I smelled it, too. Good old skunk weed.

Son of a gun.

When I came around the side of the shed, the guy let the joint fall to the ground and nonchalantly crushed it underfoot like someone might do with a cigarette. Only he crushed it extra hard and long so there was practically no trace left. With a quick nod, he started back toward the factory as if nothing had happened.

Was that why he’d been avoiding me? Because he assumed, perhaps correctly, that I was the only one around who could clock him for a head — and as the owner’s son, I might rat him out?

The next morning, I got to work early and left an envelope taped to his mail inserter. Inside was a joint from my stash of Acapulco Gold.

The day proceeded normally. As usual, he avoided me. But at the end of work the envelope was no longer taped to his inserter.

The next morning, I left another J for him.

It was a particularly hot and humid week, and even with the window fans running, the building was stifling. At the midmorning break, I was sitting on the curb in the shade enjoying the first of two containers of orange juice when he sidled up to me. “That’s some dynamite weed,” he whispered. “How much you want for it?”

“Nothing, man.”

He frowned. “Come on.”

“It’s cool, man. Enjoy.”

He was wearing a T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes tucked into the sleeve. Only the cigarettes were Belair menthols. No real greaser would be caught dead smoking them.

He must have seen something in my face because he said, “Swipe ’em from my mother. She buys ’em by the carton.”

I considered offering him a Marlboro, then rejected the idea. He might have taken it the wrong way. Like, Of course the owner’s son can afford Marlboros. Show-off! Meanwhile, this guy had to steal his mother’s crappy mentholated coffin nails.

He offered me a Belair and we lit up. The tobacco tasted like it had been dipped in mouthwash. Barf-o-rama.

“You’re the owner’s son, right?” he said.

“That’s what they tell me.”

He suddenly coughed hard enough that his body shook.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Mild asthma. No biggie.” His voice went raspy. “So, what’s the deal? Since when does the owner’s son have to work in his father’s sweatshop?”

“That’s what I keep wondering.”

“But you get paid more, right?”

“Dollar ten an hour.”

“For real?”

“Come Friday, I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” Fridays are paydays.

He took a thoughtful drag. Hacked again. Spit. Wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Everyone thinks you’re a spy for your old man.”

“Yeah, that’s me, the Benedict Arnold of junk mail.”