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setting the aluminum molds beneath them before lowering the press and activating the heating bed and the hydraulic pumps that melted and sucked the styrene onto the molds. Then I would lift the press and pull off the hot styrene, now formed in the shape of the mold, cut away the excess plastic with a box cutter, and toss the raw piece into a cart, which would periodically get wheeled out onto the floor for assembly and finishing. It was sweaty, monotonous work, and I trudged tiredly home every afternoon with stiff shoulders, smelling of burnt plastic, reminding myself that at least I didn't have to wear a suit. As a point of pride, my father always paid me marginally better than Porter's paid its summer interns. “Your old man is not a spoke on someone else's corporate wheel,” he would say to me from behind the scuffed aluminum desk in his small, cluttered office in the rear of the factory. “And there's no reason for you to be one, either.”
    Summers were always busy, as we desperately churned out product for the fall retail season, and that summer we were particularly inundated with orders. Because of this sudden increase in production and the pressure to meet delivery dates, my father leased a second vacuum press, which he installed directly behind the first, and asked me if any of my friends would be interested in operating it for the summer.
    My best friend was Wayne Hargrove, who had proven to be such good company over the years that I was willing to overlook his regrettable status as a starting forward for the Cougars. A tall, sinewy kid with a thick mane of blond hair and a perfect swimmer's body, Wayne was one of those guys who effortlessly navigated the vast complexities of the high school caste system by being genuinely unconscious of its existence. He seemed to lack the innate filtration system we all had that automatically categorized geeks, dweebs, preps, stoners, jocks, goths, and the various subcategories therein. It's generally those occupying the lower positions on the food chain that are occasionally unmindful of the social boundaries, and their trespasses will usually engender swift repercussions worthy of a John Hughes film. Wayne's jock status exempted him from such concerns, and he was consequently one of the most genuinely liked people at Bush Falls High. His wit, while sharp, was never cutting or caustic, and he possessed an infectious energy that seemed to breed goodwill wherever he went. I was jealous as hell of him, but never resentful, since none of it was a conscious effort on his part.
    I tried insistently to convince Wayne to forget about his internship at Porter's and come work at the factory. Linguistic and social barriers prevented me from having anything more than a nodding relationship with my coworkers, who I was always convinced were mocking the boss's son in their indecipherable native tongue. Wayne's presence would be the perfect antidote to my isolation, and a diversion from the sheer boredom of the work.
    â€œThanks, man,” he said as we walked home on one of the last days of the school year. “But I'm already gainfully employed.”
    â€œWe get off at three,” I pointed out.
    â€œYou wake up at the ass crack of dawn,” he countered.
    â€œThis pays more.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “There are things in this world besides money.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œAir-conditioning.”
    He had me there.
    I came home later that evening and found my father eating a frozen dinner in the den, bitching to the professional athletes on his television.
He's got nothing left. For Christ's sake, send in a goddamn closer already. What do you bother having a damn bull pen for anyway?
I told my dad that Wayne wasn't interested in the job. “So ask someone else,” he said.
    â€œThere's no one else I can think of.”
    He turned away from the television to look at me, an event that should have been heralded by trumpets it was so unusual.