weeks, Jehan had been on this dogged mission to keep the line down. He worked one of the rail-pull jobs at the start of the line situated right beneath one of the stop buttons. Whenever the mood struck, Jehan would reach above his head and smack the button. He'd keep the line down until the supervisors started closing in. You had to admire that kind of suicidal derring-do. When Jehan was finally busted, Henry sent him down to our area away from any stop buttons.

The guy who took Janice's job was a big German hulk named Paul Schobel. He'd arrived with the latest batch of refugees from the closed plants in Saginaw. He was absolutely ecstatic about his placement on the Rivet Line. Paul's last job for GM had been working in a foundry, which was a lot like being sentenced to work in Satan's private bakery. He was glad to be here and we were glad to have him, especially me. I had plans for Mr. Schobel. I was baking something too.

I watched in wonder as Paul quickly pulverized his new job into a brief nuisance. He steamrolled through the entire event. The cross members looked like twigs in his arms. The rivet gun became his bitch. He choked its neck like a dead flamingo. It was all so beautiful. The guy was a plowhorse. After all those years in the foundry, the cross members and rivet guns must have seemed like birdies and badminton.

As I watched Paul tromp through the motions, lights flashed in my head. The strategy I had been cookin’ up moved straight for the front burner. My mind began chanting restlessly: “It is time to double-up…time to double-up.” It was all spread out in front of me. That golden loophole, that glorious lifeboat, the ultimate clock-killer, autonomy for two. It would be a cinch. Paul with the brawn, I with the blueprint.

One night I invited Paul out to my Camaro. It was time to run this thing by him. We drank a couple of forty-ouncers and began to discuss details. “Paul, after lunch I want you to cover my job.”

“Do
your
job? Who the hell is gonna do
mine?
”

“I will. It's important that you learn my routine, especially the sidewinder gun. It's a bit stubborn at first, but I have no doubt you'll be able to tame it.”

Paul looked at me perplexed. “What in the fuck is this all about, Hamper?”

“It's all about freedom, you fat kraut. We combine our two jobs into one setup. When I'm handling the setup, you can get lost. The same goes for me when you're up. Think about it, Paul. It sure beats sittin’ round all night crucified to the time clock.”

It took about three hours for Paul to conquer my job. He had little trouble with the sidewinder gun or, for that matter, anything else. If some portion of the job played nasty, Paul just sucked in his gut, let out a growl and bullied the issue into quick submission. The horizon was wide open.

However, there were a few details we had to tend to before unveiling our system. First, we had to take into account all the cross members Paul was required to build each shift. There was no way either of us could keep up with the line if we had stock to build. We agreed that we would have to build up the required amount of cross members before we could begin doubling jobs. This meant getting to the plant extra early and bangin’ them out ahead of time.

Another matter to be considered was supervisional reaction to our setup. This wasn't the Cab Shop where any two hustlers who could put together a scam were free to flee. This was the Rivet Line where hittin’ the lam still meant sluggin’ a young sheep. In this region, doubling-up was as much a novelty as shag carpet. I wasn't too much concerned with Gino. He'd already taken a shine to Schobel and he knew, when it came to hittin’ a good rivet, I was the cream of the crap. Henry Jackson was the one who posed the definite threat. We would have to watch out for him.

On the eve of our new arrangement, Paul and I retreated to my Camaro for beer and briefing. There were a few loose ends and precautions I wanted to make my partner aware of.

“Before we crank this gimmick up, we need to get a couple of things straight. First off, no more drinking on the job. If I'm gone, there'll be no one around who can give you a piss call.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Hey, lecture your own ass. You and Eddie are the ones gettin’ tanked every night.”

“Not startin’ tomorrow. Complete sobriety while working. If we work this right, we'll have plenty of time off to go drinkin’.”

“Understood,” Paul replied.

“Another thing,” I continued. “Absolutely no more weed smokin’ with Jehan and Dougie. Every time you get stoned, your eyes get bloody and you get this stupid, guilty look on your face.”

“Hey, smokin’ dope relaxes me. What if I wore a pair of sunglasses like Eddie does?”

“Just say NO, pothead. One more idea. I think it wise that we leave each other the phone numbers of where we'll be at. I will normally be at my place, Mark's Lounge or my girlfriend's. If Henry Jackson comes snoopin’ around, have someone call me and I can be back here within ten minutes.”

“You're forgettin’ something. Where am I gonna go when
you
are working?” It was a valid point. Paul carpooled from Saginaw with two other guys. He only had his own vehicle two times per week.

“I'll take care of it. On the nights you have your car, you can leave at lunch. On the nights you don't, you can use my car and apartment. I've got extra keys I'll give you. I'll also give you a map of some of the better bars around Flint and directions to where the whores hang out.”

“That's sure gonna beat workin’ in the foundry.”

“That's sure gonna beat workin’,
period,
” I added.

The system worked just as smoothly as I had hoped. Schobel and I clicked perfectly. Even Gino was duly impressed. He looked the other way and kept his distance. The only thing Gino said to me regarding the setup was: “I don't even want to know where you two disappear. Don't even tell me!” I faithfully obliged my supervisor.

Henry Jackson was easy to dupe. He always came callin’ early in the shift while we were still racin’ around buildin’ up cross members. The occasional times he'd pull a surprise raid later in the shift after one of us had vanished, we'd be ready. Tony would holler down the line from his repair post: “Asshole! Asshole!” That was our cue to spring into a new formation. Cam, who worked on the other side of Paul, would slide down closer to Paul's area and Doug would work up the line toward mine. Henry would strut by, take a quick glance and be satisfied that everything appeared positioned normally.

It was like 1978 all over again. Four hours’ work, eight hours’ pay. Once again there was that certain exhilaration knowing that your job was being nursed along in able hands while you howled at the screen in Mark's Lounge after Lou Whitaker had blasted a hangin’ curve into the right field upper deck. Such things seemed to make more sense than manual labor. To lie there in your sweetheart's bed, shakin’ off the post-ejaculatory sweat, gigglin’ like a schoolboy, a paroled hedonist smiling from a third-story window far removed from the numbness and drudgery of Greaseball Mecca.

Above all, I liked the idea of outsmarting all those management pricks with their clean fingernails and filthy bonuses. They weren't much competition but, all the same, they couldn't earn their paychecks outside the walls drinking and fucking and evading and watching home runs sail on through the twilight. However, I could. I was a career opportunist. My time card was germinating in the corporate greenhouse, ladling out the loot to an emancipated hooligan who regularly dipped beneath their radar screens and hid himself in the red Naugahyde like a clever fox full of someone's mutton. They were in THERE! Only an earthquake could bring them out. I was out HERE! Only an emergency phone call could bring me in.

And goddamnit all, it did. RINNNNNNG! RINNNNNNNG! It was a Monday night. I was sitting around my apartment watching a game and eatin’ a pizza. Schobel and I had been working the scheme for a few months without the slightest hitch. The world was our Slinky. Then, the phone call. Hell's own jingle bells. RINNNNNNG! RINNNNNNNG! I got up and answered it.

It was Schobel. He was talking low and fast, “Ben, I'm sorry about this, but you have to get back to the department RIGHT NOW! I'm afraid we're in deep shit.”

All at once it hit me. Something terribly wrong had happened. This wasn't any lousy Henry Jackson headcount. This was real disaster. PAUL SCHOBEL WAS TALKING TO ME! How could Paul be talking to me and still be covering our jobs?

“Paul, where the hell are you?” I screamed.

“I'm down in the plant hospital. I told ‘em I had to call my wife. They're running me over to McLaren Hospital for surgery on my arm.”

Instead of asking Paul how he was doing or how badly he was hurt, the humanitarian in me opted to blurt: “SHIT, WHO THE FUCK IS DOING OUR JOBS?”

“Gotta go now, honey.” The meat wagon must've arrived. “Do what I asked. Love you.”

I drove with my knee and dressed like a contortionist. I blew through three red lights and screeched into the No Parking zone at the plant gate. I sprinted past the guards and time clocks and raced up the stairs to the Rivet Line. I attempted to walk leisurely to my job. I doubt I was fooling anyone.

Al and one of the spare utility men were covering our jobs. Al looked at me with what appeared to be a mixture of woesome pity and brooding contempt. The message was clear: I was a cooked rat, I was thoroughly doomed, I was popular as a leper, and I had better concoct one helluva spiel mighty quickly.

I grabbed my gun and waved them off. “Where's Gino?” I mumbled to Al.

“He's still down in the hospital,” he said.

“Has Jackson been around?”

“Haven't seen him since before lunch.”

Eddie wandered down. “Shit, Ben, I ain't ever seen so much blood in my life. It was shootin’ straight outta Paul's wrist like a gusher. They mopped most of it up but there's still some down there if you wanna check it out. Damn, blood was flyin’ everywhere. It looked like a damn shark attack. The funny part is that Paul never said as much as ouch. He just—”

Per usual, Jehan's dope had woven its way deep into Ed's skull. “Fuck all that, you weed-suckin’ ghoul. I don't want to hear about the mess. Just tell me what HAPPENED!”

“It went down fast. Paul was puttin’ a military cross member up on the frame and the bitch slipped off. Paul caught the skid right across the wrist. Took it right to the bone. When they picked up the cross member, the skid plate still had a chunk of Paul's skin hangin’ off it.”

This certainly wasn't the time to go pointin’ blame, yet I found myself steamed over the cause of the accident. From what Eddie had described, I knew exactly what had happened. Paul had been guilty of making a very stupid and dangerous blunder. I had seen him pull this stunt before and pleaded with him to knock it off. The rule was this: when a cross member begins to slip or tilt off the frame, let it fall! DO NOT TRY TO CATCH IT! Tryin’ to grab hold of a military cross member as it tumbled off the frame was as bright as reachin’ for a runnin’ chainsaw. Unfortunately, Paul couldn't help himself. It was a reflex thing. The cross member would slip and he'd play fetch. For this error in judgment, my partner was now at McLaren General Hospital having his arm reassembled.

The part I was really dreading was now on its way. Down the aisle I could see Gino Donlan makin’ his way back to the department. He didn't look like the happiest man in the world.

Instead of jumping into my shit, Gino simply walked on by as if ignoring me. This lack of cognition made me even more uncomfortable. A major ass-chewing was in order. A flock of penalties were in the balance. I wanted it over with. My foreman chose to let me walk that long, lonely plank as if I really needed more time to ruminate about the damage done.

Finally, he came strollin’ over. “I would assume you know what this means,” Gino said. “You can forget about the doubling-up right now.”

And, that was it. No screeching, no interrogation, no penalties, no suspension. Gino seemed to realize that I felt bad enough. What had really saved my butt was the fact that Henry Jackson didn't ever find out about the particulars behind Paul's accident. He was still in the dark about our comings and goings. It got me to thinkin’. Maybe someday in the faraway future we could restore this crashed bird back to its natural glory. It was a long shot, but, maybe.

Paul stopped in to visit the Rivet Line the next day. He'd just been released from the hospital and his arm was in a gigantic sling. He had torn right through the arteries and tendons in his right wrist. He showed us the maze of stitches. It looked horrible.

Paul pulled me aside. “The damn doctor says I'm finished hittin’ rivets. However, I'll be back. Give me a few weeks and we'll be smokin’. They'll never shut us down, partner.”

That big German was nuts. “Don't worry about it, Paul. Just heal that arm up and they'll find you a real pussy job. Forget about this place. You don't wanna return here.”

Wrong. Six week later, a month ahead of schedule and against doctor's orders, Paul Schobel was back on the Rivet Line. I swear to Jesus the guy was a plowhorse. That very same night we sprung into our old routine. I pleaded with Paul that we should work it in gradually. He wouldn't hear of it. Gino stood in the doorway of his office staring at us.