This short story is number six in my series of “Jobs-Less-Fun-Than-Writing”:

At 18, I spent one summer as a general labourer in the steam room of a large factory. I was assigned to help an engineer operate and service the large equipment which provided power to the factory. It was mostly holding ladders and crawling in tight places and not wincing when my engineer boss introduced me to everyone in the factory by saying, “This is my (n-word), Bill. Have you met Bill my (n-word)?” He thought that was funny because my job was to do whatever he asked me, and because everyone at the factory, including me, was white. I was too young and stupid to tell him what an incredible idiot he was.

One day my engineer asked me to paint the inside of a tank large enough for me to crawl into, but not much bigger. The tank was empty, but usually held liquids, so I had to use water-proof paint. Another summer student shone a light into a tank while I painted, but when I was half done he frantically yelled at me to get out of the tank. He became alarmed when I started babbling about rainbows and unicorns and the undulations of the steel tank’s walls. He realized that the highly toxic paint fumes were frying by brain and causing hallucinations.

I later learned that the factory’s new safety protocol demanded anyone using that paint to wear a respirator with an oxygen tank.

What dangerous job have you had?