Rivethead by Ben Hamper

couldn't assemble those fad-happy recreational vehicles fast enough to suit a slobberin’ public who'd gone cold turkey throughout the recession of the embargo years. Here they came: pent-up, petrol-guzzlin’ Americans with their waverin’ hard-ons barging through showrooms on lurkin’ prowl for a chrome-laden beastie to bulldoze down the boulevard. Suburbans and Blazers, the elixir of the hog masses.
    We built and we built. Demand was so high that the Corporation would have surely had us working on Sundays if our local union agreement hadn't prohibited it. Besides, six days was plenty. A seven-day workweek would have guaranteed a work force that was subhuman at best—a slaughterhut full of foul-smellin’ mutants who couldn't tell dusk from dawn nor harmony from homicide.
    It was during this boom period that I attended my first of the annual “State of the Factory” addresses. The presentation was to keep us informed on just where our plant stood in relation to efficiency, quality rating, cost procedure, worker attendance and overall sales. We were also to be apprised on the condition of our dreaded dogfight with the Japanese and, our main source of competition, the bullies at Ford with their sleek fleets of pickups and sub-snuff Ford Broncos.
    We were herded next door to this mammoth hangar called the Research Building. I have no idea what kind of research went on there, but it's a fair bet that the place was at least a partial foil for all the legions of smock-clad highbrows who weaved around the assembly line each evening trying their damndest to look brilliant and concerned about who knows what. I stuck by Bob-A-Lou, who was an old pro at these corporate hoedowns. He told me to settle in for an hour's worth of propaganda, cheerleading and high-tech gibberish that would gladly float right over my head. We made a quick beeline for the free doughnuts and Pepsi. Whatever was on the agenda, it sure beat working.
    “There's the Plant Manager now,” Bob-A-Lou mumbled through his forth or fifth jelly doughnut. He was pointing toward the stage which, by this time, was completely overrun with about two dozen clones in drab neckties.
    “Which one is the chief?” I asked Bob-A-Lou, hopelessly confused.
    “The John Wayne look-alike,” he said.
    “Oh, yeah.” I laughed. “All that's missin’ is the pistol and spurs.”
    “I can positively assure you of one thing,” Bob-A-Lou said while assaulting a new doughnut. “Sometime during his spiel, he's gonna tell us that he will be regularly touring the plant, pausing to listen to any of our gripes or suggestions. He will pledge to be visible and accessible. Just remember I told you so.”
    “Bullshit, I presume.”
    “You better know it. In all my years here, I've yet to see his face in the factory. He's probably afraid that he'll scuff one of his cuff links or something.”
    The pep rally began. The Plant Manager started by back-patting everybody in the galaxy. Up with us, down with them! He introduced a steady parade of weasels who dutifully took their bows. The Plant Manager was a very happy man. Outside the back of the building, I could envision a Brinks truck carting away his company bonus. We received jelly doughnuts and warm pop. Up with us, down with them!
    He started talking about the enormous popularity of our best-seller, the Chevy Suburban. “We can't even meet the demand for this product,” he bellowed. “Do you realize that there are people in New England who have never even SEEN a Suburban!” I took a gulp of Pepsi and wondered to myself. Is there no limit to the human suffering some people must endure?
    The Plant Manager's Knute-Rockne-reborn-as-poorboy's-Leo-Buscaglia-on-the-threshold-of-industrial-Guyana rah-rah speech continued for another half hour or so. As Bob-A-Lou had predicted, the boss started playin’ footsie with the workers: “I plan to make every effort to visit with as many of you as I can. Your input is invaluable to the future of