The summer before my senior year at UNC, I got a job working at a small steel mill in Wampum, Pennsylvania. It was a little over 40 miles west of downtown Pittsburgh near the Ohio border with a town population just under 800 people. There may not have been a lot of people in town, but trust me, they were the epitome of hard-working, western Pennsylvania folks that the region is so well known for.

I had a meeting with the foreman the day before I started. There I was told that, since I wasn't union, I wouldn't get union wages, since I wasn't a skill worker, I'd be given a specific job each day and the only hours available to work would be the “graveyard shift.” Which was appropriately named because the shift hours spanned from midnight to 8 a.m., sometimes noon if anyone called in sick. Then I was told not to call in sick. Truthfully, this was all good with me, because I'd be making $11/hour, which in my college mind was basically equivalent to an NBA contract today.

The first night I showed up for work I was given a locker and a respirator and was pointed to the job board, which was nothing more than a chalkboard with everyone's duties for the night written on it. My name was always at the very bottom and always had the same job next to it, “Utility Man.” All this meant was that I'd be given the worst job that no one else wanted. I'll just say, ain't no toilet quite like a steel mill toilet, not even a Red Roof Inn one.

I eventually worked my way up to occasionally “making mixes,” mixes of what, to this day I still have no clue. Along with my lead-based gloves and apron, I was told to put on my respirator and under no circumstances take it off when I was making them. I would then be given the mix recipe, which was usually a torn piece of paper with a list of about a dozen chemicals I couldn't pronounce. Each one came in a bag of 50 to 100 pounds and covered with more skulls and crossbones than the Virgina Beach Tattoo Festival when Motley Crüe performed. I would then collect the bags and take them to the baking vat, which was located in a room that was about 120 degrees. Once in there, the steps were, turn on the oven, turn on the vat, dump in the chemicals, turn on the mixer, wait five minutes, then hit a blue button to start the process, wait five minutes, then hit a green button to finalize the process. All while trying not to inhale. Come to think of it, whatever I inhaled in that room was more than likely the cause of my fashion choices from the early to mid-90s.

The first few weeks I stayed pretty much to myself, and by that I mean, no one would talk to me or eat with me. I didn't take it personally because everyone there was twice my age, plus the “graveyard shift” had a different vibe to it, which was hard for a 21-year-old kid like me to understand. These guys were steel mill lifers, real men with real-world problems who had been working the “graveyard” for years. They had wives and kids, but still chose to work the graveyard to make a few extra dollars to take care of their families, as best they could.

One night I was given a crash course in how to drive a forklift, crash being the key word there. Let's just say Dave the foreman wasn't real chipper after I drove the forks through a warehouse garage door. “It's a forklift, Dan, not a what-the-fuck-lift!” Dave was basically the leader of the “lifers” by default, one of those guys that refused to wear his respirator just so he could smoke while he worked. I'll see your cancer causing chemicals and raise you a Camel, no filter.

In some odd way I think the forklift mishap endeared me to Dave and a few of the guys there. Because that night they invited me to join them on meal break. I finally felt like I was one of the crew. I was never in a frat in college and never wanted to be; these Phi Kappa Hard-Asses were as close as I came, and I was appreciative of their welcoming me. I actually still tell myself that I think they might have enjoyed listening to my stories of college parties and bartending ineptitude. They didn't, but I tell myself that.

I remember one night toward the end of the summer, it was pouring outside, we were on a meal break and the mood was different than ever before. The conversation between the crew was subdued, heartfelt, and extremely honest. Maybe it was the rain or maybe there was a full moon hiding behind the clouds. Mikey, my forklift instructor, almost broke down telling a story about how he's worked the graveyard for three years straight so he could afford to build a pool for his kids. But while they now had a pool, they still didn't have a relationship with him because he was always either at the mill or immediately going to sleep once he got home. As I think about it now, the moment had an extreme Shawshank vibe to it, so I in turn decided to share my thoughts.

Going into my senior year, with the real world looming just a few months ahead of me, I was starting to question some of my choices. I stopped working on General College, I had no connections to the entertainment industry, and even if I did, realistically, what kind of living could I make at it? So I told them something that I hadn't told anyone, that I was thinking about taking some time off from school or maybe even quitting altogether. I used the bogus excuse that I wanted to “reevaluate my life.” I remember the three of them just staring at me for the longest beat. The only thing I could hear was the driving rain pounding on the metal roof over our heads.

Mikey looked at me almost as if I'd just told him his dog had died. Then in a very calm tone, he said, “I like you, Cortese, so you might want to listen to me. You're a goddamn idiot. You don't realize the opportunity you've been given. I'm 42 and wish someone would have given one to me. Instead, I'm here and my kids only know me as the guy that bought them a pool.”

It made a little sense to me then, but not as much as it makes now. When you're young and naïve, sometimes you need to hear things in a way that you can relate to, and that's exactly what happened next. As the three of them sat in silence, seemingly lost in thoughts of what might have been, Mikey lit up a smoke, took a long contemplative drag off of it, and very simply said something that changed my life forever.

“Look, it's your life, so do whatever you want to. But I promise you this, if we see you working here next summer and you tell us you dropped out of college, we will beat the living shit outta you.” He stared a hole through me for a good three seconds after that, then leaned his head back, took another drag, and closed his eyes.

Needless to say, I made the right decision, and after that summer I never saw any of them again. But believe me when I say, I think of that meal break every day and I'm continually amazed how a seemingly simple, unassuming moment became such a pivotal one in my life. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was a full moon hidden behind the clouds, or maybe it was me getting hit with an uppercut of common sense. Yep, sometimes you just need to hear things in a way that makes sense to you.