We walked out at lunch (penalty). We threw rivets and gloveballs everywhere (penalty). We insisted on doubling-up (penalty). We blasted the radios (penalty). We refused to clean our areas (penalty). We refused to wear our safety glasses (penalty). We blew whiskey in his face (penalty). Recognize a pattern? If not, you most certainly deserve a…
PENALTY! The damn word must've been Sanders's middle name. It proved to be the key to his success in breaking us. Plain and simple, the bastard lived for paperwork. He'd have made somebody a fine little stenographer. Sanders never ranted or raved. When trouble brewed, he merely went reaching for his arsenal of Bic ballpoints. That was all it took. Before long, the aisles were plugged with pink paper carbons from his penalty file. We'd been corralled. The revolution fell apart.
Paul and I had been penalized several times for attempting to double-up. We simply couldn't help ourselves. We knew what waited on the other side of that wall and it was a helluva lot more attractive than what was stacked in front of us. In the end, we had to surrender. We couldn't keep buttin’ heads with Sanders's penalty machine. At the rate we were being written up, the two of us would be fired within a month.
“Jesus, we should off the bastard,” I remember Paul fuming. “This is ridiculous.”
“No, killing him would be ridiculous,” I replied. “The penalty for murdering your foreman is three months off without pay. Let's just pray he develops arthritis in his writin’ hand.”
Schobel and I finally reached a pansy agreement with Sanders that would allow us to double-up just as long as we didn't leave the department. It sucked. This arrangement was like being told you could vacation in the Bahamas but couldn't leave the plane.
I went back to my flipped-over garbage can and the world of blue-crud journalism. Paul made a crude hut out of some cardboard boxes and slept half the day. Our alcohol consumption hit levels that caused even us concern. We were beaten and desperate and bored like never before. It felt as though something was about to break.
Sadly, it did.
Wednesday, July 16, 1986. There was nothing particularly askew on this date, noting to remotely suggest that this shift was to be any different than the few odd thousand that had gone before. I weaved my way through the rivet guns and cross members, the waltz of the unblessed, awaiting the next frame and the one after that. Thirty-seven frames an hour. Thirty-seven clumsy muffler hangers. Thirty-seven rear spring castings. Thirty-seven invitations to dance.
First break arrived and I plopped myself down at the workers’ picnic bench for a smoke and a glance at the box scores. It was precisely 7:08
P.M
. As I stared at the paper, the words and numbers started swirling together. I stood up. I could feel a numbness in my arms and legs. I began having major difficulty trying to catch my breath. I stepped away from the table feeling totally disoriented.
A stroke, I figured. I'm having a FUCKING STROKE! Thirty-one years old, a mere minnow in the scheme of the dream, and here comes the big daddy death rattle himself, smug as can be, marchin’ right down the center of Screwball Lane. What kind of filthy, poetic injustice was this? Choking over dead like a sack of yams only ten yards away from some moron's half-tinkered embryo of a Suburban. To top it off, Sanders would probably write me up for expiring without permission. I can joke about this now. However, I can assure you, I wasn't then. I was too busy searchin’ for air.
I remember racin’ into the phone booth, though I wasn't sure why. I wasn't sure of anything. All I knew was that I didn't want to die. Then it occurred to me. I had to dial for help. That's why I was in the booth. I was in such a state that I couldn't remember the phone numbers of my best friends or family. I hit zero and told the operator I was having an impossible time dialing. I had her ring my girlfriend's apartment. No answer. I should have guessed. As their men stood crackin’ and crumbling in barbed wire vomitoriums, the women were all out at the mall tryin’ on shoes.
I suddenly remembered that Mike Moore was back in town to sell off all the junk left behind at the
Michigan Voice.
I had the operator dial out there, praying that they hadn't disconnected the phones yet. After a long wait, Moore answered.
“Goddamn, listen to me, Mike. I'm in a phone booth on the Rivet Line and I believe I'm having a stroke or a nervous fuckin’ breakdown. I'm losing my vision, my arms and legs are tinglin’ and I can hardly breathe. Help me!”
“Try your best to calm down,” Mike advised. “It sounds like anxiety. The best thing you can do is to get the hell out of there. Go home immediately, then call me back.”
I stepped out of the phone booth into a nightmare. Everyone's head seemed enlarged. Their eyes seemed to converge on me. I made it to my workbench and grabbed my keys. Paul was buildin’ up some cross members and I approached him. I had to notify Paul I was going. By now, I could barely speak. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but tears were rollin’ down my face.
“I have to leave,” I warbled. “Tell Sanders I puked or something.”
Paul didn't press the matter. He could see things were seriously amiss. “Don't worry about Sanders,” he said. “Just take off.” His voice seemed to be coming out of a transistor radio.
I bolted out of the factory and into the sweet outdoors. It was a great relief to be free from that freak show. My memory was shot. I spent about fifteen minutes trying to locate my car. When I did, I sped straight for home. The two-mile drive seemed to take hours.
My mind was completely unhinged. I paused at streetlights and snuck glances at people in neighboring cars. It was hideous. I saw insects driving sports cars and frogs driving station wagons. They all seemed to be staring at me. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON? I was the Rivethead. I had only wanted to check out some box scores. I didn't belong here driving around as bugs and amphibians peered at me like I was an alien.
I turned on the radio thinking some music might soothe me down. The Beach Boys were singin’ “Wouldn't It Be Nice,” a great song if you could escape the irony of the title. I began to sing along: “Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true…” Jesus, I started bawlin’ like a newborn. Even Brian Wilson was takin’ a poke at me. I slapped off the radio.
I arrived at my place and called Moore. “At least we know it's not a stroke or heart attack,” he said. “My guess is some kind of nervous breakdown. Do you have a doctor?”
“No,” I answered.
“Then I will give you the number of someone you can call. Do you remember Darlene Shea? She's always been a fan of your writing.”
“I don't need groupies, I need a damn exorcist!” I shouted.
“Darlene is a physician, a very good one. Call this number first thing tomorrow and tell her that you must see her at once.”
“What if I'm going insane?” I asked Mike.
“Then I would say you're comin’ around to your old self.”
It was a long night. I paced back and forth through my apartment, unable to think straight, unable to talk on the phone, unable to relax. I tried to watch television but all they were showing were sitcoms featuring large flies, frogs and lizard-things. I went through a fifth of Jim Beam and several beers. The alcohol at least helped me to pass out. As I slid off to sleep, I kept thinking maybe I'd wake up to find that this had all been part of some terrifying dream.
I got up the next morning feeling much better. Except for an unusually brutal hangover, I felt like my normal self. My arms no longer tingled, my vision was clear and, best of all, my heart was beating at its usual pace. I looked out the window to catch a peek at my neighbors. They looked ugly and beaten and full of malice. However, they didn't look at all like insects. Whatever it was that had overtaken me the previous day at work had surely passed through my system. I didn't bother calling the doctor. I was cured. I went back to the Rivet Line, a very grateful rat.
The shift went by without incident. Of course, Sanders wrote me up for walking off my job. He asked what had happened to me. I told him that I had come down with stomach flu. Sanders said that he hoped I was feeling better. He crammed the penalty into my shirt pocket and marched off.
On Friday, two days after my bizarre crack-up, I got to work and was loading my stock bins full of muffler hangers and rivets. Another day, another dullard. We had about fifteen minutes before the line was to roll. Dougie was done building up his springs and walked over. He began chattering about some trivial matter when, clear out of the unholy blue, everything suddenly flipped. Here we went again! My arms and legs started tinglin’ and shakin’. My heart joined in, an atomic bongo thumpin’ some blue streak lick. Doug was still yappin’ when I grabbed for my keys and hit the aisleway. I didn't wanna be around when he switched into a grasshopper or something.
I sped home fully realizing that Wednesday had not been the strange fluke I had hoped it had been. I was fucked up in a big way. This wasn't like havin’ a broken leg. A broken leg would heal. You could retain all your senses. Who knew about this shit? Who knew what it even was?
Hopefully, Dr. Shea. I got her on the phone and tried my best to describe what I was experiencing. I doubt that I was even making sense. She had me come straight to her office.
We talked a while and she came to a preliminary diagnosis. “Ben, you appear to be suffering from severe panic disorder. This condition often manifests itself in the symptoms you are currently experiencing—the rapid heartbeat, numbness in the extremities, distorted vision, feelings of paranoia, disassociation, hopelessness—they all fit the pattern. What I will have you do is two things. I will prescribe a medication called Inderal. Whenever you feel an attack coming on, take one of these pills. They should help steady your heartbeat. Also, I am going to recommend that you immediately make an appointment with a Dr. Lee at the Holly Road Mental Health Clinic. He is very knowledgeable in dealing with this kind of disorder.”
It was one hellish weekend. The panic attacks descended on me one after another like sharks to a rib roast. I took the Inderal but its effects were minimal. If it slowed my heart down any, it sure as hell did nothing for the war going on inside my head. Mostly, I drank. I drank and paced from one room to the next. I was looking for something. I was searching for my shit.
On Monday morning, I called the Holly Road Mental Health Clinic. I asked for an appointment to see Dr. Lee but was told he was booked up to the twenty-third century. The receptionist said that a Dr. Kilaru had an opening the next day. I told her to write me down. In my shape, I'd have settled for Dr. Seuss.
Dr. Kilaru was a very short man, very pleasant and extremely dapper. Obviously, this loony business lent itself to the big buck. He was also very Indian. I had trouble making out his accent. Fortunately, I was called on to do most of the talking. The doctor listened intently, occasionally jotting notes, as I told him about my ugly metamorphosis from Rivethead to Rancidhead.
When I was finished, Dr. Kilaru put down his notepad and spoke. “Ben, you are suffering from rather intense episodes of panic attack syndrome. This stems from a condition called acute anxiety. There is not always a set pattern to when or where these attacks may occur. For treatment, I am going to recommend weekly psychiatric counseling and medication. I will prescribe for you a sedative called Xanax. This should help a great deal. You may still experience small amounts of anxiety. However it's the episodes of full-blown panic we are out to avoid.”
I couldn't have agreed more. For the past four days, I had been wondering if I'd ever be able to leave my apartment again. I asked the doctor if it was safe to assume I was not going insane.
“That is a frequent fear expressed by those who suffer these attacks. Often, a person will become convinced that he or she is having a complete breakdown, a heart attack or actually dying. You have a serious disorder. However I believe your sanity is fully intact.”
I had Dr. Kilaru write me out a medical excuse for the next couple days. What I needed was a few days off to check out this Xanax stuff and to make absolutely sure it would keep the demons at bay. After the previous week, I simply couldn't afford to hit the Rivet Line with anything less than a happy, healthy cerebellum.
The Xanax seemed to work well. Bolstered by my new pharmaceutical pal, I rejoined the fray. At the slightest hint of unsteadiness, I would scramble over to the drinking fountain and gulp down more medication. I would have swallowed cat puke, it didn't matter. I knew just one thing. I'd seen walls sweating and ceilings sag. I'd seen close friends of mine transform into various insects. I'd seen that great lake of fire roll down the aisle. If it were to spill over again, I was damn sure going to be clutchin’ on to something buoyant.
Mike Moore called me in August to tell me my article for his first issue of
Mother Jones
was being well received by the folks at the magazine. He wanted to know if I could take a couple weeks off in order to do some promoting for my cover story. For the first time in years, I headed off on vacation.
At one point, Mike and I did two newspaper interviews, three radio talk shows, three television guest spots in five different cities in the span of twelve hours. We crisscrossed the state from head to heinie. My futile requests to hit a bar somewhere in the middle of this marathon were quickly shot down. I sucked down the Xanax like Tic Tacs. The interviews all followed the same basic format. Moore would harangue everything under the sun while I sat at his elbow like a real numbskull. Anytime I was called on to speak, I'd mutter something decisive and profound like “There aren't enough windows in the factory” or “I once saw a guy incinerate his pet mouse with a brazing torch.”
A few days later, the promo guy from
Mother Jones
called to tell me they had scheduled a series of television and radio interviews in Chicago. I was told that I would have to make this trip solo because Mike was busy back in San Francisco. I immediately balked. There was no way I could pull this off alone. After much grumbling, they consented to pay Dave Steel's way to Chicago.