"THE IVERSON BICYCLE FACTORY STORY" ...Part Two

Hi Friends,

I was talking to my neighbor Tony, whom I ran into one evening after his long, miserably stressful workday. He was obviously afraid to retire, leave the security and stability of his former life, and strike out in a new direction.

"Why did you....retire?" he asked. But he really wanted me to tell him why he should retire. Problem was, my reasons are private. Very private. Government work you know - very hush hush. And - the government has its ways. Trust me on that one - maybe it can't balance the budget, conduct a civilized, educational and productive Presidential election, pay it's valued educators and policemen a living wage - or ensure that proactive steps to solve important problems were taken timely and effectively. But - if it wants to - the government can get to you. That's for damn sure. I know. What's the old phrase? "Just because we're not paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get us." Truer words were never spoken.

Anyway...I sat Tony down and told him I would answer his question - by telling him the story of the Iverson Bicycle Factory....

"It was the summer of 1975. Suffolk County. On vacation from college. And needing extra money for, what shall I call it? Summertime extracurricular activities? But the economy was in the toilet - the older generation was only slightly better at managing its money - and beggars can't be choosers, so my friend Larry Bergman and myself got ourselves jobs at the Iverson Bicycle factory in Patchogue. One very large building. A hundred or so employees. No air conditioning. And menial labor for menial wages. (But then beer cost a lot less back in 1975.)

Inside the big building there were numerous work stations where sections of the bicycles were under construction. I do not recall the first task Larry received. But I remember the last (more about that later). As for myself, management did not know what to do with me. I was small for a guy, weighed about 100 pounds (if I turned sideways I'd practically disappear) and clearly couldn't lift any weight over my shoulders. Naturally then, the personnel manager assigned me the job of stacking heavy boxes filled with metal parts on a cart which would transport the material to another part of the factory. One box - two boxes - three...(straining hard)... four...sweating like there was no tomorrow...whoops! uh-oh...and then I'd fall backwards, the box crashing hard into whomever was passing by. Sometimes the box opening and spilling metal parts all over the floor. And at least one of my efforts to keep my balance resulting in a forward crash into the cart - actually up-ending the cart and causing material to scatter throughout that section of the factory. (There was this little guy Juan. He was reported missing at the time of the incident. For awhile I thought I'd killed him, buried under metal parts and parts of opened boxes. Fortunately Juan turned up later, happily sitting on the loading dock and smoking marijuana.) Whew...

Management wasn't exactly pleased by my performance. But even though there were many people out of work, these jobs were not exactly - how shall I phrase it? - in...demand. So the personnel manager gave me some other job. And I would have to say the results were only slightly more successful. This went on for a few more days. I would report for work in the morning and receive a new assignment. Which I'd promptly screw-up. In some spectacular fashion. My co-workers loved me. No one was looking at their work...

Finally I was assigned to a machine that if operated correctly, punched holes in two sections of pipe. "Correctly" being the operative word - since if the operator weren't focused, the holes could be made in the wrong place, the pipe rendered useless. And if the operator really lost focus - well, a well-placed hole in a body part wasn't out of the question. But it didn't seem too difficult - body part issues aside - nothing to lift! Problem was, there was a quota. One hundred pipes an hour. With holes perfectly placed. Hour after hour. Day after day. Insert pipe. Hit the little red button. Remove pipe. Reinsert pipe at a different angle. Hit the little red button again. Remove the pipe. Take another one out of the stack. Do it again. And again. And again....in 110-degree temperatures. On the third day I looked over. The tattooed man at the next station was on his tenth stack of pipes. I was still on my first. Hey - I had to get the pipe placed perfectly...this required much deliberation and review and re-review before I finally hit the little red button. Didn't it?

The personnel manager called me into his office. ' College boy' he said, using his little nickname for me - we had terrific rapport. 'College boy' he repeated, 'one last chance for you - or I throw your butt out of here! Monday morning - it's the Assembly Line for you! One last chance!'

So on Monday morning I dutifully reported to John Collins, the supervisor of the Assembly Line. And I did really well. I felt...good. And productive. Finally contributing! And I was happy. For awhile..."

Tony interrupted. He was on his fifth - or sixth - beer. "I like the story - but what about retirement?" he asked.

"The Assembly Line" I smiled. "It's all on the Assembly Line."

To be completed next time. Until then,

Stevenn