Into the American Night

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, I slunk back to my Indiana hometown and got a job at one of the joint-replacement factories there. For some improbable reason, this particular facet of the manufacturing sector had claimed my hometown as its primary base of operations, as the film industry does with Hollywood, or tech with San Francisco. I worked eight hours a day polishing oblong pieces of metal, sanding them down till they were free of grit and abrasion. Or rather, I worked eight hours a night. This was a third shift position, the only one open, which meant that I worked from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. I arrived at the factory when it was dark and left with the rising sun.