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“You really have no other friends besides Wayne?” he asked, frowning incredulously. That was my father, sensitive to a fault.
    â€œNone that are interested in working in an oven,” I said.
    â€œIt's a good wage.”
    â€œNo need to convince me. After all, I wasn't given a choice.”
    My father appeared ready to retort when his head suddenly jerked back to the television as someone hit or slid or did something clearly more important than the second fruit of his loins. “Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “If you really have no other friends . . .”
    â€œThanks for pointing that out once again,” I said, but he was already submerged in his baseball fog.
The goddamn Mets might actually go all the way this year.
I stood there for another moment to verify that the conversation was truly over, and then, with a sigh, headed into the kitchen to forage for my dinner.
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    The first time I met Sammy, he was standing in my father's office, looking atrociously colorful in a brown cotton vest over a mint green T-shirt, gray Gap chinos rolled at the cuff, and black penny loafers, nodding nervously as my father frowned skeptically at his gangly form. “This is Samuel Haber,” my father said dejectedly, as if pointing out a troublesome wart on his toe. “He's here about the press job.” My father was a broad, hulking six foot three, thick Polish stock, with a square jaw set just beneath his perpetual frown, and a wrestler's neck that looked as solid as a tree trunk. Next to his intimidating bulk, Sammy looked like a twig.
    â€œA pleasure,” Sammy said, extending his hand and shaking mine crisply. “I don't have any friends yet, but if I did, they'd call me Sammy.”
    â€œI'm Joe,” I said. Looking at his skinny frame and his hairless baby face, I understood my father's skepticism. I wondered how often, if ever, Sammy shaved. “I guess you're new to the neighborhood.”
    â€œJust moved in,” he said. He turned to my father. “So, big guy, when do I start?”
    My father's eyes narrowed to slits. He was not the sort to appreciate jocular familiarity from his own children, let alone a strange boy. Arthur Goffman didn't relate well to any boy who wasn't an athlete, as I knew so well from painful experience, and Sammy was definitely a whole other breed. I liked him immediately.
    My father grunted. “Listen, Samuel, I'll be honest with you,” he said, which is what he generally said when he was about to put you down. “That's a big machine, and you're a skinny little guy. If you can work it, the job's yours. But if you can't handle it, you'll just gum up production, and I can't have that.”
    â€œUnderstood. Understood,” Sammy said, nodding emphatically. “Don't worry. I'm stronger than I look.”
    â€œYou'd have to be.”
    â€œGood one, sir.”
    â€œAnd you lower those guardrails, you understand?” my father continued, before turning to me with a stern look. “You show him the guardrails and watch him lower them, you got it?” I nodded and he turned back to Sammy. “If you leave your arm on the bed when that press comes down, you'll be going home with a stump.”
    â€œDuly noted,” Sammy said. “The management frowns on amputation.” And then, lowering his voice theatrically, he added, “Thank you for the opportunity, big guy. I won't let you down.”
    My father stared at him for a long moment, trying to determine if there was some joke he might be missing. “Don't call me big guy.”
    â€œUnderstood, Arthur.”
    â€œMr. Goffman.”
    â€œThat was going to be my next guess.”
    My father sighed deeply. “Okay then, you're hired.”
    Sammy said, “Cool.”
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    â€œYou lower those rails.”
Sammy imitated my father's growl surprisingly well as I walked him