Read Online Rivethead by Ben Hamper - Free Book Online

trains having sex. I realized instantly that, as far as new homes go, the Jungle left a lot to be desired. Me Tarzan, you screwed.
    I had been forewarned. As our group was being dispatched at various drop points throughout the factory, the guy walking beside me mumbled about our likely destination. “Cab Shop,” the prophet said. “We're headed for Cab Shop.” Perplexed, I wondered if this meant we would be building taxis.
    The group trudged on, leaving a few workers in each new area. We stopped by the Trim Line. The Axle Line. The Frame Line. The Tire Line. The Receding Hairline. When we arrived at the Motor Line, my friend with the bashful bladder hopped off. “Thanks,” he told me. It was kind of strange. All we had in common was a small, useless vial of urine. “Have a nice career,” I offered.
    Soon, all but two rookies had been planted—the prophet and me. We took a dark elevator upstairs and, when the gate opened, the prophet let out a groan. “Goddamn, I knew it! The bastard's lettin’ us off in Cab Shop.” I had to agree with the prophet. Our overseer did seem like a bastard. Just the way he had gleefully shot down that late guy made me hate his guts. Not only was he a bastard, he made for one lousy Johnny Appleseed. We stood at the foot of the Jungle. We were doomed. There could be no exceptions.
    “Here you are, boys—the Cab Department,” our overseer spoke. “In this area you are advised to wear clothing made from a nonflammable fabric. Also, you will need to purchase a pair of steel-toned work boots, available at fair cost in the shoe store next to the workers’ cafeteria.” He grinned. “Good luck, boys,” he said and walked away.
    A pudgy, slick-dressed black guy directed us down the line toward our job setups. This was Brown, our foreman. As we tagged along behind him, the workers paused to give us the razz. We were fresh blood, ignorant meat. “Turn around before it's too late,” someone shouted. “Hey, Brown, let ‘em hang tailgates,” another chimed in. Hang tailgates? Christ, that sounded like a ball-buster.
    Our foreman stopped next to a big red-haired guy and a man in a filthy welder's cap. He pointed at me and informed me that I would be replacing the guy in the welder's cap. The guy seemed elated. “It's about goddamn time you got me outta here.” The guy in the welder's cap looked at me and smiled. He had very few teeth. “My name's Gary and this is Bud,” he said, pointing to the big redhead. “You'll love it here, just love it.” Both of them laughed.
    It turned out that my fellow rookie, the prophet, would be working directly across from me. His name was Roy and he'd come to Flint from Oklahoma to live with his brother and find work in the factory. It seemed like an awfully long haul just to wind up in this dreaded Jungle. Anyway, I felt glad for his presence. Having a greenie like myself across the line could only help during this assimilation process.
    For the entire shift, I was asked to do nothing but stand back and examine how Gary performed his job. I was told that I would have three days to learn the job and then it would be all mine. Always the pessimist, I asked Gary what happened if after three days were up I still didn't have a handle on the job. “Then they give you the Van Slyke shuffle.” He chuckled. Van Slyke was the street the factory was located on.
    “I'll have it down in a day,” I told Gary. “I've seen enough of the street.”
    Gary and Bud worked their jobs together. They combined them so that one of them was working while the other guy sat out and read the paper or did a crossword. I figured the job couldn't be too difficult if one of them had the time to complete both jobs while the other guy lagged around doin’ nothin’.
    This form of combo workmanship was termed “doubling-up,” a time-honored tradition throughout the shop that helped alleviate much of the boredom. Bud assured me that once I got my job down at a steady pace, he