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Michael Martone
was born in Fort Wayne, Indiana, where he worked every summer, while
attending high school and college the rest of the year, for International
Harvester on the assemble line at the company's truck plant on the
city's east end. Then, before the bankrupcy of the company and the
subsequent closing of the plant and the moving of what jobs that
were left to a factory in Missouri, International Haverster had
been one of the largest employers in the city. No one called it
International Haverster, however, saying instead that you worked
at International or, more likely, at the Harvester. Martone preferred
the latter, liked the the added on to single name. People in Fort
Wayne worked for the Harvester or the GE or for the Pennsy, the
railroad that ran from New York and Philidelphia right through Fort
Wayne close to the Harvester then on to Chicago. And on the weekends
or in the summer the people of Fort Wayne went to The Lake. The
lake they would go to would be one of a hundred named lakes (James,
George, Clear, Long, Crooked, Sylvan, Wawasee) in northeastern Indiana
that were all called The Lake by the people of Fort Wayne who went
to them or who stayed in town and only talked about going. Martone
did not go to the lake those summers he worked at the Harverster.
He was hired to cover for the permanent employees who were on their
annual two week vacations at the lake. The plant made the TriStar
truck, a cab-over semi-tractor that had a forward chrome grill that
cut straight down from the big windsheild, a flat face, a wall of
metal and glass. Many of the units rolled out of the factory and
right over to North American Van Lines whose world headquarters
was right next door. Martone didn't work on that line but he couldn't
help to notice the huge hulks as they were assembled. He liked the
way the crew compartment, the whole big cab was flipped forward
to expose the engine buried beneath the seats. Martone worked on
the Scout line. The Scout was a little closed truck that looked
a lot like an army jeep and was one of the first attempts the industry
made at making an SUV. Martone is not and was not then a skilled
labororer. He wasn't assigned to handle the pneumatic socket wrenches
that bolted parts together nor able to operate the spot welding
torches the fused the body to the chassis nor even permitted to
mask the car with paper and tape for its spray painting. Martone
waited at the end of the line after the final assembly near the
big doors where the finished product left the works and was driven
out to the vast parking lot wait for loading onto train cars or
auto haulers pulled by TriStars. He was in Quality Control. He had
a clipboard and even a white coat he didn't wear in the summer heat.
He had a whole list of things he needed to test on every brand new
Scout that nosed toward him. At this point the cars were chained
to the slow moving cable under the floor, their wheels guided by
tracks. As each unit crept by Martone had to perform a series of
checks. He opened and closed the door on the drivers side; he open
the door again and got in; he adjusted the seat forward and back,
back and forward, leaving the transmission in neutral, he started
the engine; he locked and unlocked the door; he turned the lights
on and off, he turned the windshield wipers on and off, he turned
the turn indicators on and off, first the left and then the right;
he tapped the horn twice; he truned off the car leaving the key
in the socket, he hopped out, closing the door solidly behind him.
Martone did this ritual eight hours a day, six days a week, all
through the summer. When the whistle blew at the end of his shift
(there was an actual steam whistle), Martone made his way to the
locker room where he put his clip board and his white coat into
his locker, got his lucnch pail, and punched out at the time clock.
As he stood in line waiting to punch out, Martone told himself,
"Don't do it. Don't do it." He took a step up and the man at the
head of the line inserted his time card. "Don't do it." Another
punch and another stp forward, all the time reminding himself not
to do what he knew he would do. Finally, Martone punched out and
he made his way to his own car through the enormous field of finished
TriStar's and Scouts in precise ranks and then on to the employees'
lot where many of the workers drove to work in Scouts they had purchased
right at the factory door. All the way to his car (it was his mother's
car actually, a red International Harvester Scout), Martone kept
reminding himself not to do what he knew he would do. Martone waded
through the sea of cars, emerged at last next to his, his mother's,
own. Where, he couldn't help himself, he opened and closed the door
on the drivers side; he open the door again and got in; he adjusted
the seat forward and back, back and forward, leaving the transmission
in neutral, he started the engine; he locked and unlocked the door;
he turned the lights on and off, he turned the windshield wipers
on and off, he turned the turn indicators on and off, first the
left and then the right; he tapped the horn twice; he truned off
the car leaving the key in the socket, he hopped out, closing the
door solidly behind him. He had been inside his car for a moment
but now he found himself standing outside it once again. Martone
always feared this moment most of all. He was afraid that once he
tried to get into his car again that what had happened would happen
again and he would be outside of the car at the end of it and never
able to break the habit of his inspection. But he did, of course,
eventually, and made his way home along the streets of Fort Wayne
in a car that had been built there, where he had been born, and
from where he, he thought then, would never be able to leave.
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