Free Rivethead by Ben Hamper Page A

guard or Roger Smith Jr. No one gave a shit.
    As a summer progressed and the weeks slid slowly by, my pal Roy was beginning to unravel in a real rush. His enthusiasm about all the money we were makin’ had dissipated and he was having major difficulty coping with the drudgery of factory labor. Unable to arrange a double-up system with Dan-O, he wallowed in the slow-motion injustice of the time clock. His job, like mine, wasn't difficult, it was just plain monotonous. We hadn't even put in our ninety days yet (the minimum amount of service required for a worker to apply for sick leave) and Roy was already fast on the track to wiggin’ out.
    We had been able to conquer the other annoyances. We adjusted to the heat and grew accustomed to the noise. After a while, we even got used to the claustrophobia of the wheel wells. The idea that we were being paid handsome wages to mimic a bunch of overachieving simians suited us just dandy. We had no lofty career goals. In America, or at least in Flint, as long as the numbers on your pay stub justified your daily bread, there was nothing more to accomplish.
    The one thing that was impossible to escape was the monotony of our new jobs. Every minute, every hour, every truck and every movement was a plodding replica of the one that had gone before. The monotony gnawed away at Roy. His behavior began to verge on the desperate. The only way he saw to deal with the monotony was to numb himself to it. When the lunch horn sounded, we'd race out to his pickup and Roy would pull these enormous joints from the glove box. “Take one,” he'd offer. Pot made me nervous so I would stick to the beer from his well-stocked cooler or slug a little of the whiskey that was always on hand.
    The numbing process seemed to demand more every night. We'd go out to the truck and Roy would burn two joints at a time. He'd snort coke whenever he could find it. “I don't know if I'm gonna make my ninety days,” he'd tell me. It was all part of Roy's master plan. Once he reached his ninety days’ seniority, he would round up a reliable quack, feign some mystery injury (spinal aggravations were the most popular malady) and, with all the paperwork, semiretire to an orbit of singles bars, dope dens and sick pay benefits. The old invisible Ozzie Nelson work ethic festering deep into the wounded psyches of the young.
    But Roy never did make his ninety days. To those who were on hand during his last days of service, it came as no real surprise. We all realized that Roy was cracking up.
    There was the classic evening Roy took a hit of some powerful acid and ended up barfin’ his guts out all over the floor next to his job. Tune in, turn on and build trucks. At first, I thought Roy was actually gonna make it. There was much merriment radiating from his side of the wheel well. Everything was a hoot or a holler. It was a shame it couldn't last.
    I returned from one of my aimless jaunts around the factory and Bud pulled me aside. “What the fuck is wrong with Roy?” he asked.
    “Why, is there a problem?”
    “Well, for one thing, he's speakin’ total gibberish. His face looks like a ghost and he's sweatin’ like a butcher. I swear the dumbshit's on some crazy drug trip.”
    I jumped into the next wheel well and looked over at Roy. The merriment was certainly gone. He looked horrible. The goblins of psychedelic had parked their paranoia machine smack dab in the center of Roy's cranium.
    For the next hour, I tried mightily to keep him together. I told him if he could just make it to the lunch horn, we'd get him out of here and settle everything with Brown. We'd concoct some story about how Roy got terribly ill and had to be raced home to bed.
    We both tried our damndest—Roy forging on while I counted down the minutes. It was all in vain. Just five minutes to go before the hour, Roy let loose. The puke shot everywhere. Dan-O bravely stepped in to handle Roy's job as he went tearing off for the exit. Jesus, did it