So, on the flight to Monroe, La., where I would visit my dad for three weeks, I was filled with a sense of freedom. It was the chance to escape my life for a spell. What I had -- a retreat from school, a comfortable suburban life and a girlfriend I didn't like anymore -- was creative-enough punishment. But Dad saw to it that I'd spend my time steam-cleaning Case machines at his tractor company for eight hours a day at minimum wage, a not-so-subtle hint that if I kept up my study practices, minimum wage is exactly what I'd be earning for the rest of my life.

In other words, the visit was a way to purge myself of my failures and realize my potential. Of course, being dim, I had only a vague understanding of all this.

Monroe (pop. 56,000) and its smaller "twin city," West Monroe (pop. 14,000), are split by the Ouachita River, lying a couple of hundred miles northwest of New Orleans in a flatbed portion of the state. In design, Monroe is the prototypic small Southern town -- a centralized downtown with a few "skyscrapers" hovering over early 20th century homes. Delta Airlines was founded there, agriculture is a big industry and the University of Louisiana at Monroe adds academic appeal.

There's a paper mill a few miles outside town that in spring competes with the scent of magnolias. It was hot that May, and the fawning oaks and crawfish clay absorbed the sun and held it in like a brick oven. My first day of work, Dad woke me at 6 a.m. by pulling open my left eyelid and shining a flashlight into my brain. Clearly, I wasn't in college anymore. I dressed in the official company attire, a green jumpsuit with my name stitched on it. I grabbed a quick breakfast, hopped in my temporary transportation -- a red CJ5 Jeep modified with a Ford V-8 engine and fat tires, which made it much like the early rockets that blew up on NASA launchpads -- and drove to work. Dad's tractor company was located on an industrial road on the outskirts of town.

Before I knew it, I was standing on a cement platform in the tractor yard out back, the early-morning sun already stinging the back of my neck. Before me, stretching out like the skeleton of a stegosaurus, was a muddy backhoe. J.T., one of my dad's workers, was standing next to me. He had a thick brown beard and no teeth, giving his mouth the appearance of, among other things, a pink cave surrounded by fire-blackened scrub brush. His dentally challenged state, coupled with a thick-as-molasses Southern accent, made him impossible to understand as he explained to me how to steam-clean a tractor. He walked off.

I stood there for a moment, holding the steam gun in my hand, eyeing the caked backhoe. Then I blasted the tractor for a good 10 seconds. A trickle of mud ran to a nearby drain. The tractor was still covered, and the mud -- crawfish mud, which smells like rotten eggs when it gets wet -- was like cement. I blasted again and felt the rifle start to heat in my hands; I was realizing why, in fact, it was called "steam" cleaning. Mud began to splatter in chunks and brown spray. It got hotter. Every once in a while, I stuck my head under a nearby water spigot to cool off.

At lunchtime, Dad came out to check on me.

"Jesus," he said at the sight of me. "You're covered in mud."

I looked at myself. He was right.

"You know, you don't have to stand so close when you're cleaning them," he said.

"Oh yeah?" I said.

"Wanna eat lunch?"

"Can I?" I felt like I was in prison.

"Yeah, we'll let ya."

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