Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1987. január-június (41. évfolyam, 1-25. szám)
1987-05-28 / 21. szám
Thursday, May 28. 1987. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZO 9. John T. Gojack: _ JÓCSÁK AND SON I had them in my pocket because they were crossed rifles for the 10th Infantry. "They're off, sir, because I'm fresh out of the army and my nephew loved my Ordnance Corps insignia." "What type machines did you operate in the Ordnance Corps?" he asked, , smiling at me. Recalling some of my brother-in-law's list of machines, I rattled off "Screw machines, drill presses, lathes, grinders, and whatever else they needed work on." "Don't suppose they had an oscillating grinder in your shop?" "No, but we had other grinders," I admitted, not wanting to stretch my luck. In an hour, over half of the applicants were excused. Others were called into cubicle offices and told that their applications would be kept and they might be called at any time work was available. With only three of us left, I was called in. "Would you be ready to start on the midnight shift at eleven o'clock tonight?" "Sir, I could start right now. With a new baby, I need a job badly." He smiled, gave me directions to my department, and sent me to First Aid for a physical checkup. I went around to my family to scrounge working clothes. All were amazed that I got a job while still in the army. My standard comment was, "Well, at least I'll have three weeks pay and I might get the army to stretch my leave on account of illness." Adam couldn't believe I got a machinist job when I had never seen one of the machines. "If you get a choice," he said, "ask for the drill press. Any kid can run that." I should have tried to sleep during the evening, but was too excited to try. With a well-packed lunch, I walked to Delco Products early for my first session with Generous Motors. It was a three-shift operation, so I stood around watching the second-shift man, where the foreman showed me an oscillating grinder. It was fascinating to watch and looked as easy as a piece of cake. The machine held two large grinding wheels, turning in opposite directions, with a round, metal cylinder in the middle holding metal springs. The springs were used in shock absorber assembly and both ends had to be ground flat. When the shift bell rang, the operator took off like a jackrabbit, while I stood there watching the grinding wheels go round. Shortly, the foreman stopped by and gave me a thorough, halfminute demonstration on how to feed the machine. "Don't burn any godamn springs and be sure to mike them at one-sixteenth," he warned. Soon as he turned away, I stepped over to the next machine. "What does he mean by mike?" I asked the worker there. "Don't you have a mike, a micrometer?" he asked, looking surprised. "Not yet," I said. "I just got out of the army." It was difficult to leave your machine without shutting it down, and that was frowned upon. Just stepping a few feet away could slow up your production. For about two hours the worker next to me stepped over to mike (measure) my springs and adjust the wheels when needed. I hardly looked up, trying to bring my pace up to the expected rate of production. General Motors foremen have eyes in the back of their heads and on both sides. Mine spotted the dilemma of the awkward rookie machinist but, having a kind heart, did not fire me on the spot. "You don't know shit from shinola about running a grinder," he said, shutting down my machine. "Half your production is burned and has to be scrapped." Smiling he added, "I like your spirit, though and you're lucky that the cleanest job in Delco is open and waiting for you." 1 He showed me the tumblers and sandblasting machines. The job was to carry boxes of springs to the tumblers and sandblast machines, where metal particles and other debris would be removed. At shift end, the quick wash-up only got some of the loose dirt off. At home, it took an hour in the shower to become respectably clean. "How's it going, general?" the foreman asked as I pushed a heavy cart past him the next night. With my load falling, I was too busy to answer. He gave me a hand and a chance to say, "This has got to be the dirtiest and the toughest job in all of General Motors." "That's why we gave it to the army," he yelled out above the factory noise as he laughed and walked away. Effort to extend the furlough failed. Remembering my eighteen days in the guardhouse for giving myself a three-day pass, I made plans to return to Fort Thomas on my final day. To earn every possible dollar, I worked the night before and, during lunch break, walked into the foreman's office. "My army discharge got fouled up in red tape, and technically I'm still in the army and must get back to Fort Thomas by this afternoon." "We'll miss you in the sandblast room; anything we can do to help?" he said, expressing concern. "Just keep a job open for me and I'll be back as soon as the problem is solved," I answered, reaching for his hand. "Don't worry% he said, with a slap on my back. "There'll be a job for you whenever you get here." I felt very satisfied about my first factory job, which I owed to the helpful personnel officer and my friendly foreman. The work itself was indescribably dirty, and it was very hard for a lightweight to lift heavy boxes of springs into tumblers and sandblast machines. Looking forward to my job at General Motors, I hadn't the foggiest notion of the difference between the work pace in a machine shop and that on the production assembly lines. A big surprise was ahead. With my three weeks' factory pay and army pay due in three days, I felt, as rich as Ford, if not Rockefeller. On payday I decided to invest five dollars in the barracks crap game, a princely amount for me. Poker was a pleasant social game but craps was my love, believing that my lessons came from the best - those black boys who came up from Mississippi and Alabama when their fathers got jobs at the GM plants and local foundries. Adding to the rich ethnic mixtures in our neighborhood, and bringing a wealth of new ideas and a fascinating culture, these southern blacks enhanced my education. They hardly moved in when boys my age had their own Sunday service in the alley back of our house - shooting craps. With money from caddying in summer, shoveling snow in winter, and doing other odd jobs I was the prime high roller in our alley's dirt casino. Crap players in the army were much less exciting and used blase' language compared to the colorful shouts of my black friends. Until I joined the barracks' crap games, one heard little more than "seven come eleven" or "baby needs a new pair of shoes". With my southern education, by way of a Dayton alley, crap game slogans took on added dimensions. Instead of yells for "six", it became "Jimmy Hix,"; "boxcar" sounded better than "two sixes" or "twelve"; with "eighter from Decatur" more romantic than plain "eight," and "quinine" said more than "nine". There were more, including some juicy phrases that added to our neighborhood's repertoire of profanity. I was always invited to join a game, either for my ability to bring others in, or my knack of losing pleasantly and often. Any gambler will tell you there are trends in your favor and other times when you can't win a bet. Any good gambler knows you should bet heavily when you're hot and in a winning streak. I bet twice when others had the dice and won both times. With the dice in my hands, there came one pass after another; either seven or eleven, or my number was made again and again, even a ten. Altogether I made nine straight passes; and was smart enough from my southern lessons to let it ride, doubling or tripling my bet, a number of times. As the dice went around the bed, I was too busy counting my winnings to get involved. My turn again produced three straight sevens and one eleven, and made my point three times before crapping out. Letting my bets ride, I quickly calculated having enough money to buy out of the army. At the time the fee was $120.-, providing you were in one year or more. While others were tossing the dice, I made a more careful check of my winnings. "Thank you gentlemen, your generosity and my good fortune have brought enough money to my corner of the blanket to purchase my army discharge", I announced when my turn came round. Losers always yell "You can't quit while you're winning" and diplomatic winners always give a good excuse to leave the game. None could have been better than mine. My dependency discharge request might still be pending in army headquarters, for all I know. My purchase discharge made out the néxt' morning was processed in ten days and my honorable discharge was in my hot hands in two more days. It was no surprise to see my name listed for K.P. on my final day in the army. My first sergeant did not love me. Worse luck, he was in charge of the mess hall that day. It would be a long, tough day and I expected the Sarge to give me a rough time. I knew it would be necessary for me to take a lot of flak without flinching or blowing up. Falling for his provocation could lead to a nasty situation that might keep me in the army longer. As a child, I learned that physical fighting was less effective than verbal combat. (to be continued)
