Straight out of high school Mick's uncle landed Mick and me second-shift jobs at a textile factory. I asked Mick what the company manufactured. Gigantic rolls of something, he said. From three until midnight his uncle calibrated machines and repaired any that broke, while Mick and I hauled cartons of braid from the loading dock. The big machines sucked in the braid like giants slurping spaghetti, while high above dozens of spools and bobbins intertwined fibers, crisscrossing with one another.Most nights, after work, we walked straight to the east side and grabbed a booth at the International H